by Carol Rivers
‘That’s an admission I don’t want to hear,’ Birdie interrupted, glancing at Harry. It was then she saw Pat was wearing Harry’s coat and Harry’s jumper was grimy and stained from the oil of the bicycle chain. Before he could continue, she remarked, ‘You both look as though you’ve been caught in a storm. Come in and I’ll make a hot drink.’
Birdie watched them leave the bicycle by the wall of the yard and troop into the kitchen. They looked a sight for sore eyes indeed. And she wanted to know so much, but Pat kept giving Harry, then her, strange looks. She tried to read their expressions, but her heart was still pumping so hard behind her ribs that all she could do was push them to the sink. ‘Now wash those filthy hands and faces with the Sunlight there, and use this old rag to dry them. I don’t want no oil or grease over me nice table, and you had better take off that duffel, Pat and I’ll give it a damp clean and press it neat again for Harry.’
‘Don’t trouble, it’s only my work coat,’ Harry said, draping it over the back of a chair as Birdie rushed around, boiling the kettle, setting out the pot and mugs, and disappearing into the larder. She brought out the loaf and sliced off two good wedges, adding a layer of dripping to their tops. Then, finding the remains of the ginger cake, she halved it, setting it neatly on the table. When she’d warmed the pot and made the tea and the two of them were sitting eating, she felt calmer, though her head was still buzzing from the worry and hadn’t had time to settle.
She had guessed that what Pat had been up to was not just down to a puncture, or else he’d be regaling her with the event, instead of eating in silence, with his ears almost drooping around his head.
When supper had disappeared in the space of five minutes and the tea was replenished, she sat herself down at the table. ‘Now, who’s going first?’ she demanded, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s a grand thing that you’re home safe and sound, Patrick Connor, and me thanks go to you, Harry, for finding him. But your faces are pictures of guilt and the sooner I know the truth the better.’
Birdie folded her arms across her chest, just to show them she was prepared to wait another two hours for their answers. But as Harry looked at Pat with a resigned air and an imperceptible twinkle in his dark eyes, it was her brother who began the outpouring, and reduced Birdie herself to complete silence.
The mantel clock struck half-past eleven and Birdie had only interrupted once. That was when Pat related how he was attacked by the thief in Stepney. Had it not been for this mystery person, a female in breeches, putting his lights out with a beer-jug, and a tall man with a black beard, Pat might have suffered a beating. She had protested that Pat should have cycled off there and then, abandoning this mysterious female. But hard on the heels of escape, it appeared, the Bluebottles arrived.
Now Pat had come to the part where he’d been blindfolded and put into a cart, along with his bicycle.
‘Mind, it was dark,’ said Pat, his eyes bright with excitement under his fringe of brown hair. ‘But I heard old Tickle Mary, see, so I reckoned we was passing the Roxy, and later we was turning to our right, to the river. I knew that, ’cos the cart jerked and I had to reach out to steady meself. So, I listens again, and then there’s this smell. It’s a shop, where I turn down Cable Street. They sell ice cream and Weights and Woodbines, and sometimes I get me Magnet there. There’s this stink of tobacco the lascars use, and these men talkin’ all queer.’
‘You haven’t been smoking the weed yourself?’ asked Birdie suspiciously.
‘Course not,’ replied Pat indignantly. ‘Willie and me wouldn’t touch it. We might have a Woodbine now and then, but not that.’
‘It’s a tall story you’re telling, Pat,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘This ain’t one of your imagined adventures?’
‘No, God’s honour it’s not.’
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I believe you.’
‘And then we rumble on,’ Pat resumed quickly. ‘I can hear all the traffic and noise and I say to myself, this is the Highway, got to be. And then they turn again, down towards Shadwell. And there’s this funny lingo, shouts and talking and all that.’
Birdie shuddered. Everyone kept away from Shadwell, even the law. The reputation it had was second to none. The waterfront was all seedy slums and dock-side opportunists.
‘What happened then?’ she asked, feeling sweat roll down her back.
‘The cart stopped and I was pulled out. The next thing I know is I’m in this room and the blindfold’s off but it’s too dark to see. There’s just this oil lamp and this big face looking at me. His hair’s all black and then he smiles and, stone me, it’s Frank!’ Pat burst out. ‘He gives me another hug like he did before. And, oh, Birdie, I never knew it was him. Not till he gave me that smile,’ sniffed Pat, trying to clear his throat, but his eyes were all misty and he pushed his fingers into his eyes and blinked. ‘They dyed his hair, see? To cover the red.’
‘Who’s they?’ demanded Birdie at once, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat.
‘This woman and that man.’
‘What did Frank say?’
‘He said he wasn’t sure where to go after he’d seen you. But in the end, he went to this address that someone in prison gave him. She said he could stay there, just as long as he did what they said.’
‘But why would they do that?’ Harry interrupted. ‘I mean, what do they want with him?’
‘Search me,’ Pat shrugged.
‘And why did that woman send you to Stepney?’
‘To throw anyone following me off the scent, so Frank said. There wasn’t meant to be a demonstration, though. That bit went wrong.’
Birdie felt her stomach turn over. What had Frank got himself into?
‘He says you’re not to worry,’ Pat continued importantly. ‘That he’s in with a good crowd, where innocent people like him can hold up from the coppers.’
‘But what do they want in return?’ Birdie fretted. ‘They’re not hiding him out of the goodness of their hearts.’
‘They might,’ Pat answered truculently. ‘Otherwise he’d be back behind bars. Frank trusts them. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Harry, ‘and I know you’re all for Frank – your sister is too – but think a minute. How did this woman find you in the first place?’
‘They’ve been keeping watch,’ Pat mumbled, his eyes downcast. ‘Frank said they had to make sure we’re not in with the law.’
‘You mean we’ve been followed – spied on?’ Birdie’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
Pat looked uneasy again. ‘S’pose so.’
‘And are they still watching?’ Birdie demanded.
‘Don’t know,’ muttered Pat, shutting his mouth tightly and looking under his fringe at Harry.
‘Well, I shall give that brother of ours a piece of me mind,’ Birdie protested, ‘just as soon as I see him. Watching his own family, indeed! And just when is it, do you mind telling me, that Frank intends to speak to his sister?’
Pat scratched at the table with his dirty fingernails. ‘He said he’d get word to you. Said it’ll be easier when the coppers stop searching.’
‘Well, that’s a grand offering, indeed,’ Birdie grumbled. ‘Am I to be blindfolded and taken in a cart too, like some baggage bound for the docks?’ Seeing the bewildered expression on her brother’s face, Birdie knew it was no use blaming Pat for what had happened and she asked in a kinder tone, ‘So how did you get from this place you believe to be Shadwell to where you had your puncture and met Harry?’
‘They had my bike, an’ all. Give it to me before they blindfolded me again. I didn’t mind this time, as Frank said they’d take me to Poplar.’
‘So we know they’re all at this hideout,’ Harry broke in. ‘The woman and the man called Erik – and Frank.’
Pat nodded slowly. ‘Didn’t see no one else.’
‘Were you alone with Frank?’
‘No,’ said Pat with a shrug. ‘She was there. Didn’t say anything, only when it w
as time to go. Frank likes her, I reckon.’
Birdie was about to argue that Frank found no difficulty in liking any pretty face, it was his weakness. But when Pat yawned and his eyelids drooped, she said gently, ‘You’d better get yourself off to bed, as you have a puncture to mend before work.’
Pat stood up. ‘Sorry I caused you worry.’
‘No sorrier than I,’ Birdie agreed with regret, ‘But I wish we might have gone to see Frank together.’
Pat grinned sheepishly. ‘If that bruiser had seen you, he’d have thought twice before taking my bicycle.’
‘You cheeky young devil,’ she agreed with a smile, and she saw Harry give him a wink as he left. But inside, her stomach was clenched as tight as a wrung sheet with the thought of Pat in such wild company.
‘What do you make of it?’ she asked Harry afterwards. ‘Is it tall stories our Pat is telling?’
‘I believe him,’ Harry murmured.
‘But who can Frank be with?’ Birdie asked worriedly. ‘What kind of people are they, to take in a convict from prison? Our Frank is easily led.’
‘I’ll see to it Pat’s bicycle is mended,’ Harry said as he stood up, but she stopped him.
‘Pat risks his freedom if the law finds out.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ Harry assured her as he folded his coat over his arm. ‘Pat is no fool. He has his wits about him.’
When at last she lay in bed, Birdie took comfort from Harry’s words. Ma Jenkins and the Carter sisters had provoked her today. But what did their opinion matter? Frank was a decent man. He was, she believed, innocent of being a coward and running from his duty. The disgrace heaped on him and his family was unjust. But being on the run made him look guilty.
As sleep came, she wondered if Don was missing her. He had seemed happy with Lydia and James, but that didn’t mean he no longer loved her. Had she let jealousy sweep her away?
Her doubts taunted her, as did her dreams. Images of Frank running in the marshy fields to the south of the island burst through her mind. She was standing next to Don and Lydia, calling out to Frank to stop before he sank into the boggy silt left by the racing tide.
Chapter 17
December was Birdie’s favourite time of year. By then the scrubby plane trees had lost the last of their leaves, their branches stiffened by the dawn’s silver frost and heralding Christmas. Not that there would be money to spend, she reflected early one Sunday morning as she drew the curtains to a sky threatening rain.
Just before she was to leave for Mass, Wilfred began a coughing fit that turned into all the signs of something worse.
Pat called Harry, who had not yet left for work, and between the three of them, they managed to contain the episode. Whilst Harry and Pat restrained him in the chair, Birdie administered the restorative.
‘Leave me alone,’ protested Wilfred, as he began to recover. Pushing Pat and Harry away, he stood up.
‘Please rest,’ Birdie pleaded, but her father shook his head, wiping his mouth with the rag that Birdie held out to him.
‘You’ve all but poisoned me with that foul stuff. A man needs nothing but his own strength to get his bearings.’ Taking his outdoor coat from the back of the chair he buttoned it up. ‘I’m not intending to be home for dinner,’ he shouted.
Birdie ran after him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Somewhere I can feel normal and not be looked on as an invalid.’ He pointed a shaky finger to the small bowl and spoon she was holding. ‘And while I’m gone you can give that concoction to the pigs.’
After he’d argued his way out of the house, Birdie’s nerves were fraught. This was made worse by Pat, eager to go out with Willie.
‘No good going to Mass,’ he reasoned. ‘It will almost be over by now.’
‘Promise me you’ll not go to the wharf,’ Birdie insisted. ‘Or do any daft thing, like searching for Frank.’
‘I already promised you that,’ answered Pat truculently.
‘Promise me again. And if that woman turns up, tell her Birdie Connor wants to speak to her.’ Birdie distrusted these people who had befriended Frank, though she could see Pat was taken in.
‘If Dad doesn’t want dinner, then neither do I,’ announced her young brother, squaring his shoulders. ‘I’ll buy meself a bun from the muffin man.’
‘So that just leaves me,’ said Harry, after Pat had gone. ‘And to be honest, I’d be happy to enjoy an ale and a pie at the tavern. Why don’t you take an hour or two for yourself, Birdie, perhaps have a stroll?’
‘And what would I be doing strolling all by meself?’ Birdie answered shortly. ‘Flo will be busy cooking Reg’s dinner, and if I was to go out with anyone it’d be her and the kids. No, if I’m to be left to me own devices, I’ll get on with me alterations for the ladies. Father Flynn would call it a sin to work on the Sabbath day, but it’d be a greater sin even, to waste it.’ She had planned to return the Hailings’ bundle on Tuesday, along with a rough pattern for Annabelle’s dress, though she had all Monday to finish the work.
‘The sin is not religious,’ said Harry with a wry smile as he stepped out, ‘but that a pretty girl has to work when the rest of the world is at play. Christmas is not far off, after all.’
Birdie’s cheeks went pink. ‘Now that is a touch of the Irish blarney, Harry.’
‘It’s the absolute English truth.’
She laughed, shaking her head. ‘You always bring a smile to me face. And after the morning I’ve had, I can tell you it’s welcome.’ She didn’t say that the one thing that would cheer her up was to see her sweetheart, and that Sunday afternoons were the longest of the week in his absence.
Harry gazed at her, seeming reluctant to leave as he swung his work-bag over his shoulder. His dark eyes shone brightly under the lock of black hair that had fallen over his eyes. As he thrust it from his face, she saw his smile widen, showing his white, even teeth. ‘Listen, it seems a crime for us to be working, when that stroll I described would do us both the power of good. The weather is fine and mild for this time of year. If I called back at two o’clock, even half-past, do you think we might enjoy the rest of the afternoon together? Perhaps not to its fullest advantage . . . no . . . as there were things we should be doing like wielding a spade and darning a cloth,’ he added, going from one foot to the other, ‘but wouldn’t the air be a good reviver?’
‘Well, I suppose it would,’ agreed Birdie uncertainly. ‘But what would we do? Where would we go?’
Harry put a hand to his head. ‘Well, you’ve got me there. I just said it off the top of me head, like, without thinking. And being Sunday, the shops are all closed up. It was only the fresh air I was thinking of, on such a fine day as this.’
Birdie saw how uncomfortable he looked and guessed he had only made the suggestion for her benefit. Her hesitation had quite put him off. It was a nice offer too, fresh air being exactly what she needed. ‘We might take a walk to the East India Dock Road?’ she said brightly. ‘You can be sure there is always something going on up there. It would be nice to see the shop windows, perhaps with a few decorations.’
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ Harry looked relieved. ‘And if we fancy a tram ride, why, there will be plenty of those.’
‘A tram ride, yes, perhaps,’ she nodded, inspired by her own suggestion. ‘Now, are you certain you’ll be free?’
‘I’ll dig half a ditch instead of a whole,’ he assured her with a grin.
‘I’ll be ready for half-past two.’
Nodding his approval, he turned and, with his customary whistle, departed.
Birdie closed the front door and stood in the silent house. Should she start a little work on Lady Annabelle’s dress or the two darns in the bag of alterations? But she felt inclined to do neither. Instead she felt another emotion altogether, one she hadn’t felt for some while. It had been so long, in fact, since she’d felt it that it was difficult to give it a name. It was the anticipation of an event, rather than the dreading of
it, and it gave her quite a thrill.
But it was only a stroll she was going on! A good reviver, Harry had described it. She quickly put aside the thought of her work and glanced through the kitchen window to the back yard. A corner of it was lit up by sunlight, illuminating the dusty earth and the tangle of weeds climbing the alley wall.
Then a sudden panic gripped her, as the sun peeped out even brighter from behind a cloud. Why, she hadn’t a thing to wear. And she couldn’t even think of stepping out if she didn’t have just the right outfit to show off!
By two o’clock, Birdie was dressed, her combination of clothes having undergone several changes. The sun had not only come out, but was shining solidly. She had searched for two or three articles from her wardrobe, including her lovely blue coat, a hat and gloves. To accompany this, she had settled on a wool frock in a shade of red. She had made the dress last autumn from a remnant discarded by the ladies. The sleeves were long and fitted, with little black velvet cuffs, and a velvet collar to match, which lay open just below her throat. Very carefully she had sewn a belted effect to the low waist, of the same material, so that when she walked a little flare went out above her knees. She had added an oval brooch with a gilt surround to her coat, bought at market for just a few pence, clipping it discreetly under the collar.
She had worn it once before, on Aggie’s birthday close to the Armistice. It had been more like a wake than a celebration, as Aggie was then still in her widow’s weeds. Tea had been taken upstairs, with James made to sit quietly at the daunting brown wood table, amidst the room full of other pieces of gloomy brown wood. Lydia had also worn very dull clothes and had had little to say.
Birdie had felt sad when Don had whispered to her that Aggie was still in mourning – along with the entire country – for the Unknown Soldier; that a page from the newspaper, with a photograph of the ceremony in Whitehall, was now hung in the shop. The very best part of the day was when Don had walked her home. She had held his arm tightly, proud to be leaning on it. Nothing more had been said about the colour of her dress. Instead they’d discussed their plans to see one another, which in the end, had to be postponed since James and Lydia had caught colds.