by Carol Rivers
Birdie examined her reflection in the mirror. Her heart gave a sharp twist. To think, this red sleeve had rested on Don’s strong arm. She could almost feel him now, his strength, his uprightness as he stood by her. She closed her eyes and sighed. A pang of deep longing went through her. Was there still hope they could be married? If only she could speak to him alone . . .
A knock came at the front door. Birdie’s eyes flew open. She was back to the present in her bedroom, preparing to go out, the imaginary figure of Don beside her having quickly disappeared. The excitement she had felt slowly faded, for she knew the man waiting for her on the doorstep was only Harry.
Harry felt about ten years old again. He was back at the orphanage, wearing a collar that nearly choked him, starched to unbearable stiffness, studded to a shirt that constricted his movement under a too-small jacket. At the orphanage, their jackets had all been one size, fitting all and none, made of rough serge, smelling rankly of cabbage, boiled potatoes, disinfectant and the unmistakable aroma of fearful sweat.
Not that this suit smelled. It was his best suit, clean and sponged down, pressed carefully. He thought of himself as domesticated and he could launder, though Birdie insisted she wash his shirts. He could cook too, having served an apprenticeship in the orphanage kitchens, though a daily meal was included now with the price of his rent. Both the orphanage and army instilled discipline; he’d had no trouble in barracks.
But he was a free man now. The shackles of the past were thrown off. Both his early years and the war were paler in memory.
Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling he had today: butterflies in the pit of his stomach. The suit had merely reminded him. But now he was a grown man, not a boy, he assured himself as he stood waiting. His white cuffs, just showing beneath the navy blue of his sleeve, were not grubby or frayed. His waistcoat held a pocket watch and was drawn tight across his chest. A handkerchief, or at least the corner of it, sat upright in his breast pocket. He’d had no oil to let loose on his hair, which needed a decent cut. So he’d glued back its wildness with sugar-water, combed it from around his ears and clucked his tongue at the dark, loose ends that tickled his collar. His hands were scrubbed and nails trimmed, all done in the half an hour he’d had when he’d come home from work. His crew had mocked him for dashing away, but he’d told them to mind their own damn business – good-naturedly, of course – leaving his end of the drain neatly covered by a yard of wet concrete.
And now he was waiting for Birdie, an army of wings inside him, knowing that at any minute the door would open and she’d be there. And he’d have to think of something daft to say to ease his discomfort. And hers, more like.
Just then, a second before the door opened, the worst thing possible happened. A voice, an unpleasant one, with a crowing, spiteful tone, was raised coarsely in conversation behind him. He heard, ‘Now the loose bitch has got in with her lodger, see. It’s bad blood that runs in the Connors. Even the old man shoves off every day to drown his sorrows in drink.’
He knew whose voice it was and to whom the poison was directed. The old witch of a troublemaker, Ma Jenkins, opposite, and the two ugly sisters next door, had spotted him no doubt, from behind their twitching curtains.
He’d give them one chance. But one chance only. After their atrocious behaviour toward Birdie, they deserved not even that. But he had no more time to think on this, for as the door opened, he had to take a deep breath and compose himself. Birdie stood before him, a wistful smile on her heart-shaped face, her full lips open a fraction and her eyes like big brown marbles staring at him under her crown of mahogany hair. He was used to seeing it in neat waves, rolling down the sides of her head and tidied under her ears, as though she’d taken the trouble to mould every wave into place. But something was different today and he didn’t quite know what. On top of all this, she had on, beneath her pretty blue coat, a dress that was the colour of a summer red rose, not that he’d seen one round here. But he had abroad, somewhere, and it took him back to the heat and lushness, and he felt strangely transported. There was a splash of ebony at her wrists and beneath her throat. The sun sparkled off a small brooch and he blinked, gazing again into her eyes.
‘I . . . er . . .’ he began and all his wits left him. He’d not expected to be so tongue-tied, and the effort of rallying himself was extraordinary. But finally he managed it, encouraged by the questioning look in those amazing luminous eyes. ‘I think I’ve arrived at the wrong address,’ he teased, self-consciously sliding up his hand to his collar. ‘There’s a princess standing before me, looking so royal, that I’m wondering what time the coach will turn up.’
He was relieved to see the questioning expression disappear and a smile of delight replace it. ‘You daft thing, Harry Chambers,’ Birdie bubbled, ‘are you coming in, or do you want to stand on the doorstep and make fun of me.’
‘I’d never do that,’ Harry replied, stepping in. The house was cool and quiet, and Harry glanced along to the kitchen. ‘All troops still out?’ he asked, hopeful the answer would be in the affirmative.
‘I’ve left a note,’ Birdie explained to the mirror beside the coat stand. ‘And a bite to eat on the table,’ she continued. ‘If Dad comes in, or Pat, they won’t starve.’ She turned and faced him. ‘You look very nice,’ she said, and he was glad to see a blush on her cheeks. ‘I’ll just get me bag.’
When she returned, he held out his elbow. ‘Will you take my arm? It’s clean as a whistle.’
She laughed then and, looping her fingers over his arm she let him lead her outside. When the door closed behind them, Harry hoped the coast would be clear. But his heart sank as the three gorgons opposite stepped towards them.
Chapter 18
Birdie held her head high, determined to ignore the malevolent stares and loud whispers of Ma Jenkins and Vi and Annie Carter. But she was dismayed to see that further down March Street, Edna Legg and Marjorie Coombs, who had been talking on their doorsteps, glanced her way and quickly went inside. Even Amelia Popeldos, who usually waved, went walking on fast, as though wanting to mind her own business.
Birdie had always received a nod, if not a ‘good day’ from the two women. A few of the older residents of March Street, like Edna and Marjorie, had known her mother too, though in recent years, new tenants had filled some of the other houses. But there had always been a friendliness in the small community, that was, until Frank’s arrest.
‘Best foot forward,’ said Harry, beside her. But she knew from the looks on her neighbours’ faces, pinched tight under their turbans with ill feeling and malice, that Frank being at large had changed things.
She fixed her eyes determinedly on the end of the street, where a group of children were playing. They were outside the Kirbys’ house and, as usual, there was a disagreement going on. Two of the Kirby brothers, thin, stringy youngsters, with milky brown skins and curling black heads of hair, were arguing with two other boys. Birdie hoped this disruption would prove of greater interest, but as soon as Ma Jenkins placed her hands on her bulky hips and hitched up the loose stockings that hung around her ankles, staring pointedly as they passed by, Birdie knew they wouldn’t escape the barbs dripping from her vicious tongue.
Seeming to sense this, Harry added a little pressure with his arm to her hand. A smile of reassurance touched his lips as he glanced down. In his navy-blue suit, with his weathered tan and the whites of his eyes brighter than ever under his crop of black hair slicked away from his face, he looked quite different from the Harry she knew. For a moment, this unnerved her, and something about the authority that he seemed to command tempered her natural instinct to go on the offensive.
‘And now she’s proving it . . . proving the bad blood,’ Birdie heard. A chill went through her. ‘One man after another, silly buggers, ’elping to kit her out in all them fancy clothes.’
Birdie felt her blood boil. She knew Ma Jenkins meant her to hear every festering word. The loud buzzing in her ears made her fear losing her temper a
gain, as she had before. And what good had that last ugly scene done? Ma Jenkins’ remarks, however, were simply too much and she detached herself from Harry’s arm, her cheeks aflame.
Before she managed a sound, two strong hands gripped her shoulders and drew her gently, but firmly to one side, and Harry replaced his slender but powerfully built figure in the space where she’d stood. She had never measured him up against Don before – hadn’t ever thought to – but now she studied him, admiring the length of his straight back, like a protective wall, his shoulders wide and swinging, his long legs eating up the ground in confident, relaxed strides, compared to the shorter, abrupt paces that Don took.
It was Vi who stepped back first, then her sister, Annie. They seemed to shrivel under Harry’s gaze. Ma Jenkins bristled and pushed out her cheeks and four chins in a display of defiance. Not that this appeared to concern Harry, as he challenged her.
His voice was not its usual soft tone as he spoke, but it had a kind of low sternness. Birdie realized she had never seen Harry angry before, nor even a little put out. His good nature had never been ruffled and, as he spoke, his head bent slightly from his tall height, Birdie stared at his profile, with his gaze cast down on Ma Jenkins in the manner of a bird of prey.
‘Since I’m a little lacking in the hearing department, Mrs Jenkins,’ he said so scathingly that even the kids at the end of the road paused in their quarrel, ‘and it seems unfair that the rest of March Street, or the entire island, come to that, might be deprived of your wisdom, would you care to repeat – louder this time – that last sentence you just spoke?’
Birdie could hardly believe her ears. Harry’s tone and presence seemed so commanding. She almost felt sorry for the mischief-maker, who now found herself alone facing Harry. Her fair-weather friends had disappeared quickly inside, the noise of the bolt on their door ringing out.
‘What I ’ave to say ain’t for your ears,’ began Ma Jenkins, still left with a breath of bravado, though Birdie noticed with amusement that her face had turned as red as a cockscomb.
‘All the same, didn’t it go a bit like this?’ Harry took a step back and, raising his chin theatrically and taking a deep breath, expanded his chest in the manner of a town crier. ‘And now she’s proving it . . . proving the bad blood,’ he boomed, so forcefully, that it seemed each word echoed off the houses. ‘One man after another . . . was that it, Mrs Jenkins, one man after another?’
Birdie watched the effect on her neighbour, a kind of shrinking down that made Ma Jenkins look as though she was shrivelling into the many folds of her stockings. But Harry was not done with her yet. Calmly he waited for a reply and when none was forthcoming, he continued mercilessly. ‘Have you heard the old saying, Mrs Jenkins, that there is a measure of good in the worst of us and a deal of bad in the best? And it’s only a fool who finds fault with his neighbour.’ Harry stared stonily at Ma Jenkins, whom Birdie thought, was struggling to understand Harry’s eloquent warning. But her eyes filled with an expression of fear when he added resolutely, ‘As your friend Charlie Makepiece can confirm. For when we were in each other’s company at the White Horse recently, he had much to say on the subject of women enjoying a man’s company.’
Birdie had no idea what Harry meant, but she could see that Ma Jenkins did. Fighting to push open her door and escape Harry’s onslaught, she glanced fearfully back before she fell into her open front door.
Harry held out his arm. ‘Shall we continue our walk?’ he asked serenely, as the bang of Ma Jenkins’ door rang out.
Birdie wanted to giggle. ‘What was that about?’
‘I’ll explain as we go.’
Birdie noted with amusement that the lace curtain of the houses along the road seemed to have a attracted a sudden breeze.
The East India Dock Road was bustling with life. They had walked at least half a mile, along with the tide of the crowd enjoying, in the unseasonably mild weather, the sight of Christmas decorations and spruce trees. From the post office to Brunswick Road, there seemed to be a continual stream of strollers. They glanced in at the fine gems of the jewellers interlaced with tinsel, passed under the three shiny globes of the pawnbrokers, and inhaled the strong alcoholic aromas from the wine company and brewery. They had stopped for the traffic at the bank on the corner of Chrisp Street and passed Poplar Station, where a queue of buses and trams waited for passengers. All the way, Birdie had listened in silence, save a few oohs and ahhs, to the story of Harry’s meeting at the White Horse with Charlie Makepiece.
‘It was on the night I met Pat,’ he explained as they walked. ‘Charlie Makepiece rolls in, several sheets to the wind and obviously brassic as he tries it on with the locals. He gets short shrift from everyone and finally staggers over to me and the boys. We were chatting over what’s got to be done at work and the cheeky bugger barges in saying he’s been robbed. Someone’s bashed him over the head and gone through his pockets.’
‘Did he recognize you?’ Birdie asked.
‘Not in that state, he didn’t. Anyway, one of my lads demands to see his injury, but it’s as plain as the nose on Charlie’s face the only injury to him is his empty pockets. He starts to get a bit leery and spots this female, a working girl, to put it politely. He makes an advance on her and for his trouble, she slaps him, good and hard. I tell you, Birdie, the crowd was in uproar.’
‘But what did this have to do with Ma Jenkins?’ Birdie was eager to know.
‘It was what she roared at him. She tells him, if he’s that desperate, to bugger off to the ugly old battleaxe down March Street and her three shifting chins. Not that she gives a rat’s tail where he gets his oats, ’scuse my language, but you get my meaning?’
‘I do, but she couldn’t mean Ma Jenkins, surely?’ Birdie quickly shut her mouth as Harry guided her past the six stone steps of the police station and guarding constable outside.
When they had reached the more pleasant environment of the bookshop, Harry continued, ‘Charlie gave it away entirely and shouted back that at least Ma Jenkins fed him after his efforts. Whereas this fragile beauty only cared for the colour of his money.’
‘I can’t believe it.’ Birdie spluttered.
‘Every word is gospel. And as we both witnessed, the old dragon went to no lengths to deny it just now, did she?’
‘No, she didn’t.’ Birdie felt perplexed. ‘But how can we be certain this is true?’
Harry smiled. ‘You’ve got a fair way of thinking, after what you’ve gone through, that should put her to shame. But I confess, I couldn’t see it like that and I bought Charlie an ale, to satisfy meself. And with his whistle wet, he expounded to some great length.’
Birdie blushed red. ‘He never did!’
‘Takes an imagination to see the vision, but it’s all true.’
Birdie stopped quite still, shaking her head slowly. ‘It’s none of me business of course, what she does.’
‘It is if she makes your business hers,’ corrected Harry. ‘But I think she will be less trouble to you now. And if she tries her luck again—’
‘Then I’ve only to mention Charlie and the White Horse?’ Birdie asked mischievously.
‘Or allow me to mention it.’ He was smiling ruefully, his dark head bent to one side, and yet the full meaning of it was that Ma Jenkins had been well and truly put in her place, and the abuse she had let go on the Connors was now in danger of being returned.
‘And to think,’ Birdie breathed softly, her hands clutching his arm, ‘of what she called me!’
Harry’s fingers, almost without her noticing and quite naturally, slid over hers and tightened. His dark eyes were so full and deep that she felt a sudden catch of her breath in her throat. She knew that people were passing them, that voices drifted in and out of her hearing, the swish of clothes, the heavy breaths, the laughter, the sneezes, the coughing, the slap of a rein on a horse’s back, the chug-chug of a vehicle, the call of a street vendor. The East End was alive and bubbling, but she seemed to be trapped in
a quiet bubble where she and Harry were caught alone, a shared satisfaction and small success joining them pleasantly.
But there was something more, something she couldn’t quite establish. There was no reason for Harry to have done any of this, or stood up for her, or become her guardian, or even walked her out when she had been all alone today and feeling blue. And there was no reason either why she was feeling this strange elation and eagerness for life, which had all but deserted her over recent times.
‘Harry, I—’ she began, as he gazed down at her, but a voice broke into their world.
‘Brigid? Brigid Connor?’
Her name being called in such a way made her jump. She let go of Harry and turned so sharply that she almost went dizzy. Or was it, she asked herself silently, as her gaze fell on the caller not two feet away, the shock of seeing Don standing there, his mouth open wide, or – as Bernadette used to say – like a mouth hoping to catch flies. On one side of him stood Lydia, the other, James, just as Birdie had seen them that Sunday afternoon outside the store.
Chapter 19
‘Hello, Don.’
Don nodded in acknowledgement, but made no effort to raise his jaw and close his mouth, which Birdie found rather comical. Nevertheless, she smiled at his companions, and said politely, ‘Lydia . . . James. How are you?’
The little boy trotted round to his mother, sliding his fingers through Lydia’s gloved hand.
‘Very well, Brigid,’ said Lydia without emotion. ‘And you?’
‘I’m very well too,’ Birdie said, her embarrassment overridden as the more unpleasant emotion of jealousy filled her. Lydia’s hand remained firmly tucked over Don’s arm. So tight was it that Don seemed restrained on the spot where he stood.
In surprise Birdie found her thoughts wandering to how fashionably Lydia was dressed. Not like the Lydia of old, muffled up to the chin in blacks and browns. No, the Lydia of this Sunday wore a fine-quality camel-coloured coat, with matching accessories. Her dark hair was hidden under a close-fitting hat, a small, jaunty brim masking her left ear and a brown velvet band around it, the very same brown as the collar of the coat. James was wearing a quality-cloth coat of dark green. His collar and cuffs were green velvet, and his socks were drawn up neatly to his knees. He wore a fine pair of brogue shoes, too, as highly polished as his mother’s. Though in all, Birdie felt the little chap would be more comfortable looking less formal.