In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

  ‘We’ll try again in the light,’ Harry assured him.

  ‘I thought I’d find it.’

  ‘Let’s be on our way,’ Harry called to him as two figures swayed towards them in the mist. Their curses carried loudly in the air and Pat was on his saddle in a second and riding fast into the swirling, thickening veils.

  But it seemed a lifetime before they found the highway again. By the time they reached Poplar, Pat had lost heart as well as confidence. Without the light of a Tilley, they dismounted, and the strange fog, turning from yellow into pearly grey, clung to their skin and clothes.

  ‘I dunno where I went wrong,’ Pat admitted as they walked the lonely street. ‘I was sure I knew the way to go.’

  ‘We started in the wrong place,’ Harry replied gently. ‘Next time, we’ll begin at Stepney.’

  ‘But what if I still can’t find the way?’ Pat narrowed his eyes to search for the reassuring shape of the figure beside him. ‘What do we do then? And what do I tell Birdie?’

  For the next few paces Harry didn’t reply. Then his voice came through the mist. ‘We’ll tell your sister what happened. It won’t do to keep it from her.’

  ‘She won’t approve of us going without her.’

  ‘She’ll have to get a bike too if she wants to come.’ Harry chuckled, but Pat was in no mood to joke.

  ‘When’s that going to be?’

  ‘I can’t say, Pat. I’ve got a big job on at work and left a mate there today to take my place.’

  ‘But what about Frank?’

  ‘Pat, I ain’t got a crystal ball.’

  Pat had a sinking feeling. He knew Harry was trying his best and wasn’t even related to their family. He was just their lodger. But he’d become more than that. He felt like an older brother. Once more, Pat felt ashamed. He’d boasted he could find where they had Frank, thinking he knew the East End like the back of his hand. He was a messenger boy and a good one. He’d even got a promotion. The East End was his turf, his territory. He knew all the streets. But he had failed to find Frank today.

  Chapter 32

  Less than a week later, on the following Tuesday, there was a knock on the door. Birdie hurried to answer it, her heart beating fast. Every time there was a knock, she wondered if it was Don. She couldn’t help it. Even though she’d walked out on the day of the fire, her pride had been hurt. Was Don so happy to be rid of her that he wouldn’t try to win her back? Was he with Lydia, against Aggie’s wishes? What had happened to the shop that Aggie intended to open? Her curiosity had almost overcome her unhappiness at times, and she had been tempted to go to Poplar just to see if the new shop had opened. But she’d been warned by Harry not to go out alone after what had happened with Erik.

  Harry had confessed to going off with Pat to search for Frank. Then before she could get cross, he’d said she’d need a bicycle if she wanted to join them. That had made her smile instead!

  The knock came again. ‘I’m coming!’ Birdie slid out the long pin that kept her hat in place and took off her hat. She almost fainted when she opened the door.

  ‘Hello there,’ Constable Rudge said meekly. ‘I thought no one was in, so I knocked again, just in case.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s to do with your father.’

  ‘He ain’t had an accident, has he?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ the constable replied, trying to look over her shoulder. ‘He was taken ill at the Quarry.’

  Birdie felt her legs go weak. ‘Was it one of his turns?’

  ‘All I know is, he was taken by ambulance to the accident hospital at Poplar. We were informed and so here I am, doing me good deed for the day.’

  ‘I’ll go there now,’ Birdie said, and was about to close the door, when the policeman stuck the tip of his boot inside.

  ‘Er . . . don’t suppose you’ve had any news of your—’

  ‘You cheeky bugger!’ Birdie exclaimed, her eyes bright with anger. ‘That’s all you’ve come for, ain’t it, to find out about Frank? I thought you was minding your manners and almost believed you were human. Now take your foot out and clear off!’ She slammed the door hard, hearing an ‘Ouch’ from outside. She wouldn’t mind betting he’d come hoping to spot Frank. He certainly hadn’t called out of the goodness of his heart. Well, what did she expect? Coppers were coppers, she fumed as she ran to the kitchen, trying to think what to do first.

  What had happened at the Quarry? Who had been with Wilfred when he was taken ill? Was it a turn? She grabbed her hat again and left. Luckily a bus came along within minutes. She sat there clutching her bag tight, an ache of worry inside her as the bus neared the hospital. When she saw its tall chimneys rise in the sky opposite the East India Dock gate, she said a Hail Mary, remembering how a prayer was first on her mother’s lips in times of trouble.

  The blue-uniformed sister was firm, but reassuring, even though Wilfred looked a shadow of himself tucked under the white sheet of the hospital bed. There were other men around him in the ward, most of them looking into the distance with confused expressions, or asleep.

  ‘This is a temporary bed as the hospital is primarily for accidents, Miss Connor,’ the sister told her after Birdie had found the right ward. There were so many, all of them named after the shipping lines that sponsored them, like Cunard. She’d been given directions, but her panic had made her lose the way.

  Together with the nurse, she stood at the doors looking across to her father’s bed. ‘Was it one of his turns he had?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘If you mean a seizure, we think so. The landlord of a public house called the Quarry found him. By the time your father arrived here, the worst was over. How long has he had this problem?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘And the cough?’ The sister frowned. ‘It seems very troublesome.’

  ‘Yes, it’s got worse. Even the Collis Browne’s doesn’t help as much.’

  ‘The doctor will give him a thorough examination. You can sit with him for a few moments. Don’t expect him to wake as he’s had something to calm him.’

  Birdie took a seat on a rough wooden chair squeezed by the bed. Her father suddenly looked so thin and small, yet she had only said goodbye to him this morning. If only she had made him eat breakfast. If only she hadn’t gone out. But she couldn’t have kept him under lock and key. It was dreadful to think of him outside the Quarry, collapsed and alone.

  As he lay there, he coughed in his sleep. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. Birdie could see he was struggling to breathe. He looked so small, so vulnerable and she wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but she knew that wouldn’t be allowed. Instead, she bent close and whispered she loved him.

  After a while, the sister tapped her on the shoulder. ‘I must ask you to leave now. But before you go, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Come this way, please.’

  Birdie followed the sister out of the ward. She felt in a daze, even though part of her had been expecting this day, in some shape or form. The Collis Browne’s and castor oil and egg yolk had been of little use. Gradually the coughing had become more insistent.

  ‘Sit down,’ the sister told her, pointing to another wooden chair in a small office. The desk was piled high with notes of the patients and she could see her father’s name on the front of one set of them.

  ‘Now, can you tell me how long your father has had his cough?’

  ‘Ever since he left work at the chemical factory years ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the sister darkly, writing it down. ‘Is he under the care of a general practitioner?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Tapper.’

  ‘And what has he prescribed?’

  ‘A restorative, he called it. A powder to mix with castor oil and the yoke of one egg’

  Once again the sister frowned as she continued with her questions. Birdie answered as best she could but the smell of disinfectant and ether was making her feel sick. She had never liked hospitals, not since Bernadette had been taken to
one and only baby Pat had survived. Now this one had claimed her father.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, truly I am,’ said the landlord of the Quarry, Bernie Hopper. ‘He must’ve been waiting for his mates and I hadn’t opened the doors. Sometimes I’m a bit late if we’ve had a busy night and the draymen ain’t called.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ Birdie asked. She was standing at the back door of the Quarry, where the trap doors to the cellar next to the unused stables were open. The air was pungent with ale. Bernie wiped his hands on an old rag and stuffed it under one of his dirty braces. His shirt was full of stains, but he had a nice smile and had always been a good friend to her father.

  ‘Nah. Someone was yelling and I stuck me head out and found him on the deck. He was blue in the face and his legs were going ten to the dozen in all directions. I got a bloke to help me hold him, make sure he didn’t bang his head and we lifted him inside till the ambulance came.’

  ‘It was a seizure, Bernie.’

  ‘Ain’t surprised. There was this froth coming from his mouth.’

  ‘I should have kept him in.’

  Bernie laughed shortly. ‘You’d have had to tie him down. Don’t mind saying that your dad is a stubborn old sod. What’s the ’Ospital gonna do with ’im?’

  ‘The sister didn’t say. She’s worried about his cough.’

  ‘Reckon it’s them bloody fags. He smokes like a chimney, one after the other. Told him he was choking himself but, course, he don’t take no notice of no one. Give him me best when you see him.’ Bernie took the rag from under his braces and swept the drip from his nose. ‘This cold don’t help, either.’

  Birdie made her way home, thinking of her father in the hospital bed. There were so many ill people around him. He wasn’t awake to see them, but when he recovered he wouldn’t like it. Would the doctor be able to help him? How long would it be before he came home? Would the nurses see that he ate his meals?

  Once home, Birdie went upstairs to Wilfred’s room. The air was stuffy and smelled of roll-ups. She opened the sash window, which always creaked in protest. Her hands went over the patchwork quilt that she had made for his bed. Dark green and blues, his favourite colours, a Christmas present she’d made last year to brighten the sombre browns. He’d said it was too good to use and folded it away. Birdie had found it and put it over again. It was like a game they played, him wanting his way and she trying to get hers. If only she hadn’t nagged him so much. She knew he was getting frailer and he feared the future. She felt very guilty. She had done nothing to help. Wilfred had been very upset when she’d told him about the registry office wedding. It had been a terrible disappointment to know that his only daughter, a good Catholic, intended to wed by licence.

  Her father had been right. She had forsaken her values. Why had she been prepared to give them up? It was, she had believed, because she loved Don. But was it really the fear of being left on the shelf?

  Birdie took a deep breath, fighting with the sob in her throat. She hadn’t told Wilfred she had broken up with Don. But was the harm done already?

  Pat took the news badly, especially when, the next day, Wilfred’s condition deteriorated.

  ‘He’s been moved to the isolation hospital at New Cross,’ they were told when they visited.

  ‘Has he got something catching?’ Birdie asked when they spoke to the doctor.

  ‘We don’t know,’ he replied briskly. ‘His cough is causing concern. Here, we treat accidents and are not equipped to give him the right treatment.’

  ‘But New Cross is a long way.’

  ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. The nurse will give you your father’s belongings.’ The doctor strode off leaving the nurse to hand them a brown bag tied with string.

  Birdie felt so angry. They were being treated as though Wilfred didn’t matter. ‘I’ll take the bus tomorrow,’ Birdie decided as they walked home.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘Willie can run my messages. I’ll cycle over and ask him tonight.’

  ‘Will Willie do that?’

  ‘I’ve done it for him before.’

  Birdie didn’t argue with this. People who had scarlet fever and typhus were sent to New Cross. It was said that many children never came home, and those that did were always weak and pasty-looking, just like those who had survived the flu outbreak. Was their father seriously ill? She wanted Pat with her.

  ‘Frank’s got to be told,’ Pat said then. ‘It’s not fair he doesn’t know. Oh, if only I’d been able to find the way and we’d been able to get him.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, love. Don’t get down in the dumps. Being miserable won’t help our dad. We’ve got to cheer him up.’

  But that night she lay in bed and couldn’t think of anything but Wilfred. Why had he been taken to the isolation hospital? What disease did he have? She had so many questions and there was no one to answer them.

  The next day it was Harry who again came to the rescue.

  ‘I’ll take you on me cart,’ he offered them as they were about to set out for the bus.

  ‘Your cart?’ Birdie was surprised. Although Harry had mentioned he’d like to buy a horse and cart, she hadn’t thought he would as his job was only digging roads.

  ‘Bought a nice apple and sauce from me pal who loaned me the pony and trap. Albert’s only a plodder, a chestnut named after the old Prince. Very faithful, see, like himself was to the Queen.’

  ‘Is he outside?’ Pat asked eagerly.

  ‘No. He’s stabled at the smithy’s off Manchester Road. It won’t take us long to walk there.’

  Birdie put on her hat and pushed a long pin through it. ‘Well, just this once, Harry. We can’t always be calling on you.’ Ever since Flo had got the wrong end of the stick about her and Harry, she had felt embarrassed and guilty at all the help Harry gave them. He was very kind and a good friend, but there was nothing more to their friendship. After all, he had his own sweetheart.

  So it was that Harry introduced them to Albert, a powerful-looking chestnut with a dirty-brown mane, who had once been owned by the breweries. The old horse whinnied over the half-gate at the smithy and Harry led him out to the cart. When Albert was finally in harness, he helped Birdie up on the front, whilst Pat climbed in the back.

  It was a long journey, and cold, but eventually they arrived at New Cross and the tall, forbidding-looking hospital building built of red-brick and stone.

  The same strong disinfectant smell filled the main hall, and Birdie felt her stomach lurch as she enquired after her father.

  ‘Mr Connor is being assessed,’ said the woman who sat in a small office, a half-window to stare through. ‘And for everyone’s safety the ward is closed when a new patient arrives.’

  ‘You mean we can’t see him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But what has he got?’ Birdie was annoyed to think they had come all this way and were now being prevented from a visit.

  ‘As soon as we know, you’ll be informed.’ She slipped her glasses back on her long nose and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to be careful. This is an isolation hospital, you know, not like Poplar where it’s mainly accidents.’

  ‘So when can we see him?’ Birdie was determined to get an answer.

  ‘Try again tomorrow.’

  ‘Try?’ Birdie gasped, forgetting herself. ‘Are you saying we might not be able to see him even then?’

  The woman looked up, stony-faced. ‘Unfortunately I can’t see into the future. If I could, my job would be a lot easier.’ With that she snapped the book in front of her shut, leaving Birdie open-mouthed.

  As she sat on the front of the cart, with Albert’s broad rump swaying in front of them, Birdie’s anger was still simmering.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harry told her, ‘I’m sure it’s for his own good. And probably everyone else’s too.’

  ‘Yes, but the cheek of that woman, talking as though I was daft.’


  ‘We could’ve gone round the back,’ shouted Pat from his seat in the rear. ‘See if we could spot Dad and then at least we’d know he was all right.’

  ‘He could be anywhere in that place. It was all corridors and long passages. No, we’ll go again tomorrow, and I’ll insist we see him.’

  Birdie pulled up the collar of her coat as the cart rolled along. She was determined that, whatever anyone said, she would be at her father’s side the next day.

  Chapter 33

  Later that evening, as they sat at the supper table, Harry said, ‘I’ve read in the papers that in Russia the tide may be turning in favour of the Bolsheviks. Course, it may not be true but it’s a new rumour.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Pat.

  ‘The Red Army is said to be defeating the White Army. on many fronts It’s believed amongst a lot of people that the Whites have been betrayed by the British Government. Again, it’s only hearsay – and propaganda has been a huge part of the Russian war – but if our friends Inga and Erik get wind of it, who knows what they’ll get panicked into doing.’

  ‘And what happens to Frank then?’ Birdie asked anxiously.

  Harry leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. ‘I think tonight we should draw a map of the area from Stepney to Shadwell. Between you and me, Pat, we’ll mark out a route between, which will help us get a clearer idea of where it might be likely that Frank is kept. We know for sure this place they’re keeping him in must have a back yard for their cart and all the materials they have brought from Stepney. We also know it’s not a waterfront building or warehouse. This limits the possibilities even more.’

  ‘Are you planning on looking?’ Pat asked eagerly.

  Harry nodded slowly.

  ‘If you can wait till Saturday, I’ll come with you!’

  ‘You’d better ask your sister.’

  Birdie was silent. Could they find Frank before it was too late? Once again, they were relying on Harry to help them, though none of them knew if Frank was still alive. And even if he was, how could Harry hope to free him from these desperate people?