by Carol Rivers
‘There seems little we can do for Wilfred, but at least we can still search for Frank with the aim of rescuing him. Now we have Albert it will be easier.’ Harry said quietly. ‘Just two men with spades and shovels in their cart won’t stand out. Pat can wear my old clobber, with a cap pulled down over his face, so there’s no chance of him being recognized.’
‘And what of me?’ Birdie demanded, although it was only bravado. ‘I don’t want to be sitting here all on me own, wondering what’s happened to you.’ She knew Harry was right. She would only slow their progress.
‘You’ll need to visit your father.’
‘Yes, but that don’t stop me worrying about you two.’
‘We’ll be back before dark,’ Harry assured her. ‘And that’s a promise.’
‘You can say your prayers, ask Him upstairs to keep us safe,’ Pat laughed, mischief in his eyes. ‘You’re good at them.’
Birdie smiled wistfully. ‘Pat, you must keep right by Harry and you mustn’t do anything daft.’
‘You got me word, he’ll be safe with me,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll start off early and draw no attention to our activities.’
But Birdie couldn’t stop thinking about their plans as she left them to draw the map. There was no guarantee they would find the street or the house, and even if they did, there was just one man and a boy against desperate, revolutionary people, used to fighting and trouble.
Her thoughts then turned to Wilfred. Was everything being done for him that could be? She felt so helpless. But she would find out tomorrow.
The next day, after Harry and Pat had left the house, Birdie caught the bus to New Cross. She was preparing for a battle with the authorities, but nothing would stop her seeing her father. So she was more than surprised to gain admittance to the wards, though from another, more approachable secretary.
‘I’m afraid it has to be a short visit,’ a nurse told Birdie as she was shown along a corridor with ornate arches.
‘Did the doctor find out what’s wrong with him?’ Birdie asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
‘Your father caught a cold,’ said the nurse briskly, indicating a small room. ‘So unfortunately we’ve not been able to complete our investigations as the doctor ordered complete rest. Now follow me and I’ll give you some protective clothing to wear.’ In the tiny room, which was very cold and smelled highly of disinfectant that seemed to come from a large white sink in one corner, she provided a white cape and mask. ‘We ask visitors to wear this to prevent infection, and you mustn’t touch your father or go near but sit on the benches provided, a safe distance away.’
Birdie felt very upset. Why were there all these rules? When at last she was shown to a side ward wearing the protective clothing, she found Wilfred lying on a long bed, wrapped in blankets.
‘Dad, oh Dad!’ Birdie gasped under her mask.
‘Please sit down,’ the nurse said quietly. ‘Mr Connor has just had his medicine, so he may seem drowsy.’
Birdie sat on a hard wooden bench, which in itself made the visit uncomfortable and unnatural. The nurse was right, Birdie thought miserably. Wilfred seemed confused, not recognizing her, and it was all she could do not to rip off the mask and run to him.
But she knew she had to be strong for his sake. As she sat there in her strange cape and mask, Wilfred spoke ramblingly, oblivious of her presence. Her shoulders drooped. It was clear that whatever illness Wilfred had, it was not likely to go away quickly.
Saturday had arrived, and Harry hoped the cold day would remain clear and bright, but the tell-tale signs of mist were already threading the river air, as Albert pulled them along. Though Pat insisted he was certain of the way, Harry urged caution. He still hoped to find some tradesman or resident who might provide a much-needed clue to this foreign element. Any ammunition they could find against them might help in Frank’s release – though Harry often found himself wondering if Frank had still survived.
Had their failure to capture Birdie resulted in Frank becoming a burden? It was easy to dispose of a corpse; bodies washed up from the river were often unrecognizable and untraceable. Perhaps Frank would never be heard of again. Yet, if by some miracle he still lived and was kept a prisoner, how could he be freed? Harry had no idea. But what was clear to him was the voice inside, urging him on to search for this man he didn’t know, but who felt as familiar to him as a brother. A good man, he believed, but misled. A man who cared for his family, yet was parted from them. A soldier, like himself, who’d fought loyally, yet was labelled a deserter.
‘This is it,’ cried Pat beside him, jolting Harry from his thoughts. ‘Look, Stepney Green, where Inga bashed the bruiser over his head.’
Harry pulled Albert to the side of the road, under the eaves of the tumbled dwellings. The air smelled of bread and bagels, of ripe fruit piled on the barrows of the coster-mongers as they competed with the cries of the gypsy women selling their lucky twists of heather.
‘And you remember nothing more after they put you in the cart?’ Harry asked.
‘It was pitch-black under the blindfold. Like I said, I used my ears.’
Harry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well then, before we venture to Shadwell, we’ll have a nose around.’
‘Why waste time?’ Pat demanded. ‘They’re not here now.’
‘More haste, less speed,’ Harry cautioned. ‘Stepney is known for its unrest and politics. Many plans have been hatched here, Pat. Take that Russian sort, Peter the Painter. He was holed-up here in Sidney Street, him and his gang, causing a right rumpus with the law.’ He turned and grinned. ‘A plot you might well read of in your Magnet, son.’
Pat’s eyes widened. ‘But the gang were just burglars, shot clean through by the Scots Guards.’
‘So it said in the newspapers,’ Harry agreed cautiously. ‘And the marksmen’s bullets should have seen the end of the matter. But only two corpses were discovered. And the dead are never likely to spill the beans. Some believe the burgling was a story put out to cover the greater crimes of politics. The siege caused even Winston Churchill to pay Sidney Street a visit. Now why should a top brass like him be bothered?’
‘But that was before the war,’ Pat dismissed. ‘And another war isn’t going to happen.’
‘You think not?’ Harry lifted the reins and slapped them gently. ‘I wish I was as convinced. My time in the army taught me one thing. Each country is out for itself. The armistice has brought peace, but memories are short. And here, in England’s great capital, there is as much greed for power as ever there was.’
‘And you think our Frank is plum in the middle of all this?’ Pat asked.
‘Not by his own intention.’ Harry urged Albert on, with the cold breeze starting to whistle around his ears. He felt uneasy, far more so than in Shadwell, where the drunks and harpies of sailor town lurked slothfully on the streets. But here, evil ran in strange guises. The dough trader on his pitch, ringing his brass bell, might transform into a foreign agent; a grinder at his wheel, pouring water over the spinning leather of his treadle, the ears and eyes of the government. A fish-monger, in his blue jersey, selling his fresh, shiny fish from his bucket, could well be in the pay of a union master.
Where were Inga and Erik in all this? What trail had they left? Who could provide a signpost? Harry examined the faces milling around them: the street traders, the gypsies, the butchers, the bakers, the tailors.
He felt a tug inside him, an instinct; it was no coincidence, he believed, that Pat was enticed here.
They had been moving in the direction of the Commercial Road, when Albert stopped, lowering his head to shake his mane and relieve his bowels.
A street urchin ran beside them. ‘Can I ’ave your ’orse muck for me sack, mister?’ he shouted up to Harry.
‘You’re welcome, son. But wait until we pass. The horse is new to me and may be skittish.’
But the boy paid no heed to the warning and darted out. The big horse tugged powerfully away, jolting every bone in Ha
rry’s body. ‘Take the reins, Pat,’ he shouted, jumping down to snatch the boy by his collar. ‘Did you not hear my warning, young man?’
‘Leg go of me, you bugger!’ yelled the lad, and Harry, though annoyed, threw back his head and laughed.
‘I admire your spirit,’ he admitted, dangling the small body above the ground. ‘But my horse could have bolted.’
‘Put me down or else I’ll kick yer.’
Harry laughed again. ‘I’ll let your collar go when you answer me this. We’re on the lookout for a man and a woman, foreigners most like.’
‘’Ow should I know ’em? There’s fa’sands of the bleeders round ’ere.’
‘You might bring them to mind, when you see what I have in my pocket.’
The boy stopped squirming. ‘How much?’ he demanded, and Harry, seeing he had won the child’s interest, slowly let go.
‘Two bob, more than you’d earn in a month shovelling muck.’
‘Give us the money then.’
Harry chuckled, sliding his hand in his pocket and jingling his change. ‘I’m not that much of a fool, lad. Listen, the woman in question wears breeches and rides a covered wagon. Her companion sports a black beard and isn’t the sort to tangle with. I’ll give you a bob now for information and the other when I’m satisfied. An address will do. Or a name.’
‘Dunno their monikers. But I seen ’em.’
‘Where?’
‘Round the corner. They ’ad a blackie’s stablin’.’
‘A blacksmith?’ Harry nodded. ‘Lead us there.’
‘Give us the bob first.’
Harry dropped a shilling into the boy’s palm. ‘Remember, you’ll be the loser, if you’re deceiving me. This other shilling has your name on, but will stay in my pocket till I’m satisfied.’ He looked sternly at the boy, then jumped back on the cart beside Pat.
‘What was that about?’ asked Pat.
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Just keep your eyes glued to our guide.’
Pat did as he was instructed and Harry narrowed his eyes at the small, bobbing figure in front, who he knew at any moment might disappear and leave him to curse his stolen shilling and wasted words.
Chapter 34
‘So where is this?’ Harry asked the boy. They had been brought to a disused yard, where once there had been a stable. The wood of the stalls had been removed and the roof let in the light through its disintegrating beams. At the very end, a flight of worm-eaten stairs had led them downwards to a small room below. It was no more than a damp cellar alive with rats.
‘It’s where they was, gov, them foreigners. No one knew what they was doin’ ’ere. But they upped and left one day without a word.’
‘Did no one ask who they were?’
‘You don’t ask questions like that round ’ere, not if you want to go on breathin’.’ The boy held out his hand. ‘Give us me bob.’
Harry took out the shilling. ‘But you recognized my description. They must be known to others, if they were known to you.’
‘Mebe. But I keep what I knows to meself.’ The boy licked his dirty lips. ‘Now, let’s see yer money, gov.’
Harry held the shilling out in his palm and the boy reached out. Harry snapped his fingers closed. ‘Not before you tell me what they did here.’
‘I ain’t a bloomin’ mind-reader, mister. This ’ad a roof and doors on then, but it’s all been pinched.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Dunno, just went.’
Harry closed the shilling into his fist. ‘Not good enough, son.’
‘Blimey, you want yer money’s worth, don’t yer?’
‘Well? Was it weeks or months past?’
‘It was cold, in winter.’
‘And you’ve not seen or heard of them since?’
‘Reckon they scarpered afore the Old Bill got on to ’em.’
Harry dropped the shilling and the boy fled. He looked around the dank, foul-smelling room and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Well, what do you think, Pat? Was it them?’
‘Don’t reckon there’s any mistake on that,’ said Pat, kicking the wall with his boot. ‘It’s blooming ready to fall down.’
Harry frowned at the floor. ‘Look!’ He moved to the wall. ‘Good grief, this part is false,’ he said, breaking away the thin wood of a partition.
‘Blimey!’ Pat fell back, coughing in the cloud of dust.
Harry waved his arms, trying to clear the air and tear away the veils of sticky cobwebs that lay over a pile of sacking. He lifted it piece by raggedy piece. ‘This is some kind of printing press,’ he murmured as he blew the dust from the blackened rollers. ‘There are still some papers in the machinery.’
‘What do they say?’ asked Pat.
Harry frowned, unable to decipher the language. ‘Beats me, Pat, but it could be Russian.’
They peered at it together, then Harry nodded. ‘I have an acquaintance who may be able to help us.’
‘Are we going to Shadwell?’
‘All in good time, Pat. All in good time.’
It was after dark when the kitchen door opened at the house in March Street, and Harry and Pat walked in. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Harry apologized. ‘We’ve a lot to tell you.’
‘Did you find Frank?’ Birdie asked.
‘No, but we got something else.’ Pat couldn’t wait to explain as he unwound his scarf, revealing two rosy cheeks and a red nose. ‘We found this kid who led us to a cellar that had a false wall, see? And behind it was an old printing machine, and Harry reckons it was used by the gang who’s got Frank.’
‘Is this true?’ Birdie looked at Harry.
He took a paper from his pocket. ‘We found this.’
Birdie cast her eyes over the crumpled sheet. ‘I can’t read it. Do you know what it says?’
‘A pal of mine had a gander. Whoever Frank is with, they ain’t no angels of mercy, far from it. Fact is, this says they mean to overthrow the Russian gaffer, Lenin. He ain’t your ordinary top brass, no, he’s a tough nut and won’t be best pleased if he gets wind of this.’
‘But what can these Russians do in England? And why should they want Frank to do it?’
‘I don’t know their score,’ Harry admitted. ‘But Frank’s a bloke on the run who the law has decreed is a deserter. And I’d say whatever goes down will be blamed on him.’
Birdie blinked in confusion. ‘But he don’t know anything about politics.’
‘He doesn’t need to. In fact, the less he knows the better.’
‘You mean, they’ll blame Frank for . . . for whatever it is that happens and make everyone think he’s guilty?’
‘Our Frank would never do anything bad,’ Pat said heatedly. ‘So that’s why they came after you, Birdie. To make sure he does what they want.’
She stared at the sheet of strange writing. ‘What do you think they have in mind?’
Harry shrugged uneasily. ‘It will be something to get the attention of Whitehall, who ain’t all that happy with the Commies, but have to keep shtoom, as we’re rock-bottom skint after the war, and can’t afford to oppose them. Holding the candle to the devil, you might say.’
‘Harry, do you think Frank is . . . is still alive?’ Birdie had to ask the question.
Harry gave it some thought, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, they’ll not harm him, not until the moment comes when they can be sure he is no longer of use to them. But this indicates to me they are desperate people and will stop at nothing to achieve their aims. We must act quickly.’
‘But the danger – I can’t ask any more of you!’
‘This is a personal matter now,’ Harry replied firmly. ‘I fought for my country before and I’m not standing by to see it brought down again by the likes of these scoundrels.’
Birdie could see by the look in Harry’s eyes he would not back away from danger. Yet she now knew that the situation was even more dangerous than it had been before, and feared for Harry’s life. But how would it ever be possible to ge
t Frank out of this trouble?
After supper, Pat went to bed and Harry helped Birdie with the dishes.
‘Did Pat behave today?’ Birdie asked as she put on her apron.
‘He was a great help,’ Harry replied as he picked up the cloth. ‘Even though we didn’t get to Shadwell, he helped me to find the cellar and the printing machine.’
‘Yes, but although we know now what this Inga and Erik are doing in England, they still have Frank and we are no closer to helping him.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Harry.
‘We always seem to depend on you.’ Birdie began to wash the dishes. ‘And you don’t even know our brother.’
‘I know his family, and that’s good enough for me.’
Birdie smiled gratefully. She gazed through the kitchen window and thought of the night Frank had come here, dirty, freezing and frightened. His arrival had set off a train of events that had changed their lives completely. And now it was almost spring.
‘I heard from someone in the corner shop that the Thornes have started up business again and Lydia has taken James and left.’ She didn’t know why she was telling Harry, but he always seemed ready to listen.
‘So the widow has gone,’ Harry murmured.
‘It seems so.’
‘Would you reconsider your engagement now?’
‘After Lydia, how can I trust Don?’
‘But you said he isn’t with her.’
‘Is that his choice or hers, though?’ She threw away the dirty water and looked at Harry. ‘What about you? You say so little about yourself. You do have someone special to care for, don’t you?’
He put the plate down and frowned. ‘Someone special?’
‘Like the lady you hired the pony and trap for.’
He smiled, giving a soft chuckle. ‘The only lady who rode in it, was you.’
‘But I thought you were . . . that you . . .’ She stopped, blushing. How had she got herself into this embarrassing position? His dark eyes were so beautiful and rich with expression that her heart turned over and a peculiar feeling filled her. As though a powerful heat burned within her, spreading from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.