by Carol Rivers
‘If you want to know something about me,’ he murmured, ‘I can tell you that I consider March Street my home, the home I’ve never had and have always looked for. You and your family have been very kind to me.’
‘We’ve done nothing special.’
‘Birdie, I . . .’ He stepped forward and took her hands. She felt the world was spinning, but pleasantly, taking her and Harry with it, in another direction. Her lips tingled in a way they’d never tingled before. Automatically she closed her eyes, as heat burst into her cheeks. Even the hair on her skin seemed to prickle. Then she knew, as he held her, that more than anything she wanted to be kissed. Kissed in a way she’d never been kissed before, in a way Don had never kissed her.
Just then a loud noise in the back lane made Harry pull away.
‘W . . . what was that?’ Birdie stammered, as he rushed to the back door and pulled it open. The cold air whistled around her as she stood alone in the kitchen wondering if it was the disturbance outside she could hear, or the blood pounding in her ears.
Harry’s head was reeling as he ran towards Albert and the cart. Had he been tempted to kiss Birdie? The very thing he had promised himself he would never do. It could only put their friendship at risk. She wasn’t his to kiss. He knew she was still in love with Don Thorne and that their unpredictable romance, far from ending, was likely to continue.
In the light of the lamp, he saw a group of kids around Albert. The horse was stamping and shaking his head, but the kids only laughed and yelled more as they ran around the cart.
‘Clear off, you little devils!’ he yelled, scattering them in all directions. But one fell over and Harry pounced on him.
‘It weren’t me,’ cried the child as he tried to squirm away from Harry’s tight grasp.
‘Were you with that lot?’ Harry demanded angrily.
‘No, I was just watchin’.’
‘Do you know that a horse has feelings too? He doesn’t appreciate being poked around, just the same as you wouldn’t.’
‘It wasn’t me, honest,’ cried the child, shivering under his thin coat. ‘I’d never do nothin’ to a horse. I want one meself when I grow up.’
Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘You do, do you?’
‘Yeah, I was just talking to ’im when that lot came along.’
‘What are you doing talking to a horse at this time of night?’
The child looked down at his scuffed boots. ‘I was gonna run away. But it’s too cold and me fingers are freezin’.’
Harry held back a smile. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Up Poplar.’
Harry shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Your mum is probably sending out the law to look for you.’
The boy began to cry and Harry’s heart softened. ‘Oh, come on now, son, it ain’t the end of the world. I’ll take you home on the cart.’
‘You mean you ain’t going to belt me?’
‘No. That’s your dad’s job, not mine.’ Harry set the lad on the cart and, patting Albert’s broad back, he checked the leathers and harness. No damage had been done. He looked up at the tiny, huddled figure. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. And don’t think of bolting; you’re in a mess as it is.’
He hurried back to the house and found Birdie still in the kitchen. ‘It was just some tearaways having a go at Albert,’ he said, trying hide his embarrassment as he looked at her.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes, but one of the kids says he wasn’t with the bigger kids. Poor little blighter reckons he’s run away from home and is regretting it. So I said I’ll give him a ride back to his mum.’
She gave him an uncertain smile. ‘That’s nice of you, considering.’
‘’Night then, Birdie.’
‘Good night, Harry.’
He closed the door and stood in the cold air. ‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered, feeling a prize fool. Should he have apologized? But he hadn’t actually kissed her, though if those kids hadn’t disturbed him, God alone knew what he might have done.
Harry jumped up beside the child and they set off for Poplar. Where were his brains these days? In his boots? But she had taken possession of his thoughts and as much as he tried, he couldn’t get them back. At work, or drinking with his pals, or sitting in the airey with his feet up beside the fire after a long day’s graft, his mind was always on her.
Chapter 35
By Sunday, Birdie hoped that Wilfred would at last be able to talk to them. She knew that Pat was very upset and it would be hard for him to sit still on the bench in the uncomfortable cape and mask. But they were to be disappointed when they arrived.
‘Your father is still poorly,’ the nurse told them. ‘Please don’t tire him.’
‘Did the doctor make his tests?’ asked Birdie hopefully.
‘He’s writing his report this week and when that is done, he will be happy to speak to you.’
They put on their white cloaks and masks, and were shown to the small room where Wilfred lay. He smiled at them and was helped to sit up by the nurse, but suddenly a bout of severe coughing made it impossible for him to speak. Then Birdie saw blood on the cloth the nurse held. She jumped to her feet and was about to rush over, when the doctor came in and, taking one glance at Wilfred, took Birdie’s arm.
‘I think it’s best that you and your brother leave, Miss Connor,’ he said quietly. They were quickly ushered out of the room and he drew them to one side. ‘I am Dr Shaw and will be treating your father from now on.’
‘Was it blood that Dad was spitting up?’ Pat asked.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it was.’
‘That’s serious, ain’t it?’
The doctor nodded. ‘I would like you to use the strong disinfectant to wash with before you go.’
‘When can we see him again?’
‘I must ask you to wait a few days, even a week until we speak again. With complete isolation and rest . . .’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps next Sunday? I shall make it my business to be on duty and will tell the sister to show you straight to my office.’
‘Thank you.’ Birdie knew the doctor was being kind and she was grateful. But a week seemed a very long time.
‘What good will a week do?’ Pat asked angrily as they walked out.
‘The doctor’s right. In Dad’s condition he could pick up any germs.’ Though she didn’t let it show to Pat, she was frightened. She would never forget the sight of Wilfred’s heaving chest and the fear in his eyes as he clung to the nurse as that red stain appeared on the cloth.
That afternoon there was a heavy knock on the door. Birdie’s heart jumped, as she wondered if it could be PC Rudge again. But when she opened it, Don was standing there. He pushed a bunch of flowers into her arms.
‘These are for you, Brigid,’ he said, bending to kiss her on the lips. ‘I hope you like them.’
‘But I—’ she began, only to stop as he turned, gesturing to the delivery van that was parked, almost blocking the road.
‘Today I have a surprise for you. I hope you’re hungry.’ He stepped past her and swept her coat from the peg. Raising his eyebrows under his immaculately parted hair, he added, ‘Let me help you on with this, as we must fly. I even gave the van a good wash for the occasion.’
‘Don, what are you doing? I’m not going with you.’
‘Oh, please, my dear, just an hour of your time? Don’t you think that we should finally make friends . . .?’ He cleared his throat, looking sad. ‘I can’t tolerate the thought of us parting the way we did. And this is my way of making it up to you. Please indulge me just this once.’
‘But I’m not dressed for going out.’
‘You look most agreeable, as always. Now slip your coat on. The air still has a bite to it.’
Reluctantly, Birdie did as she was told. ‘I must put these in water,’ she told him, but he shook his head, holding her arm tightly. ‘Later, my dear. I have something of far greater importance to take you to.’
With this, he took the f
lowers and placed them on the bottom stair. Then he whisked her out of the front door so fast, she was sitting inside the delivery van before she knew it!
‘There now, Brigid,’ said Aggie, cuffing the drip on her long nose with her cardigan sleeve. ‘Just help yerself to more gravy if you want it. Or there’s more spuds and veg outside if you ain’t got enough.’
Birdie stared down at Aggie’s Sunday roast set before her. If she had thought that Don was going to take her to a restaurant or somewhere special to eat, she had been sorely mistaken. She knew now that she should have refused and not been persuaded into coming. But the flowers and Don’s flattery had taken her by surprise.
‘I’ve got a nice fire going in your honour,’ said Aggie, making herself comfortable beside Birdie. ‘And no nutty slack that spits all the time. That’s real coal, that is, straight off the coalman’s cart.’
Birdie found it hard to believe that Aggie seemed to have taken up just where she had left off.
There was a distinct pungent smell ingrained in the walls and furniture that made Birdie want to cough. How could Don and Aggie choose to live here still? The fire downstairs had made its mark on the upper rooms, turning everything even browner and dirtier than before. She looked down at her plate spilling with thickly cut beef, rimmed by fat and dwarfed by a mountain of cauliflower.
‘Yes, come along, eat up, Brigid,’ said Don, who wore his Sunday-best suit. ‘We need to put colour in your cheeks.’ He glanced at Aggie. ‘Don’t we, Mother?’
‘Yes, son,’ agreed Aggie, tackling her own outsized portion with such eagerness that the gravy spilled over the edge of the plate. ‘Now, Brigid, what do you think of me new store?’
No one had asked after her father or was concerned about her life. The Thornes were only interested in themselves. Don had brought her through the shop, proudly indicating the hastily erected shelves that bore every kind of jar and bottle, many of them singed, blackened and broken. Aggie hadn’t thrown away anything that could be disguised, nor had she learned from the lessons of the past, as the smell of burning and rotting fruit was stronger than ever before. Birdie had no interest in it.
‘A right tonic, ain’t it?’ Aggie went on. ‘The Thornes won’t be kept down for long. No, sir!’
‘After we’ve eaten,’ Don said, giving a little cough, ‘you must see the rooms above, Brigid.’
‘I’ve seen them.’ Birdie wondered why neither of them appeared to remember she had been here the day after the fire.
‘Ah, well, yes,’ he nodded, ‘but they are much improved now.’
‘He’s done them up for you two,’ said Aggie giving her a wink. ‘Somewhere you can be on yer own after yer wed.’
‘But we aren’t getting married,’ Birdie insisted. ‘Didn’t Don tell you?’
‘Oh, that was just another of your little tiffs,’ replied Aggie with a shake of her head. ‘Listen . . . if it’s that sly wench you’re jealous of, she won’t be bothering him again.’
‘I’m not jealous, not now,’ Birdie said fiercely. ‘And if Don wants to see Lydia and James, it has nothing to do with me.’
‘See her?’ Aggie repeated crossly. ‘We won’t ever be meeting again if I have my way! She only ran wailing and complaining to Mr Howells,’ continued Aggie. ‘And being a daft ’a’p’orth, he fell for her charms. Always thought he fancied her – couldn’t keep his eyes off her at church. Lost his place reading the Bible any amount of times. All cow eyes, he was, but oh, no, this one here—’ she tilted her head towards her son – ‘he wouldn’t listen when I warned him she had more than one iron in the fire.’
Birdie wanted to go. She knew she should never have come.
‘Mother, it’s time for afters,’ said Don, red-faced and standing up.
‘Deaf to my entreaties, he was,’ Aggie chanted. ‘So I don’t suppose I’ll be bothering to go out praying no more. Nor will the Church’s representative be invited to this table again, expecting to be fed for free.’
‘Please, Mother, this is not the time.’
‘You know what she said to me after the fire?’ Aggie’s eyes became wild and fierce. ‘Said I was a danger to life and limb, that I should be put away somewhere for me own good. The cheeky mare! But I know the real reason she wanted me ousted. It was the money she was after, through him.’
Birdie pushed herself from the table. ‘I’m leaving now. Don, please take me home.’
‘What about me rice pudding?’ Aggie said, looking up in surprise.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Go on, girl, get it down you,’ Aggie insisted. ‘If you’re going to work here again, you’ll need building up.’
‘Me? Work here?’ Birdie looked at Don. ‘Do you really think I would want to come back to this?’
‘Mother, I haven’t talked to Brigid about that yet.’ Don took Birdie’s arm. ‘Please sit down. Come over here by the fire where it’s warm.’
Birdie took her coat from the chair. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Thorne. I don’t expect we shall meet again. At least, I hope not.’
‘What do you mean? You two are going to be wed just like you wanted. In a Roman church and all.’
‘You didn’t want a church wedding before your daughter-in-law went off with the Vicar,’ Birdie said angrily. ‘It was because of you that I told me poor dad – who, by the way, is in hospital – that I was going to be married by licence. I shall regret to me dying day that I ever went along with it and worsened his state of health. Now you change your mind to suit your own purposes, but I am still of the same opinion as I was when I last visited here, the day after the fire. I knew then you wanted me as nothing more than a skivvy. I just thank the Good Lord in heaven that my eyes were opened and you never made of me as unhappy a soul as your daughter-in-law is.’
Birdie swept out, leaving Aggie open-mouthed, her lips working and her face pale.
‘Brigid!’ Don caught up with her on the stairs, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he spluttered, ‘I’m sorry . . . s . . . sorry. Mother is not very tactful.’
‘For once I’ll agree with you,’ Birdie nodded, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘She has no tact at all, not a shred. And I couldn’t ever have been in me right mind to think I could tolerate her company. Now, for the last time, please drive me home.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ He escorted her out to the delivery van but by the time they arrived at March Street, there had been very little conversation and plenty of clanking of gears.
‘I love you, Brigid. No one else,’ he protested when he turned off the engine.
‘You have a very queer way of showing it.’ Birdie lifted her chin. ‘You and your mother thought I had nothing between my ears except air.’
He looked very embarrassed.
‘It’s over between us, Don. Please don’t call again.’ She climbed out and saw herself inside. But it was some time before she heard him drive off.
She looked at the flowers he had given her, still on the stairs. They were too beautiful to throw away so she stood them in a glass on the window sill. When had Don ever brought her such a gift before?
It was a very long week for Birdie. Each day there was news of the troubles in Russia, as the Bolshevik regime exerted its power over the people. Harry’s appearance at the supper table was more frequent as he told them what he had read in the newspapers, though he was always mindful of Birdie’s concern for Frank. When at last Sunday came, he offered to take them to New Cross. But Birdie shook her head.
‘We’ll catch the bus, Harry,’ she told him. She knew that he would willingly give up his time, but he had his own life to lead.
‘Harry would have driven us,’ Pat complained as they sat on the bus.
‘Yes, but as I said before, we can’t always be asking favours.’
Pat was very quiet all the way. Birdie knew they were both anxious about the doctor’s report. But when they arrived at the hospital the receptionist met them. ‘Dr Shaw has been called to an emergency,’ she said apo
logetically. ‘He’ll be back to see you, though I can’t be certain what time. Why don’t you wait in the room over there?’
Birdie thanked her, but said that she and Pat would wait outside in the fresh air. The smell of disinfectant and ether, combined with the stuffy air, made her feel ill.
‘I don’t like it here,’ Pat insisted as they walked round the grounds that surrounded the impressive-looking redbrick building.
‘Nor do I, but look at that.’ They studied a large notice-board and read the information. There were many rules about preventing the spread of infection and, as if to terrify everyone more, there was a history of the hospital printed at the bottom. It was one of the successors of the old fever ships of the nineteenth century. ‘A hundred years ago and our dad would have been put on one them fever ships.’
‘What were they?’
‘These big ships that were moored out in the river where people with contagious diseases were kept away from dry land.’
‘I’d rather be on a ship than in there,’ said Pat as they walked back to the hospital. ‘At least you could sail off.’
Birdie sighed sadly. ‘They weren’t sailing ships, love. They were called the Death Ships. Because nearly everyone on them died.’
It was a depressing thought and Birdie was relieved to get back to the hospital, despite its smell.
‘The doctor will see you now,’ said the receptionist, and they were shown to his office on the first floor. Through the small window in the door she could see the doctor’s bent head over an open book.
‘Please sit down,’ he said when they went in, indicating the hard, uncomfortable-looking chairs by his desk.
Birdie was surprised that he seemed to be in no rush as he closed the book and frowned. ‘I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to tell you much before. I can quite understand how worrying it must be for you, knowing your father has been transferred to a specialist hospital. But you see, the seizures have complicated the picture somewhat and we have to be absolutely certain before we begin treatment. However, my suspicions were confirmed when, last Sunday, as you saw, your father began to be very ill.’