by Carol Rivers
‘How sick is he?’ Birdie asked, trying to prepare herself for the worst.
‘I’m sorry to say that he has tuberculosis,’ Dr Shaw said softly.
‘Dad’s got TB?’ Pat burst out, and Birdie gasped.
‘But how? Why? I mean, I make sure he eats well, that he don’t get cold, that he’s kept clean and—’
‘The blame is not on you, Miss Connor,’ the doctor answered carefully. ‘I’m sure you’ve done your very best.’
‘But TB is because people don’t keep clean, ain’t it? Or haven’t enough to eat,’ Pat asked, his voice shaky.
‘Not necessarily,’ said the doctor.
‘I thought it was just his bad cough making him so poorly. From the chemicals in the factory.’
‘In part that’s true,’ agreed Dr Shaw. ‘My own feeling is, your father has been vulnerable since his health was affected earlier in his life by the fumes at the chemical factory. The environment would have had a detrimental effect on his lungs, weakening them and making them susceptible to tuberculosis.’
Birdie sat there, thinking how Wilfred had worked so hard, had always made certain his family were fed and clothed. Did he know the work was harming him yet still continued because he had to? As a child she remembered him hitting his chest with his fist, then lighting a roll-up. It was a natural thing to do and no one had taken any notice, not until this year when the turns had begun.
‘Will he get well again?’ Pat asked.
‘A difficult question,’ the doctor sighed, leaning back and folding his fingers together. ‘If his treatment here is successful, he may go to convalesce in another hospital. We have to be most vigilant before releasing our patients. Now, there is something I must ask you.’
Birdie sat quietly, though inside she felt like it was all a dream and couldn’t be happening. The doctor’s gentle voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Is there anyone else in the family with symptoms such as a cough, or fever, or lack of appetite or general malaise?’
‘No,’ Birdie said immediately. ‘Only Dad’s been ill. Pat and me are all right.’
‘No children to consider?’
‘Only my friend Flo’s kids.’
‘Do they come to the house often?’
‘No, not much. But I see them at Mass on Sundays.’
‘I see. Well, for just a few weeks I would suggest it was prudent not to see them whilst you are visiting your father. I must advise you, as I advise every family that has a member with a confirmed diagnosis, that tuberculosis is very infectious.’
‘Does that mean any of us might have it?’
‘No, not necessarily, but I would ask each member of the family to consult the doctor if any of these symptoms occur. By what you have told me, I am certain you are very clean in the house. But nevertheless, everywhere should be washed down with disinfectant. Dispose of any suspect garments and bedding, especially those belonging to your father. Wash your hands frequently and ask everyone else to do the same.’
‘Can we see him today?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s for the good of your father.’
‘When, then?’
‘Come at the end of next week.’
Birdie tried to take in all he had told her. How had Wilfred’s cough turned into this terrible disease? As had happened to the victims of the flu epidemic, the TB had crept up on Wilfred and no one had guessed it, not even Dr Tapper. As the doctor seemed to have no more to say, they stood up.
‘Thank you,’ Birdie said.
‘I’m sorry the news isn’t better. But as I said, we shall do everything possible to restore your father to good health.’
Outside the hospital, Birdie pulled Pat against her. Very soon he let his grief out. Gently she stroked his hair. He was just a little boy to her, a mischievous imp who had never known a real mother. But she’d loved him like a mother would and for a few brief moments he let her comfort him.
As they walked to the bus stop they were silent. Pat seemed in a world of his own. The streets and houses, the horses, carts and trams, were familiar, but the world didn’t seem the same after the news of the tuberculosis.
Birdie looked out for Harry that evening, but as time went on, she decided he was with his girl. On Monday she washed down the walls and surfaces with naptha disinfectant, just as she had done in the flu outbreak. She put Wilfred’s things into a bag to dispose of, amongst them the things the hospital had returned to her. Clothes and bedding were hard to come by and it seemed such a waste. Even more so, the bedcover she had made. But the doctor had been very insistent and finally it went, along with the others.
‘How is your father?’ Harry asked when he came in that night for supper.
‘He’s got TB,’ Pat blurted out in a choked voice as he slumped down at the table.
Harry sat down with a groan. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He has to be kept away from germs,’ Birdie said as she joined them. ‘Dr Shaw told me to wash everything in disinfectant and throw away his old clothes because TB is infectious. I told him we were a clean house but he thinks Dad might have got it from the fumes from the factory that made his lungs weak.’
Pat blinked, his brown eyes still full of shock, like hers had been, when the doctor had broken the news. ‘People die of TB, don’t they? It’s like the flu.’
‘Yes, but they get better too,’ said Harry encouragingly.
‘The doctor was very kind,’ Birdie added. ‘Meanwhile we have to take care of ourselves. If any of us feels poorly or gets a cough, we must go to see Dr Tapper.’
‘He’s no use!’ Pat burst out suddenly, pushing away his plate. ‘He didn’t do nothing for Dad.’
‘Your father has been ailing for a long while,’ said Harry reasonably. ‘And the hospital will know what to do.’
Pat sniffed and Birdie’s heart went out to him. He looked so unhappy.
They ate their meal without much talk. When they had finished it was Harry who spoke first. ‘This is not the best time to say what I have to say. With the worry of your father, it’s the last thing you’ll be wanting to know. But the revolutionists in Russia who tried to kill Lenin, the Bolshevik leader, have failed. So the Whites are in crisis, begging the Allies to help them against the Red Army.’
‘What does that mean?’ Pat asked, suddenly alert.
‘To drive home their point, the anti-Bolshevik underground movement here will try anything to damage Lenin’s credibility, cause our government to poke their noses in where it’s not wanted.’
‘You mean Inga and her gang will do something now?’ Birdie asked in a whisper. ‘Something that affects Frank?’
Harry nodded. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity for them to use any device to blacken the Bolsheviks’ reputation. I went to Shadwell early this morning and had a good look round. I’ve got a plan in me head now. The lads will help.’
‘Your lads?’ Birdie frowned.
Harry gave a casual shrug. ‘The men who work for me. Tomorrow night, I’m intending to find Frank, and this time I will succeed.’
‘What about me?’ Pat asked, jumping up. ‘You can’t leave me out!’
‘Sit down, lad,’ Harry said quietly and glanced at Birdie. ‘Your sister needs you after what happened at the hospital.’
‘But I can’t do anything for me dad,’ Pat cried in distress. ‘At least if I was with you, I’d feel I was helping. Frank is my brother and I know if I was to try again, I could find the way.’
Birdie caught hold of Pat’s arm. ‘Sit down, Pat. Let’s talk this over.’
But he pulled away. ‘You won’t let me go. You’ll say it’s too dangerous.’
‘Yes,’ Birdie nodded, ‘that’s what I’ll say, but let’s hear Harry out and after he’s spoken, I’ll give me verdict.’
Pat sat down reluctantly.
‘Tell us, Harry, what you plan,’ Birdie said quietly.
‘I’ve had a look at our map again. Then I took Ned and Lofty, my pals, to one side and told
them I had a friend in trouble, an innocent friend accused wrongly of a crime and was hiding out with some unsavoury types. Now these two pals have known what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the law for no good reason before I took them on to work for me. They fought for King and country but got a raw deal of it when injuries prevented them from fighting. I put it to them I was after rescuing this certain friend and it might be dangerous work. But even before I’d finished my story, they were with me, raring to go.’
‘They must think the world of you, Harry.’
‘I do of them. They’re good blokes, but they’ve suffered trouble, like many a soul after the conflict.’
‘But I know the way, at least, I think I do!’ exclaimed Pat. ‘You might be all night going round in circles. You’d stand a better chance with me.’
Harry looked at Birdie and she saw the unspoken truth in his eyes. What else could she do, but accept that this plan would fare much better with Pat? For a moment she felt tears close. She had been separated from Wilfred, and now Pat was to be put in danger. What was she to do? But the answer was clear, more clear than it had ever been, for this was their last chance of finding Frank, in the hope that he was still alive.
Chapter 36
It was a dull Tuesday morning and Birdie’s thoughts were on what was to come that evening as she walked home from her trip to the market. Still wondering if she had been right to agree that Pat was to go with Harry, her attention was taken by Ma Jenkins, who, together with Vi and Annie Carter, stood gossiping in March Street. Ma Jenkins’ large body was lost in the folds of a baggy winter’s coat and her head was hidden under a misshapen hat.
‘I’ve got a complaint to make,’ she shouted boldly as Birdie passed, bolstered by the company of her two friends. ‘There’s a stink coming from your place, enough to make the eyes water. What’s going on?’
‘What stink?’ Birdie grasped her basket tightly.
‘You know very well.’
‘What’s wrong with disinfectant?’ Birdie replied, shrugging. ‘It’s clean and wholesome.’
‘Not in barge-loads, it ain’t!’ Ma Jenkins exclaimed angrily. ‘The wind blows it over to me and all the ’ouses up the road. It can’t be just the roaches, it’s got to be something more. And I ain’t seen your old man recently. What’s up with him? He never missed a day trotting up the pub to meet his cronies.’
Birdie went scarlet. She was angry that Ma Jenkins should speak of her father in such a way, but if she admitted the TB, it would soon be all over the neighbourhood. Everyone would think they lived in squalor and disease. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she answered shortly. ‘As for the smell, I’ve had no other complaints.’
‘That’s because everyone’s too scared to say. Frightened they’ll get a punch in the eye.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.’
‘I mean that fancy man of yours,’ Ma Jenkins retorted. ‘Him going about threatening decent folk and spreading gossip about me and Charl— I mean, Mr Makepiece. We’re just friends, there’s no hanky-panky going on, like some I could mention.’ She heaved in a quick breath. ‘And another thing, that ’orse of his does its business right outside me front door. A pile of it there was, high as the bleedin’ Alps.’
‘Harry never stops the cart in March Street,’ Birdie protested. ‘He always leaves Albert in the back lane.’
‘Harry, is it now?’ Ma Jenkins sneered. ‘What happened to the other poor sod? The one what had his shop burned down. Give him the elbow, did you, after that?’
Birdie had just said she’d never hit anyone, but she’d never felt more like hitting someone than now. ‘Come here and say that again,’ she called, taking a threatening step forward.
Ma Jenkins and her two friends jumped backwards. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t lower meself,’ shouted the spiteful woman as they sheltered in their doorways. ‘Everyone knows you’ve got somethin’ rotten in your place. And whatever it is, I don’t want to catch it. And believe me, nobody else in March Street does, either.’
The coven retreated and the two front doors slammed one after the other.
Birdie was quivering with anger. But was it true? Had the wind really blown the naptha into their houses? She felt the eyes and ears of March Street were looking at her as she opened her front door, but not even any of the Kirby kids or the Popeldos family were to be seen.
After she had let herself in, she thought about the accusations Ma Jenkins had made. Was it what everyone else thought too? It would shock the neighbourhood to discover there was TB in the street, yet another black mark against the Connors.
Later that day, when Harry came home from work, Birdie saw him stop Albert in the back lane. Two men jumped down from the back of the cart. One was a tall, well-built young man, the other was smaller and older with short-cropped hair.
‘This is Ned, my foreman,’ Harry said when they walked into the kitchen. ‘And this is Lofty.’
The young man grinned down from his height, taller even than Harry. ‘Nice to meet yer, missus.’
Ned held out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from the gov, Miss Connor.’
Birdie blushed as she shook his hand.
‘Ned and Lofty are on overtime tonight,’ Harry said simply.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ned, with a smile, ‘we’ll do our best for the gaffer here.’
‘Would it be all right if we went in the parlour?’ Harry asked.
‘Course.’ Birdie showed them through. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
She put on the kettle and listened to the low hum of voices. It had been strange to hear Harry called ‘Gov’ and ‘gaffer’. It was clear the men liked and respected him. But had Harry told them the truth? That tonight they would be risking their safety for a man who was a convict and on the run from prison?
When Pat came in he couldn’t wait to join them. Birdie busied herself making mugs of tea and slicing bread, covering the thick wedges with spoonfuls of dripping. If there was one thing she knew for sure about men, it was that they worked better on a full stomach.
At first, Harry thought he had struck lucky with the weather. The night was clear and bright, with not a hint of river mist. He drove the cart with Pat sitting up beside him, their heavy coat collars and caps pulled to their ears. Both Ned and Lofty had taken their places in the cart amongst the tools of their trade. The lead piping that Harry had taken before was belted tightly at his waist. After what had happened with Erik that day, he always kept it close. He felt that he had taken all the precautions possible to guard their safety. But if he could have changed anything about tonight it would have been to have kept Pat, who was unarmed, out of this. But it was only with his help that they had a chance of success.
Albert drew them steadily through the evening traffic, both four-legged and engine propelled, and the cold breeze marked the March evening with winter’s chill. Harry took a right turn towards Stepney Green, recalling their last trip here and the luck they had had in finding the cellar. Would Lady Luck be with them again tonight? he wondered anxiously.
At the Green, he turned the cart and pulled Albert up. ‘So, Pat, this is it,’ he told the boy, their breath curling up wildly in the damp air. ‘It’s up to you now, lad.’
‘I’ll do it this time,’ Pat answered, his eager eyes bright under the rim of his cap. ‘I’m going to shut my eyes tight.’
Harry grinned, calling over his shoulder to his passengers, who returned his enquiry with a thumbs up.
At the Commercial Road, Harry waited for Pat’s direction.
‘Left, Harry, past the Roxy.’
Harry shook the reins above Albert’s strong neck and they joined the main thrust of traffic.
‘Can you see old Tickle Mary?’ asked Pat worriedly.
‘No, son, not yet.’
‘He was here, I swear it.’
A little further along and to Harry’s relief, a colourful figure dressed in gaudy rags, held out a battered top hat to the
passers-by. ‘Spot on, lad,’ Harry commended. ‘He’s still bellowing out of tune and getting paid for it too.’
‘I knew it!’ cried Pat, opening his eyes as they passed.
‘Now where?’ Harry asked, his heart beginning to thump rapidly. It was from this point on that they must rely entirely on Pat’s memory.
‘It was a minute or two till we swung right to the river.’
Harry urged the horse into the traffic once more until Pat, with his eyes still closed, shouted, ‘Here, Harry. Turn now.’
Harry followed Pat’s directions, but only to find that what he had feared most had come to pass: a thick yellow mist began to curl down the roofs and into the gutters.
‘Look out for the shop,’ Pat warned, unaware of the worsening conditions. ‘It’s close. I can smell the baccy the lascars use.’
Harry strained his eyes ahead and saw a glow. ‘You’ve got it, Pat,’ Harry acknowledged. ‘But a fog’s coming down. I can’t see clearly.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I know where I am now. Take Albert southwards until I say.’
Harry clucked his tongue sharply to persuade the horse on. They had now left the highway behind and entered Wapping Lane. This was the turf of watermen and sailors, scurrying like ants under the cranes and derricks, with only the light of a tavern to warn of the dangers of the creeping black waters.
A wind picked up from the river and blew salt on Harry’s lips. He licked them nervously, recognizing the stench of mud and fish that travelled on the air from the ancient drains. He would not like to do business here, not at all. The underground sewers had existed for centuries without maintenance, and the mean streets were hardly any safer; life was cheap here, disease brought in from all corners of the world.
But it was not any of this that concerned him tonight. It was finding Frank and facing those who had imprisoned him. And though the lead warmed his waist, he sincerely hoped that broad-shouldered Lofty and muscle-bound Ned were as proficient at wielding a spade as a weapon as they were at burrowing underground.
‘Why have we stopped?’ asked Pat.
‘We must put on our Tilleys,’ Harry told him, shouting to Ned and Lofty to light and hang the lanterns from the big iron cart-hooks.