by Carol Rivers
Frank lifted his hand to the piece of old sheet that Birdie had put round the wound near his eye. ‘The bangs I’ve had on me head have done me brains in. And I didn’t have many to start with.’
‘You didn’t . . . didn’t kill anyone while you were away, did you?’ Birdie felt compelled to ask.
Once more, Frank tried to smile. ‘Course not.’ His head sank back on the pillow. ‘Where’s Dad? He won’t want me ’ere.’
Everyone was silent and Birdie looked at Harry.
‘We’ll talk more in the morning,’ Harry assured him, patting his arm. ‘Try to rest now.’
Frank closed his eyes and fell asleep.
‘Leave him to kip,’ Harry whispered, drawing Birdie out of the room.
When they were in the kitchen, she looked gratefully at Ned and Lofty.
‘You saved our Frank tonight.’
‘It was nothin’, missus,’ said Lofty, with a grin. ‘All in a day’s work.’
‘Made a change from diggin’ ’oles,’ Ned told her cheerfully.
‘Frank’s very lucky.’
‘Don’t think he will be so trustin’ of a female again.’ Ned put his hand on Pat’s shoulder. ‘Those Ruskies soon buggered off when they saw what young Pat done.’
Birdie turned to stare at her brother. ‘What did you do?’
‘He saved my bacon, that’s what,’ said Harry with a grin, before Pat could answer. ‘I was about to get hammered when Pat chucked the Tilley at one of them and gave Ned and Lofty time to arrive.’
‘I never meant to hurt him,’ said Pat miserably. ‘I didn’t think his jacket would catch fire like it did. It was awful, Birdie.’
‘You did what was right,’ Harry said, his face serious now. ‘And seeing as we couldn’t find him after, I’d say he got put out in time by his mates.’
Ned nodded firmly. ‘You should have heard the ruckus they made dousing the fire. We was ready for a real ding-dong, but they was worried about their mate setting light to the wagon so they chucked water over him and there he was, still screaming like a banshee. Then they buggered off in all directions.’
‘What happened to Inga?’ Birdie asked.
‘She jumped on the wagon and disappeared,’ Harry said bitterly.
‘But where would she go?’
Harry shrugged. ‘God only knows.’
Ned took his cap from his pocket and pulled it over his head. ‘We’d better be off now. Good luck, missus.’
Birdie smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Keep yer eye on Sleeping Beauty,’ said Lofty with a wink.
Harry followed them to the door. ‘I’ll be back in the airey after I’ve stabled Albert.’ He looked at Pat. ‘You’re in charge now, son. Make sure you draw the bolts tonight. And I’ll be up to see you at first light.’
When they had gone, Pat drew the bolts on the door.
Birdie pulled him gently against her. ‘Pat, I’m proud of you, love.’
‘I was scared. I wanted to run away.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I never meant to harm anyone. I only had the Tilley, so I chucked it.’
‘I would have done the same thing.’
Pat looked at the door. ‘What if the coppers come knocking?’
‘Why should they? They know Frank’s not here.’
‘But he is now.’
She knew he was frightened and very upset about burning the man. ‘Come along, stop fretting now. A good night’s sleep and you’ll be right as rain in the morning. We have our brother home again, and that’s what matters.’
‘I’ll say good night to Frank.’
‘Leave those filthy clothes on the landing and I’ll give them a good wash tomorrow.’
He managed a smile as he left the kitchen and Birdie sat down at the kitchen table with a deep sigh. She drew her hands over her face tiredly. It was hard to believe that Frank was home again. What would he say when she told him their father was very ill? And was Pat right – would the police try calling again?
In the middle of the night, Birdie heard shouting. She rushed downstairs and into the parlour. Frank was sitting up, staring into the embers of the fire.
‘Frank?’ She pulled her dressing gown round her and sat beside him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s the nightmares. They never stop.’
‘Nightmares of Inga?’
‘No, the trenches.’
‘The war is over now. You’re home with your family.’
He looked around, his eyes vague. ‘Am I?’
‘This is March Street.’
‘I can’t stay here. They’re looking for me. I’ll put her in danger.’
‘Who?’ Birdie held his hot hand. ‘Frank, the war has ended,’ she told him again.
‘Has it?’ He looked at the door. ‘But they might hurt her and she was only trying to help me.’
‘Frank, you’ve got to stop thinking about Inga. Have you forgotten what she wanted you to do? Now lay back, you’ve got a fever.’ She pushed him gently against the pillow and drew the blankets over him. She was frightened. He was becoming delirious and must have forgotten just what Inga was capable of.
She stared at his slight form, curled up under the blanket, and was overwhelmed with tenderness. He had suffered so much, yet was a good person at heart. If only they could prove his innocence, but it was months since the armistice had been called. If he ever did get to France, what hope had he of finding the people who could help him after all this time?
The thin morning light streamed through the parted curtains by the time Frank woke again.
‘I need the lav, gel.’ He tried to stand up but fell back again. Sweat was pouring from his face.
‘Wait, I can’t help you on me own. I’ll get Pat and Harry.’ She called out for Pat at the bottom of the stairs, then ran out of the front door to the airey. Harry answered her knock immediately. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday and his chin was covered in dark stubble.
‘Are you going to work?’ she asked hurriedly.
‘Not yet. I was coming up to see Frank first.’
‘He got a fever and needs the lav.’
Harry snatched his coat and followed her up to the house. Pat came running down the stairs, dragging on his trousers.
‘What’s up? Is it Frank?’
‘Give me a hand, lad, will you?’ said Harry, and they all returned to find Frank on the floor.
‘Oh, Frank, I told you to wait,’ wailed Birdie as Harry turned her brother gently over and slid his arm under his back. Birdie watched anxiously as Harry and Pat heaved Frank outside, his feet dragging on the floor as they half carried him along.
After ten minutes he was back on the couch and Birdie covered him with the blankets. ‘Pat, you’d better be off to work.’
‘I want to stay home with Frank.’
Birdie knew better than to argue this time. ‘All right, just this once. But make yourself useful and light the fire. I’ll make the porridge.’
But as much as she tried to make Frank eat, he wouldn’t. He lay, exhausted after his efforts, the sweat pouring down his face under the bandage.
‘Should I run for the doctor?’ Pat asked.
‘It’s too dangerous to involve him,’ Harry warned as he wiped Frank’s cold, clammy skin with a cloth. ‘Even Dr Tapper.’
‘Then what do we do?’
Harry ran his fingers through his long, dark hair and frowned. ‘We saw a lot of fever in the army brought on by infection. Mostly, it had to run its course until it left the poor blighter’s body.’
‘I hate her,’ said Pat bitterly. ‘I hope Inga blows herself up.’
‘Come on now, Pat, love, that kind of talk won’t do any good.’ Birdie was glad he hadn’t heard what Frank had said about Inga. Even though she had done such bad things to him, was he still under her spell?
They tried to clean each cut, but Birdie knew that dirt must have got in them in that dreadful slum. Left untreated, they had b
ecome open sores. Frank’s bones stuck out everywhere. It was obvious they had starved and beaten him.
By the end of the morning, Harry was still at home. ‘You’d better go,’ she told him but he just smiled.
‘Ned will look after things.’
All day they waited for an improvement but it never came. That night Harry took turns with Birdie to sit with Frank. In the early hours of Thursday morning, Birdie woke up in the chair, a blanket over her.
‘Harry, you should have woken me.’ She threw off the blanket and hurried over. ‘Has the fever broken?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Harry, I know Frank is ill, but what am I to do about Dad? I told the doctor I’d see him today.’
Harry looked tired and had grown a dark beard. He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘You go. I’ll stay with Frank until you get back. And don’t worry about Pat, I’ll make certain he goes off to work today.’
Birdie wished she didn’t have to ask this favour. But she had no choice. Frank moaned in his sleep and she felt very low. Why did all this have to happen when Wilfred was so ill?
Whilst on the bus Birdie thought about Harry’s kindness. What would she have done without his help? If it wasn’t for him, Frank may well be dead by now. She shuddered at the thought. Those violent people had hurt him and had never intended to help him. They had picked him out as vulnerable, a dispensable victim, and used him.
When the bus arrived at New Cross, Birdie hurried towards the daunting spectacle of the hospital’s tall redbrick walls, her head down against the stiff March wind. Even from here she could smell the disinfectant on the breeze.
Once inside she waited in a very long queue at the desk. When at last she faced the secretary, she recognized her as the older woman whom she’d first spoken to. ‘I’ve come to see Dr Shaw.’
‘He’s very busy.’ As before, her tone was abrupt.
‘If you remember, my father is Wilfred Connor and he has TB. Dr Shaw told me to come back today to see how he is.’
Showing no sign of recognition, the woman bustled down the long corridor towards the doctor’s office. Did that mean she knew something about Wilfred? Was it more bad news?
But to Birdie’s relief she soon came back with Dr Shaw at her side. His white coat flapped open as he took long strides and he looked very grave. She knew instantly something was wrong.
‘Miss Connor, it’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’
This time he didn’t ask her into his office but drew her aside to the room that she had once been told she could wait in.
It was very cold in the sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged room, but the doctor sat beside her on one of the many chairs.
‘He has suffered a stroke, an unfortunate setback, I’m afraid.’
Birdie felt sick. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Just as with the seizures, the stroke may be a result of the combined stress on his system and, due to his vulnerability, he isn’t fighting the infection as we hoped he might.’
‘Can I see him?’
The doctor sighed and nodded.
Birdie didn’t argue and followed him to the room where she was asked to wash her hands in the strong disinfectant and was then given a cape and mask. When alone, she stood gazing down at the ghostly garb. She hated these clothes now. Would she even be able to get close to her father?
Chapter 39
Birdie walked into the small ward, each bed with curtains drawn around it. The nurse, also in a white gown and mask, beckoned her to follow. Birdie’s heart pounded as the nurse drew back the curtains and gestured her in.
Under her mask, Birdie took a sharp breath, Her head spun. Wilfred was lying on the bed, a mask over his face, and another nurse stood over him, removing it slowly.
‘Dad, can you hear me?’ Birdie asked in a muffled voice.
He made a strange sound and Birdie reached out for his hand but the nurse shook her head.
‘I’m sorry I have to wear this,’ she whispered and pointed to her mask. ‘They make you wear them . . . otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to see you.’
There was a very tiny movement of his head and she smiled. ‘Pat’s at work today but he’ll be with me next time. Please try to get better, won’t you?’
She saw a small twitch on his lopsided mouth. Was it a smile?
‘Dad, we miss you. Hurry up and come home again.’
He tried to say something but began to cough. Birdie jumped in panic. The nurse took her arm and gently guided her out as she listened to the awful sound of her father’s coughing behind the now closed curtains.
‘I’m very sorry you had to see him like that,’ said the nurse as they stood in the small washroom and pulled off their masks. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
‘Dr Shaw said I could come in for a few minutes. But I . . .’ Birdie turned away. There was a big lump in her throat and her lips were quivering. When she had seen a little trickle run from the side of her father’s mouth and the nurse quickly wipe it away, she felt very sad. Wilfred was such an independent man and hated fuss. But ever since he’d been in hospital he had no control over his body and now was completely dependent on the nurses.
‘You mustn’t be discouraged,’ said the nurse kindly. ‘Many stroke patients recover and get back to normal in time.’
‘Yes, but do many stroke patients who have TB get better?’ she asked, and saw the nurse hesitate, her eyes flicking down.
‘There is always hope,’ said the nurse.
But Birdie wasn’t listening. She was still remembering Wilfred’s thin, pale face and the distressing sound of that terrible cough.
When Birdie got home, she hurried along to the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologized to Harry who stood by the sink.
‘How is your dad?’ Harry asked as he put down the dish he was drying.
‘He’s had a stroke.’
Harry went to her, reaching out to catch her arm. ‘Sit down. Here . . .’ he gently lowered her to the chair, ‘tell me what happened.’
She sniffed and took out her handkerchief. ‘Dr Shaw said it was because of the combined stress, of the TB and the seizures . . . His body had a setback.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes, but he looked awful and had a mask on and then he started to cough and . . .’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Harry, it was awful.’
He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘He’s a fighter. He’ll pull through.’
‘Do you think so?’ She sighed and then felt his warm fingers around hers. She asked quickly, ‘How’s Frank?’
‘He’s been asking for you.’
‘Me? But he didn’t seem to know me this morning.’
‘He kept saying, “Where is she?” And unless he meant Inga, it must be you.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Once or twice when he opened his eyes I said who I was. Told him about Shadwell and what happened again, as he don’t seem to remember.’
‘Harry, I’m worried,’ she admitted, as she reluctantly drew her fingers away and stood up. ‘Just before the fever took hold, he told me he had these nightmares. I asked him if they were about Inga and he said they were about the trenches. I told him the war was over and he was home safe, but all he said was he couldn’t stay as they were looking for him. That he’d put her in danger and they’d hurt her. Kept on about how she’d just been trying to help him.’
‘Reckon Inga got under his skin, meself.’ He gave a thoughtful shake of his head. ‘It’s hard to believe, ain’t it? Seeing as how she’s a heartless bitch and a cold, calculating murderess.’ Harry frowned. ‘Are you going to tell him about your dad?’
‘Not till he’s better. But he’ll have to know eventually.’
Birdie went into the parlour and sat beside her brother. How could Frank have been so beguiled that even in his fever he seemed to be obsessed with Inga? She reached out to clasp his hand. ‘Frank, it’s me,
Birdie.’
‘Be careful, they’ll kill you if they find me,’ he rambled, raising his head from the damp pillow. His eyes were haunted as he looked around, trying to see something that Birdie couldn’t. His hand felt the same as her father’s – long bones covered by fragile, stretched skin – only Frank was squeezing hers with great strength.
‘Frank, please look at me. I’m not Inga, I’m your sister, Birdie. Inga hurt you, don’t you remember?’
‘She only tried to hide me.’
‘You’ve got it all muddled. She did these terrible things to your poor body. You can’t have forgotten that.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll never forget her, no.’
Birdie felt very angry. This treacherous woman still held his mind captive. There was nothing she could do to help him.
‘I can’t make him see that she-devil for what she is,’ Birdie whispered to Harry when he walked in.
‘It’s the fever talking. He don’t mean what he says.’
‘But what will happen when he recovers – if he does? Will he still be under her spell?’ Birdie fretted, but her anger melted away as she looked into Harry’s dark eyes. What would she have done without her good friend to turn to? Even when things were at their worst, he found something to make her smile.
It was the next day, Friday, when at last, Frank’s fever broke.
‘Hello, gel,’ he croaked, blinking his eyes as Birdie was bathing his wounds.
‘Frank, do you recognize me?’
‘Course I do.’
‘Who am I?’
‘You’re me little skin and blister.’ He gazed round the room. ‘Blimey, what am I doing here?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
He frowned, trying to sit up, but he was too weak. ‘I dunno. What are these?’ He looked down at the sore, red cuts on his forearms.
‘A woman called Inga did this to you. You’ve got them all over. She kept you a prisoner in Shadwell, until Pat and Harry, our lodger, and some of his friends came to free you.’
Frank sank back with a groan and nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s all coming back now.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Birdie rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and did up the buttons. ‘You’ve had a fever and I was beginning to think you’d never come out of it.’