In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

  ‘So you deny any knowledge of Francis Connor, or his whereabouts?’ persisted the copper aggressively.

  Harry shrugged. ‘You’ve got me name, rank and serial number. What more do you want?’

  ‘So,’ sneered the copper, thrusting back his lank, greasy hair and lighting a cigarette, ‘we’ve got a smart arse here, have we?’ He blew the smoke across the table into Harry’s face. ‘Do you know you could go down for this?’

  ‘For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  The Inspector leaned an elbow on the dirty table. ‘Connor was seen at your place. We’ve got an eye witness.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘Then why not co-operate, chum? You don’t want any part of this, not really. You tell us you’re just the lodger – nothing to do with the Connors – so what do you owe them, other than the rent?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Harry nodded casually. ‘I pay my dues and keep to meself. That’s how I like it.’

  ‘Not according to some,’ smirked the policeman. ‘You put yourself about a bit with the woman of the house.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Harry, nodding slowly. ‘You’ve been rabbiting to the old gasbag across the road.’

  ‘She knows the Connors well, so I’m informed.’

  Harry laughed. ‘And that’s why you’re up the Amazon without a paddle, mate, listening to the likes of her.’

  The detective made a sucking noise and spat tobacco from the side of his mouth. ‘Oh, so it’s going to be like that is it?’ he grimaced spitefully. ‘Well, by the time you face the old beak, sonny boy, that smile will have left your face.’

  Harry knew he was being threatened, but the one thing in his favour was that he truly didn’t know where Frank was. He hadn’t seen him leave and as far as he knew, no one had spotted Frank move down to the airey, or the police would have nicked him sooner. There was no evidence in the airey to connect him to Frank, just a comb and packet of Woodbines and a cutthroat, and they could be any bloke’s. The coppers were up a blind alley.

  ‘He’s been with you, ain’t he?’ the detective probed again.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know bloody well who. That old girl described him down to a T, red hair and all.’

  ‘So what does that prove?’

  ‘That he was there in your gaff, you cocky devil.’

  ‘He could’ve been sitting on me steps.’ Harry smirked. ‘In fact, I’d say that is the long and short of it. He come calling, found no one above and parked himself for a breather, hoping to escape the long arm of the law. Course, he didn’t reckon on old eagle-eyes across the road.’

  The policeman pushed his cigarette butt into an already over-flowing brown-stained ashtray. ‘You’re not helping yourself by being smart.’

  ‘Didn’t know I was. Never had any brains, me.’ Harry disliked intensely this arrogant, ferret-faced charmer and was certain that the detective couldn’t pin anything on him, not unless Frank spilled the beans when and if they caught him. And under normal circumstances, however, Harry was certain that Frank was no snitch. But these were not normal times for Frank, and there was something amiss with him running off like he had.

  ‘Sad case, ain’t you?’ muttered the policeman, standing up and prodding Harry hard in the shoulder. ‘We shall see what a bit of solitary does for them missing brains of yours. We’ll find that shit-scared deserter, you know. It’s on the cards. He’s making mistakes, and when he makes the next one, we’ll grab him and he’s gonna sing like the proverbial canary, taking you down with him as he goes.’

  Harry felt another prod and another, and knew it would go on like this, as he gritted his teeth and prepared for a long night ahead of him. Or, if the copper had his way, a lot longer.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Miss Connor has never spoken about another member of the family.’ The nurse stared up at Frank, her slim eyebrows knitted together.

  ‘I’ve been at sea. I ain’t seen me dad for ages.’

  ‘Your sister isn’t visiting with you?’

  ‘No. Come on me own today. I just got a few things to say to me dad, private, like, before I go back to me ship.’

  The nurse looked unimpressed. ‘You may not be acquainted with our rules. They are very strict and we only allow close family to visit our sickest patients. Even then, there is procedure to be followed.’

  ‘If you say so, missus.’

  She looked him up and down and he wished he’d shaved that morning. But the urge to see his father had overwhelmed him so suddenly that he’d just thrown on his coat and cap and walked up the airey steps, as though he did it every day of the week. Perhaps it had been a bit of a mistake after all the trouble everyone had taken, but he’d managed the walk to New Cross without being spotted. No copper had stopped him and he’d seen a few. But he’d just walked on; he was going to see Dad and it was as though everything else, like getting to France and proving his innocence, suddenly seemed far away. All his concerns were lost in the burning desire he’d had to see Wilfred. And now he was here and it would only be a minute before he saw the old man again.

  ‘I’ll just report to Sister. I will need her permission.’

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he replied uneasily. ‘It’s that boat, see? I gotta catch it soon.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ the nurse replied, giving him a long frown as she departed.

  Frank stood alone in the corridor, intensely aware of the urgency inside him. It was a sort of pull, low down in his gut, like an invisible cord that ran between him and his father. It felt like it had wound out to its fullest extent ever since France, and now there was only one way to go, and that was to reel himself back in, holding tight until he looked Dad square in the face.

  Frank blinked his eyes to clear them. Peace floated around him like a milky sea. He hadn’t felt like this in a long while, not since he was a kid and there was only him and Birdie, and the smell of the docks all around them as they roamed on the foreshore by the barges.

  ‘Mum, if you’re listening, it’s your boy, Frank here,’ he said out loud, smiling into the distance. ‘I reckon me and Dad have got a lot of catching up to do. I only hope he believes what I’ve got to say. But I’d regard it as a favour if you’d give me the right words to say, put ’em in me head like, so our dad and me can make up and we can be the family that we were once, when you was here.’ Frank braced his shoulders and cleared his throat roughly.

  The room had a wicker chair in it that looked like a bed, positioned by a tall window that overlooked a garden. Under his mask Frank took a deep breath at the sight of the frail figure half lying, half sitting there. He walked slowly forward, not expecting the sharp jab of emotion that deepened into an intense pain in his ribs as he sat down on the wooden bench provided. Everything in the room was a dull white. The walls, the doors, the cape he had on, and the old man’s face. It wasn’t like a real face, it was like marble, sculptured and smooth, and the two eyes in it were like marbles, dark and brown and staring at him. Right at him. Beneath, a lop-sided mouth was wet with spittle. Frank swallowed hard.

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Frank.’

  There was no reply, well, not much anyway. A croak perhaps. But Frank knew that his father was listening. He didn’t know how, but he knew it.

  ‘I suppose it’s me that’s gotta talk and it’s about time I did, ain’t it?’ He laughed unnaturally, the echo going round the room. The nurse had gone out, leaving them alone briefly and Frank pulled the bench closer. ‘Can’t make meself understood in this.’ He tore the mask away. ‘That’s better.’

  Wilfred moved fractionally, though Frank couldn’t see quite how as he was wrapped round in hospital blankets. ‘Dad, we ain’t got much time, so I’ll spit it all out best I can. They never give me chance to tell you, see? But I bloody didn’t desert, I swear I didn’t, and that’s what I’ve come to tell you.’

  Frank saw the movement in
his father’s fingers and before he could stop himself, though he’d been warned not to go near, he was at his father’s side. Leaning over him he whispered, ‘I’m sorry I mucked everything up. I never meant to. I never ran away. I did something else I wasn’t proud of, see? I killed someone, a Hun, just a kid really, like so many of them and our lot, were. I’d killed before, must’ve done, but I never done it in no one’s back and this kid, not much older than our Pat, was the one that played on my mind.’

  Wilfred exerted a little pressure on his fingers and for one exultant moment, Frank thought he saw the tilt of a smile. It was all wobbly and wet, but it was the light in the eyes that meant the most, the light that meant his dad was pulling on that cord too and they were almost joined again. ‘I never deserted, Dad. I was wounded and that’s what kept me from joining me company. I wouldn’t disgrace you. I love you, Dad.’

  Frank slid his arms gently round the frail body. He knew that when he was old, he, too, would look like this. He felt the separation between them but also the closeness; he knew then what life was about, and death too. And everything in between, that seemed to have no meaning, but was in fact, the very knuckle of existence. Like love and forgiveness and hope. He bent down and put his lips to his father’s cheek.

  The next moment he looked into Wilfred’s eyes and heard a cough catch in his throat. He watched helplessly as the old man’s chest swelled upward in a choked gasp. Frank was about to shout for the nurse, but Wilfred’s fingers tightened around his and stayed so tight that Frank knew this moment was just for them. It was a moment he’d waited for, for so long and he was hardly able to believe it had finally come.

  By the time Birdie and Pat had changed buses and arrived at New Cross, it was the middle of the afternoon.

  ‘How is our dad?’ Birdie asked hopefully as she found a nurse she recognized coming out of the ward. ‘Is he any better?’

  ‘Have you seen Sister?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I think you had better speak to her.’

  ‘Perhaps Dad is better now,’ said Pat when they were left alone in the long corridor.

  ‘Yes,’ Birdie nodded. ‘Oh, Pat, I do hope this is good news.’

  But when the sister walked towards them, Birdie felt the strength seep from her legs. ‘What is it?’ she asked, looking into the sister’s sad gaze.

  ‘I’m very sorry, very sorry indeed, Miss Connor.’

  Birdie stared at the woman, who took her arm and led her and Pat to a seat in her small room. Birdie sank on the chair. Her legs seemed to have no life in them.

  ‘Your father passed away peacefully just after one o’clock today.’

  Pat let out a choked moan. ‘It can’t be true – it can’t!’

  The sister looked at Pat sympathetically. ‘I am truly sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’ Birdie asked in a flat voice.

  ‘He wasn’t alone. In fact it was remarkable that your brother came when he did.’

  Birdie looked up, a sob in her throat. ‘My brother?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Connor, who has been at sea. He was with your father when he died.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Birdie looked at Pat, then at the frowning woman. ‘Our Frank was here, in this hospital, with our dad, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes. You haven’t seen him?’

  ‘No.’

  The sister sighed and folded her hands in her lap. ‘He did impress on us that he had very little time.’

  ‘Did . . . did Dad recognize him?’ Birdie could barely breathe in her distress. Was this why Frank had left the airey? Had he come to see Dad? It wasn’t Inga that he had been thinking of at all, it was their father.

  ‘Yes, your brother thought so,’ the sister nodded. ‘I assume they were close but separated by your brother’s profession?’

  Birdie glanced quickly at Pat’s stricken face. She knew that they had to go along with whatever Frank had told the hospital.

  ‘If there is any comfort I can give you, it was that he was not alone when he died.’

  Birdie’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I’ll leave you for now.’ The sister stood up. ‘Dr Shaw is on his rounds and will make out the death certificate but you will have to wait.’

  ‘Did my brother say anything?’ Birdie whispered forlornly.

  ‘No, only what I’ve told you.’

  ‘He left no message for us?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  When they were alone, she looked at Pat. ‘Frank was with Dad when he went. We should be happy for them both.’

  ‘But we weren’t there,’ Pat whispered tearfully. ‘I ain’t ever gonna see me dad again.’

  ‘One day you’ll take the good from this. Our Frank and our father were reconciled.’

  ‘There’s never any good comes from dying,’ Pat shouted and jumped angrily to his feet. He brushed his face with his sleeve.

  ‘Pat, Dad will always be with us, like Mum is. They’re together now and happy again.’

  ‘That may be true for you, but it’s not for me.’

  Pat ran from the room. Birdie sat, trying to think, to reason with her grief and her shock and find some consolation in the fact that, with Frank beside him, Wilfred hadn’t left this world on his own. But in her heart, there was doubt. Why hadn’t they been able to say their goodbyes too?

  Chapter 44

  On a wet and grey April morning, two days later, just as Birdie was about to leave the house, the back door opened and a tall, tousle-haired figure stood there.

  ‘Harry! Oh, you must think me terrible not trying to help you! But I thought it best, for your sake. If they knew we was friends—’

  He put up his hand as he closed the door quickly. ‘Never mind that, Birdie. There’s something I have to tell you.’ The lines of tiredness showed at his eyes and round his mouth as he came close. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  ‘It ain’t Pat, is it?’

  ‘Frank’s given himself up.’

  The feeling came back that she had had at the hospital, and she sank down on a chair, her mouth falling open. ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘The copper that gave me a right ear-bashing at the nick just told me that I was free to go as they’d pulled in Frank. He turned up at Poplar nick on Monday. They can’t have got anything out of him, though, or else I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Frank gave himself up on Monday?’ Birdie repeated. ‘On the day Dad died?’

  Harry stared at her. ‘Christ, Birdie, you mean your dad’s passed away?’

  She nodded, unable to reply.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said in bewilderment. ‘I didn’t think that was on the cards.’

  ‘Me and Pat went to see him and was told that Frank was with him when he died.’

  ‘Frank?’ Harry shook his head slowly. ‘You think the reason he left here was to go and see your dad?’

  ‘I feel so guilty. I thought it was to do with Inga.’ Her voice faltered. ‘When all the time, it was Dad he was thinking about.’

  Harry let out a long sigh, his brow creased in a frown under his dark hair. ‘Blimey, he never said a word to me.’

  ‘I hope they made up, like Frank always wanted.’ She smiled. Though Pat had said nothing good came from death, in this case, perhaps something had.

  Harry put out his hand and gently touched her arm. ‘You can be sure that Frank did his best. It shows the mettle of the man that he threw everything aside to make peace with your dad. You can’t speak higher of a bloke than that.’

  Birdie knew that was true. Frank’s concern had not been for himself but with Wilfred. She had trusted Frank all along, but even she was struggling to recognize the fact that Frank had thrown away his chance of escape to put affairs of the heart and conscience first. What more proof could anyone want that Frank was no coward?

  It was the week before Easter and the Requiem Mass was held for Wilfred in a church filled with those eager to pay their last respects. Birdie was dressed in a sombre black coat and fel
t hat that had been brought out of mothballs for the occasion, and Pat, in his Sunday suit, stood next to Harry, ready to support the coffin on their shoulders. At the sight of this and the bunches of violets that she and Pat had picked in the graveyard where Wilfred was to be buried, it was difficult to hold back the tears.

  Outside the church, she thanked those who had attended: Wilfred’s friends from the Quarry and Bernie Hopper, the landlord, Mr and Mrs Mason and Willie, even Amelia Popeldos and Mrs Kirby, who seemed to have forgotten their indifference to an old neighbour. It was Ned Shorter and Lofty, who had not known her father, who touched her by their presence and genuine concern. There was also Mrs Belcher, and Flo and Reg and the girls, who all held her close for a brief moment, murmuring precious words of comfort. There were others too, figures from Wilfred’s past and factory days. Though Birdie was grateful so many had come, she was relieved when at last the ordeal was over and finally Lady Annabelle arrived to take her and Pat in the chauffeur-driven car to Kensal Green, where Wilfred would be buried beside Bernadette, in the Catholic cemetery.

  But it wasn’t until Birdie stood at the graveside that she gave way. As Pat felt her tremble, he took her hand and clutched it as the simple coffin was lowered gently into the gaping hole beside their mother’s grave, and Father Flynn completed the burial service. When the dirt had been sprinkled on the coffin, Pat dropped in a sprig of purple heather, their mother’s favourite flower.

  ‘I’m taking meself off for a breath of fresh air,’ Harry stepped forward to say quietly. ‘Lady Annabelle’s waiting for you in the car.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry.’ She watched him walk away, his tall figure weaving slowly between the headstones. She knew he wanted to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Do you really think Mum and Dad are together now?’ Pat asked as Birdie slipped her arm through his.