by Carol Rivers
‘Yes, course I do.’
‘But all that’s left is just a lot of earth over Dad to say he ever was alive.’ He shuddered. ‘I’d rather be a sailor and get ditched at sea.’
Birdie smiled understandingly. ‘Our mum paid for the plot before you was born, love. She didn’t have much money to spare, but Catholics are particular about where they end up. You and me should be grateful that we didn’t have to witness our dad going in a pauper’s grave.’
An April breeze swept across the churchyard as if in answer, ruffling the tangled weeds and brown grass. Birdie knew that it would be a long time before either of them came here again. She brought flowers to Bernadette’s grave once a year, on her mother’s birthday. But she never felt Bernadette was there. She was closer when she looked at the picture on the mantel. It would be at home they would find comfort in the memories of the happy lives they had led as a family.
As Birdie was about to follow Pat into the waiting vehicle, a hand grasped her shoulder.
‘I was very sorry to hear the sad news,’ Don said as he stood breathlessly beside her. He wore a long, smart, dark coat with a black velvet trim and black tie, as though he too had been one of the mourners. ‘I would have got here sooner, but I was detained at the store. I do hope you will allow me to place this on your father’s grave as a tribute from Mother and me.’ He raised a large and imposing wreath made of expensive laurels.
Birdie was surprised to see him but all the same she nodded politely. ‘Dad’s buried over there, beside Mum.’
‘We were truly shocked to hear the news,’ he went on, seeming not to want to leave. ‘Brigid, I know this isn’t the time or place, but I still think of you and hope that one day we might be together.’ Without warning he bent and kissed her cheek, whispering again how much she meant to him.
Why had he come here today, she wondered. He hadn’t cared about Wilfred in life, so why in death? All the same, emotion filled her and without a word more, she climbed into Lady Annabelle’s car.
‘Is Harry home yet?’ Birdie asked as Pat walked into the kitchen later that afternoon and placed the last empty plate on the draining board.
‘No. Must have needed some air.’
Birdie looked down at the few triangles of curled bread that hadn’t been eaten, the remains of the wake she had prepared for those who decided to call by. There wasn’t much left for Harry, but she had kept a thick slice of ham and cold pickles for him, under the muslin in the larder.
The first through the door had been Mrs Kirby and Amelia Popeldos, who had sat in the parlour with their glasses of port wine, all grievances of the past apparently forgotten. Bernie Hopper had provided the ale and port wine, and Flo and the kids had just said goodbye as Reg had to get back to work. Willie’s mum and dad had accompanied them, and Lady Annabelle had been driven home by James, leaving Mrs Belcher to remain behind and help Birdie with the clearing up.
‘Just pile those last plates here, ducks,’ Mrs Belcher told Birdie as she stood at the sink. ‘We’ll soon have them washed.’
Just then Pat raced into the kitchen. He slid off his tie and pulled open the top buttons of his collar. ‘Now I’ve done my bit, can I get changed and go out with Willie?’
‘No, it wouldn’t look right,’ Birdie told him, only to draw an immediate protest.
‘Listen to your sister, lad,’ Mrs Belcher called firmly as she scrubbed the dishes. ‘Tomorrow will be here soon enough, and you’ll be out on your bicycle again, delivering your messages.’
Birdie saw Pat turn sulkily away, flashes of red on his cheeks. She gave a long sigh as he slouched out of the kitchen.
‘Take no notice, he’s at that age,’ Mrs Belcher smiled as they stood together at the sink.
‘I wish Frank was here.’
‘Where is he love, back in Wandsworth?’
Birdie shrugged. ‘No one will tell us. I went up to Poplar police station where Frank had turned himself in. But they claimed they wasn’t allowed to tell me anything.’ Birdie dried the plates slowly. ‘Mrs Belcher, I have to admit, I’m frightened. Will they ever let us see our brother again?’
‘They’ve got to. They can’t just lock him up and throw away the key.’
‘It ain’t right, I know, yet what can one person like me do against the authorities?’
‘I told you, there are ways and means.’
‘It’s too late for that sort of thing.’
Mrs Belcher turned round and lowered her voice. ‘It’s never too late to make a stand for justice. You’ve seen those suffragette ladies, haven’t you, with their banners, and undergoing those dreadful hunger strikes in prison?’
‘But how can I do that? I can’t see me marching up to London and knocking on the Prime Minister’s door to tell him about Frank. Although I would, if I thought it’d do any good.’
Mrs Belcher picked up the towel and, after drying her hands, looked Birdie steadily in the eye. ‘Are you willing to take me into your confidence and tell me the truth, the whole truth about Frank? And I mean by that, all that’s happened that you haven’t told me, and probably not told another soul in case you should make it worse for Frank?’
Birdie stared at this surprising, elderly rosy-cheeked woman, who stood with her head tilted to one side. ‘How do you know that?’ gasped Birdie.
‘Because I know you, love. I know your family and the strong bond between you all. You’d face the devil himself if it was for the benefit of each other.’
Birdie sank down on a chair. ‘Oh, Mrs Belcher, you wouldn’t believe the half of it. When I think back meself, I wonder if it all really happened.’
Mrs Belcher bustled to the kitchen door and closed it. Then she peered out of the kitchen window. ‘No one about, so come on, ducks, out with it, while we still have the chance.’
That night, Birdie sat alone in the parlour. Pat had gone to bed and Harry hadn’t come home for his supper. She stared at Wilfred’s empty chair and wondered if she had done right to reveal her secrets to Mrs Belcher? The story had seemed incredible, even to Birdie’s ears: Frank’s visit to the house after his escape, their meeting under the arches the next day and his involvement with the Russians. Mrs Belcher’s eyebrows had risen as she’d listened, and she’d muttered encouraging sounds at the tale of Harry, Pat, Ned and Lofty and their assault on Shadwell. But when Birdie had finally come to the end, explaining Frank’s determination to see their father in hospital, Mrs Belcher had said in a firm voice, ‘Very well, dear, thank you for trusting me.’
After yet another cup of tea, Mrs Belcher had left with the promise she would soon be in touch and in the meantime Birdie was not to worry.
But as Birdie stared at Wilfred’s empty chair, it was not worry for Frank or even Pat that tugged at her heart and caused a great, aching space inside her. It was, she knew, a deep longing to see and touch the father that she had left behind her in that cold and unwelcoming place of last goodbyes.
Harry sat himself down at a quiet table in the Nag’s Head. He’d downed a couple of sterling good ales, but as he pondered over the day, the alcohol did nothing to cloud the memory of Birdie and the shopkeeper, standing beside Lady Annabelle’s car. Harry had skulked by a clump of leafless trees and watched, listening to the shovelling of dirt, with his heart dropping to his boots as Birdie had been taken in an embrace and, to his everlasting dismay, not seemed to resist.
Then he’d seen the car drive off and when it was out of sight, Don Thorne had shouted to the groundsman, who had made his way over to take the wreath he had been holding. Harry had then watched the smartly dressed man, who was obviously in too much of a hurry to pay his respects at the graveside, climb into a motor car parked just outside the gates. It wasn’t as big or flash as Lady Annabelle’s but was impressive enough. And it was then the fierce pains of jealousy had beset Harry, crawling under his ribcage and into the muscles of his heart, which truly felt gripped by a vice.
Harry passed his finger round the rim of his froth-stained glass an
d shook the dark liquid. Throughout Frank’s disappearance and Wilfred’s illness he’d indulged in the thought – the hope – that he could provide the Connors with something they did not have: true friendship that came only infrequently in life. But having achieved this goal, his own feelings had strayed far beyond friendship. And it was as he had witnessed Don Thorne once more re-enter Birdie’s life that Harry knew for certain: his feelings of deep strength could never be returned.
He took a long gulp from his glass, then got up and left, to wander around in the damp, early evening, finally making his way down to the park, where he had once sat with her. And when he had first allowed himself to think that it was possible for a man like him to have a family and a home.
A few days later, Birdie and Pat had just finished supper, but Harry’s place at the table was unoccupied. Both she and Pat had made a brave attempt to enjoy the thinly sliced meat, roast potatoes and vegetables that had been cooking slowly on the stove, but even the custard that was poured thickly over the bread pudding was proving a challenge.
‘Harry wouldn’t miss this,’ Pat decided as he spooned the hot pudding carefully into his mouth. ‘I reckon he’s got a girl.’
Birdie frowned at her brother. ‘But we thought that before, yet he told me he didn’t have one.’
‘Why else would he miss his grub? And he’s not been home much since the funeral.’
Birdie nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘It don’t seem like home,’ sighed Pat, managing to finish the last mouthful. ‘Not without Dad and Harry.’
‘We can sit by the fire and play dominoes.’
‘I’ve something to tell you first.’
‘What is it?’
Pat twisted his spoon in the bowl. ‘Mr Marchment called me in to his office last night. He told me the Steamship Company had asked him for a reference of my abilities.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Don’t you remember, I applied for a job with them? The purser had said he would have taken me and Willie on but the company was selling to another operator.’
Birdie shook her head. ‘I thought it was just one of your adventures you wanted to go on.’
Pat looked down at the table again. ‘Mr Marchment said he put in a good word for me and I’ve got a test very soon.’ He added hurriedly, ‘Mind, it won’t be much, I expect, just baker’s scullion or something. And if you said you were against it, well, I shouldn’t bother.’
Birdie stared at her brother. ‘Is it what you want?’
‘I can’t deliver messages for ever. I’m growing out of my tunic.’ He looked into her concerned gaze. ‘But with Dad not being here, I’d understand if you was against it.’
Birdie saw the disappointment in his eyes. ‘Pat, I won’t be the one to hold you back.’ She reached out and put her hand over his. ‘This is your life, your chance to do as you want. Nothing must stand in your way.’
Pat’s face brightened. ‘I’ll come home between trips.’
‘I’d be cross if you didn’t.’ She smiled. ‘Mum and Dad would be so proud of you.’
Pat sniffed and once more lowered his head.
‘But as there’s only me to wish you success, love, come here and give me a hug.’
They embraced and Pat mumbled, ‘Birdie, you’re the best sister anyone ever had.’
She pressed him to her, against the ache that filled her chest. It wasn’t the best news she had ever had, but she was filled with happiness for Pat. ‘This is your dream coming true,’ she whispered, wondering how many years would pass before the Connors were all to be reunited.
Chapter 45
It was on a late April evening when Birdie ran into the street, ready to stop Harry as he came home from work. She hadn’t seen much of him since the funeral but she had received a letter that morning that had made her jump and scream aloud for joy.
He strode towards her and waved, his work-bag slung over his shoulder and his collar turned up against the biting cold.
‘Harry!’ She ran up to him and clutched his sleeve. ‘I’ve some wonderful news!’
He smiled, his dark eyes shining out of his weather-beaten face. ‘Pat beat you to it. He told me yesterday that he was successfully tested for the steamer job and starts next Monday.’
‘Yes, I know that, and it is wonderful, but this is even better.’ She waved the envelope in his face. ‘Even Pat doesn’t know this yet, as the postman only delivered it this morning after he’d gone. I must show you.’
‘Me boots are filthy.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She pulled him into the house, where he stamped on the mat and dropped his bag on the floor, careful not to let any mud go onto the boards.
‘Don’t stand there. Come in by the fire.’
‘No, I won’t thanks. I’ve, er . . . got to nip out again.’
Birdie frowned, her excitement dying. ‘Harry, what’s the matter? We ain’t seen nothing of you since Dad’s funeral.’
‘I’m just a bit pressed for time.’
‘If you don’t come right in this moment, Harry Chambers,’ she threatened him, ‘then you’ll be missing out on the best news it’s possible to have, better even than a field of shamrocks from the Emerald Isle.’ She laughed, her heart feeling so light, she could hardly say the words.
‘Well, put like that . . .’ He followed her in, going to the fire and warming his cold hands. ‘That’s a good blaze you’ve got going. Just like the ones Wilfred—’ He stopped and gave a click of his tongue. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting.’
‘So do I,’ she said quietly.
He smiled. ‘Go on then. What was you going to tell me?’
Birdie pushed the long, slim envelope towards him. She had kept it close to her all day, reading it over and over again ever since the postman had slipped it through the letterbox. There was a seal on the back, of red and gold wax, indented with the sender’s initials, HW.
‘Blimey, that looks posh.’
‘Read it, Harry.’
‘Not with me filthy fingers. You do the honours.’ She drew out the smooth, buff-coloured paper and held it out so they could both see the professionally scripted words. ‘It’s from a firm of solicitors called Hethrington Wright,’ she said, trying to contain her excitement. ‘Their offices – can you believe? – are in Westminster, and Lady Annabelle’s country address is written at the top too. It’s Mr Hethrington himself who has written this.’ She cleared her throat, giving Harry a nervous smile before she began.
‘Dear Miss Connor,
I am writing to tell you that Lady Annabelle Hailing has engaged our services, in respect of your brother Mr Francis Connor, who at present is detained at Her Majesty’s convenience for an unspecified period. Lady Annabelle has provided us with comprehensive details of Mr Connor’s (unjust) dismissal from his regiment and subsequent term of imprisonment, leading to his escape from custody in November of last year. This evidence has been brought to light by a team of private investigators who have been deployed to the regions of France where your brother served between the years of 1915 and 1917. These new, incontrovertible facts we believe, will be pertinent to an appeal, which, if necessary, shall be taken to the High Court for review . . .’
Birdie stopped, drawing her finger gently under her eye. She could not believe yet that Lady Annabelle had done all this for them.
‘Is it true, Harry? Am I dreaming it?’ she whispered. ‘Is Mr Hethrington going to help Frank?’
Wiping his hands on his jacket, Harry reached out for the letter. Silently he studied it and Birdie’s heart beat fast as she waited. At last Harry nodded, lifting his gaze to hers. ‘Looks like they’re trying to get Frank off the hook.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘It sounds that way.’
‘Mrs Belcher said there were ways and means. But I didn’t think she meant this. I thought she was talking about something a bit underhand, not at all legal like this.’
‘That’s what a bit of clout
does for you,’ Harry smiled, returning the letter to Birdie. ‘Frank’s in with a chance now.’
‘I daren’t hope too much.’
‘They must have searched all of bloody north France.’
‘More than Frank could have done on his own.’
Harry scratched his head. ‘It’s that word they used, the long one, what was it?’
‘In-con-trovertible,’ Birdie said without hesitation. ‘I’ve read it over so many times, I can say it.’
Harry shrugged. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I went up to Pat’s room and looked in his dictionary. It means, it can’t be proved false.’
‘Blimey, that’s a turn up for the books.’
‘Oh, Harry,’ she gasped, ‘I asked Mum to help us and I believe she did.’
‘You could be right there.’
She wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but now there was an awkwardness between them, a distance that seemed to have happened since Wilfred had died. ‘You’ve been a true friend, Harry,’ she said gratefully instead.
She saw the light in his eyes fade as he softly replied. ‘I’ll always be your friend, Birdie.’ He looked away. ‘Even from across the other side of the world.’
‘The other side of the world?’
‘You know we was talking once – about the places we’d like to see? Well, I’ve made up my mind that as soon as you and Pat was all right, like – and now I know you are, with Frank’s troubles likely to be sorted – I’m going to scratch that itch before I grow old and grey.’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘See, I’ve made enough on the drains to take meself off to the one special place—’
‘That mountain that looks like a table?’ she whispered slowly, ‘where a person can see all of Africa and smell the perfumes of heaven itself.’
‘Blimey, you remembered.’
‘Yes, every word.’
The silence lingered in the room, his words drifting around them, creating as they had done before, a picture that Birdie knew herself she would never have the chance to see.