by Carol Rivers
‘Ned and Lofty are gonna take Albert and the cart on,’ Harry continued, ‘till I let ’em know what me plans are. But I reckon it’s time for a change as I’ve not had me heart in the job recently.’ He paused and added hurriedly, ‘Owing to me wanderlust, an’ all.’
Birdie turned to the fire, her heart heavy once again.
He took her arm gently. ‘We’ll stay good pals, won’t we? I’ll send postcards, cross me heart. You can put ’em up on yer mantel and remember me now and again.’
Birdie gazed into the fire, which, before Harry had told her he was leaving, she had thought of as the symbol of her hope for a new family life. One that she had wanted to share with him, believing that they would come to know each other fully as time went on. And one day perhaps, become more than just good friends.
But now she knew it was all a dream that could never be. One gift had been given to her today and one had been taken away.
Chapter 46
July 1919
Two weeks had passed since Frank had been granted his freedom after an appeal, when Birdie’s spirits had been high one day and low the next. With Pat away on the steamship, she had been very lonely. And though Harry had promised to write, only two postcards had arrived. They were very beautiful – of a lush, green land with a sea so blue surrounding it that Birdie knew it was a heaven no man would want to leave. Like Harry had said once, a place where you could smell all the perfumes of heaven. He had got work in the mines and intended to try to make it his home, he had written.
But these last few weeks of waiting for news from Mr Hethrington had eclipsed everything else in her life. When would Frank come home, she wondered.
The answer had come yesterday when Lady Annabelle had called round and given her the news that James was to bring Frank here this very morning.
Birdie smiled at the wonderful memory. She had temporarily forgotten Lady Annabelle was from a well-to-do family and had thrown her arms around her in a warm embrace. In delight, Lady Annabelle had teased her, saying that now Birdie must return the favour by making lots of wonderful dresses for her friends.
Birdie had agreed without hesitation. She would have agreed to anything in that precious, unbelievable moment.
Now Birdie stood waiting, the door open wide and all of summer rushing in. Dressed in her floral frock, with her shining brown hair waved gently around her ears, her heart pounded as she looked along March Street. Lady Annabelle had told her mysteriously, that Frank was to be accompanied by two other people. Birdie wondered who they could be. Were they the private detectives who had secured the vital evidence? Or perhaps representatives from the court? But wasn’t Frank done with all that now? He was a free man. She had said it over and over again in her mind. Frank was free and proved innocent!
Ma Jenkins’ curtains were twitching across the road and Birdie smiled, knowing the small, sunken eyes of the mischief-maker of March Street were watching her every move. But today Birdie felt nothing but happiness that even Ma Jenkins could not dispel.
A car turned the corner and Birdie thought she might faint with delight. The big black shiny vehicle drew slowly along the road as if James was driving royalty along Pall Mall.
Birdie’s head was held high and her heart full of pride. Slowly each door in the street opened: the Kirbys, Edna Legg and Marjorie Coombs, the Popeldos family, even the Carter sisters, with all the kids tumbling out to see Frank Connor returning home.
When James stepped out of the car, he gave a brief salute, lightly touching his flat peaked-cap. Birdie blushed. She knew he was doing this for all to see. Then he opened the rear door and a young woman stepped out. Her long fair hair tumbled to her shoulders, partly covering her anxious eyes. Behind her appeared the tall figure of Frank, who wore a light-coloured jacket and open-necked shirt. In his arms was a small, red-headed child with laughing blue eyes, a mirror image of Frank himself. And Birdie’s heart leaped as the happy trio walked towards her.
Epilogue
Cape Town, South Africa, September 1920
Warmed by the burning African sun, Harry stood in the long queue waiting to board the Kensington Castle. Above him the lower deck of the stately mail ship was already crowded with passengers. Anxiously, he patted his cream linen jacket pocket, unconsciously confirming the presence of Birdie’s letter, arrived at his rooms in Johannesburg just a month previously.
Harry glanced up at the clear blue sky and thought of the day he had arrived in Cape Town sixteen months ago. Then, he had been welcomed by a thick, impenetrable mist that had descended over the harbour, forcing the captain of the steamship to ferry the passengers by launch to land. It was a week until Harry had managed to see clearly the flat-topped mountain that he had read about so often in his books. The climb to its lower ridge had been every part as breathtaking as he’d dreamed it would be. Here, he’d breathed in the salt of the sea mingling with the lush scents of the land, and found it was not Africa that filled his heart; instead it was a longing for the woman he had left behind in Blighty.
After that he’d tried to lose himself in the big country, from Port Elizabeth and East London and Durban, to the mining town of Jo’burg. Here, the hard life had suited him best; toiling daily in the bowels of the earth and by night, facing the cold rasping winds that blew clouds of dust along every gravel road and pathway. He’d even welcomed the deafening roar of the mine batteries that pounded ceaselessly, and the gruelling shifts that turned out every white man as black as his brother. He’d posted a couple of cards back home, but he’d had no word back, until that morning when he’d received Birdie’s letter.
The queue began to move upward and Harry lifted his travelling bag. He went slowly, savouring the experience of leaving African soil. The noise of the big red and black funnel above him joined with the shouts and cries of the porters who scurried between the passengers.
When at last Harry stood on deck, no longer buffeted by the choking winds of a mining town, but caressed by the warm summer breeze of the Cape, he gazed back at the land that had provided him with such good fortune. He had tasted the magic of Africa, and he admired the majesty of the mountain, as flat as any pancake and a sight to behold in the dazzling sunshine. But now it was time to go home.
‘Goodbye, Africa,’ he whispered, narrowing his eyes at the spectacular scene. Then, unable to resist the urge to read Birdie’s letter again, he drew it slowly from his pocket.
‘My Dearest Harry,
Thank you for your wonderful postcards and the photographs of South Africa. I should have written sooner, but I thought it wasn’t fair to say all that is in my heart, not after you wanting for so long to take that adventure you dreamed of.
Now more than a year has passed and there is much to tell you. I’ll begin with Frank, his wife Françoise, and their young son, Frank Junior. He is just the image of his father, with red hair and Frank’s sunny smile. The family have settled well at March Street and you may ask how they (the family) fetched up here, so I’ll begin.
After your departure, it was Mr Hethrington (whose letter you read) and acting on Lady Annabelle’s instructions, who arranged passage for Françoise, Frank Junior, and his grandfather, Pierre, from Arras to testify on behalf of our brother. How all this came about was that Pierre is the farmer that hid Frank when he was injured. He saw Frank shoot a Hun in defence of his friends and Frank being injured in the head after. Mr Hethrington, in possession of this information, asked him and his daughter, Françoise, to be witnesses at Frank’s appeal and so they agreed.
It turns out that whilst recovering our Frank was swept away by the charms of the angel of mercy (Françoise) who nursed him back to health. Would you believe that little Frank Junior is the result? At Frank’s trial the old beak made some crack about his war wound not being that disabling. This, as you can imagine, is a tale that Frank loves to repeat! But, at the end of it all, justice was served and it was proved that Frank was no deserter but a hero, who returned to the front line just as soon as he was physically able. Lady Annab
elle paid every penny of Frank’s defence and pulled a few strings into the bargain. That was what Mrs Belcher was hinting at all the time, and me, I was blind to it!
And as for that cheating shopkeeper I once was daft enough to moon over, Lydia gave him his marching orders and married the vicar, Mr Howells. I can imagine they will live a very Christian and God-fearing life, giving James a good home at last. But Aggie, so it’s said, has never recovered from the shock. The new store I hear, has gone down the pan, and God forgive me, I can’t be sorry for the Thornes, not one jot!
Oh, and there is Pat, who is still sailing with the steamers, but lives for the day when he’ll see you again. He has grown up now, a fine figure of a young man, mature in many ways, which are, not least, down to you, his best friend.
So now, that’s my happy story, that is to say, very nearly happy. For Harry, life has not been the same without you. The empty airey reminds me daily of our loss – my loss. You saw us through such ups and downs that it seems downright unjust you’re not here to share in our joy. Each morning, after praying to Mum and Dad (who I know are happy together now) I look at my black cat broach and think of you. But I would rather have you here, with us all, where I could see and touch the object of my great affection.
So if it is at all possible you feel the same too, I beg of you, Harry, to consider returning home. Your home, March Street, as it will always be.
With love it is that I end this letter. True love, Harry, not just the deep like of a friend.
Yours, as I will always be,
Birdie Connor
PS. We heard no more about the Russians. P’raps they blew themselves up? Frank insists he was never put under a spell by the woman, just that he had his head turned by the breeches and those dark eyes that she kept dazzling him with, and that in the end it was the pure and sweet face of Françoise and his son that returned him to sanity! Have you heard that that fearsome man Lenin is in charge of all Russia now? Frank says the Whites have had their chips.
One more thing, Flo and Reg and the girls send their love and hope to see you again and hear all your tales. And another development – with Frank home and the toast of the neighbourhood, Ma Jenkins don’t even look out of her window and her head sinks deep into her hat when she ventures forth!
And, by the way, I got your address from the cards you wrote and hope this letter finds you safely.
And now I’m finished at last, your Birdie.
As the vessel drew slowly out of harbour, Harry reflected that a good and loyal woman had finally been the saving of Frank. Leaning over the polished guardrail, Harry smiled ruefully. For it wasn’t the mountain of his dreams he was seeing under the flawless turquoise sky, but the face of his own good woman, Birdie Connor, whom he had never ceased to love.
Table of Contents
Half-title page
Author biography
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Acknowledgements
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue