In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

‘I’ll find a way to let you know, but don’t tell our dad or even Pat. Don’t tell no one, see?’

  ‘Just take care of yourself.’

  He took her in his arms and hugged her. ‘Come on now, chin up, gel.’ She nearly fainted from the foul smell but she hugged him tight, not knowing how long it would be before she saw him again.

  Chapter 5

  It was the following evening when a heavy knock came at the front door. Pat had just wheeled his bicycle into the yard and was standing in the kitchen, looking over Birdie’s shoulder as she mashed the potatoes.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he informed her, sticking his finger in the pan and thieving a blob of mash.

  But it was only just in his mouth before the heavy thumps came and Birdie jumped, dropping the big fork on the table. She left Pat licking his lips as she hurried along the passage. Smoothing her hands over her pinny and lifting the lock of brown hair from her eyes, she felt her legs turn to jelly as she opened the door.

  A policeman stood there, his eyes flying over her shoulder to the inside of the house before she had time to draw breath. No one on the island trusted a blue uniform, and Birdie noted the noisy protests of the kids who were being called in from the street. Doors closed and lace curtains twitched, and Birdie squared her shoulders.

  ‘What do you want, banging like that?’

  The policeman studied her carefully. ‘I’m Police Constable Rudge,’ he boomed. ‘Is this the home of Francis Declan Connor?’

  Birdie’s heart almost lifted out of her chest. ‘You know very well it is. Or else you’d be bothering some other poor soul.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘And you know the answer to that, an’ all. He’s behind bars, where you put him a year ago.’

  ‘If that was the case,’ said the young constable shortly, ‘this conversation wouldn’t be taking place.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Birdie hoped her flush was considered annoyance, not guilt.

  ‘Francis Declan Connor—’

  ‘I’m fully conversant with me brother’s name,’ interrupted Birdie haughtily. ‘I’m his sister, Brigid Connor, and I’ll thank you to spit out what you’ve come here to say instead of asking daft questions.’

  The colour of the constable’s face below his tall helmet began to darken as he eyed Birdie with suspicion. ‘On Saturday night, your, er – the prisoner escaped from His Majesty’s custody and, as yet, is still at large.’

  Birdie kept her gaze straight, as straight as it could possibly be, when having the fear of God put inside her. ‘So me brother made a run for it, did he? And sure, if he did, do you expect him to be here, waiting for you, like only a halfwit would?’

  Birdie was deciding whether to continue in the same vein, or try to still her tongue, which would be a great effort indeed, when she saw Harry coming up the road.

  ‘You all right, Birdie?’ he called, swinging his bag from his shoulder and pausing at the railings.

  ‘Good evening to you, Harry,’ she called, speaking as though the rigid body dressed in blue was not standing there. ‘Our Frank’s done a bunk and they’ve come here to arrest him. A pity really, since he was just enjoying a good supper and had his feet up on the kitchen table. He was hoping they’d give him another night or two’s grace, so’s he could nip to the pub and slake his prison thirst.’

  Since the door was wide open there was a clear view along the passage to the kitchen and scullery, and only Pat staring back, his eyes wide as Birdie enjoyed the copper’s discomfort. But she wasn’t ready for Harry’s response, as, with a twinkle in his eye, he strolled lazily to the door and leaned his shoulder against the jamb, an inch or two away from the bobby.

  ‘A pity indeed,’ he grinned, ‘as I should have liked to join him.’

  Birdie couldn’t help but smile, but the grin was soon wiped from her face when she heard her father’s voice a flight up, followed by the sight and sound of his boots on the staircase.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded as he confronted the policeman. ‘What’s your business here?’ He frowned, raising his braces over his shoulders, let loose half an hour ago for his nap.

  ‘Who might you be?’ the bobby returned as Pat joined them too, his young face full of apprehension.

  ‘I’m Wilfred Connor, head of this household. Brigid here is my daughter and this is my youngest, Patrick. And Harry beside you is our lodger. Now state what it is you want.’

  ‘We are looking for Francis Declan Connor,’ said the policeman in the same dead tone, ‘who has absconded this past Saturday from His Majesty’s detention.’

  ‘Frank?’ Wilfred’s face drained white. ‘Absconded?’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  For a moment Wilfred seemed too shocked to speak. Then slowly his expression hardened. ‘You’ll have no luck with your enquiries here, son. The person you are looking for has no business in this house, nor ever will have.’

  ‘So you’d best be on your way,’ Birdie intervened, though she wanted to scream that Frank was an innocent man, falsely accused, and if only someone would listen, they would see the real crime had been committed against Frank himself.

  Just then, Pat turned, scuffing his boots on the wooden boards. Going out of the back door, he banged it hard. Wilfred muttered under his breath and began to cough.

  ‘Go inside, Dad, the cold is getting at your chest,’ Birdie urged.

  He nodded, shifting himself slowly towards the parlour door. Angry and upset, Birdie pointed her finger at the policeman. ‘Now see what you’ve done? You’ve set me dad off coughing and sent me young brother into a sulk. What more trouble will you cause us?’

  Harry lifted himself from the jamb. ‘Best be on your way,’ he told the constable. ‘You’re wasting your time here.’

  Birdie saw no threat, nor dislike in Harry’s face, yet his dark eyes were cooler than she had ever seen.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s your duty to inform us if he turns up,’ retorted the policeman, glowering at Harry. ‘The law counts aiding and abetting criminals as a serious offence.’

  ‘You’ve made that plain enough,’ nodded Harry, not moving a muscle.

  ‘As if our Frank would come here!’ Birdie exclaimed, trying to feign surprise after the policeman had gone. ‘That’s the law for you, thick as two planks.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d not make that mistake.’ Harry tilted his head. ‘Your brother would have more sense, of course. But if it was me in such a position, I might be tempted to make me presence known somehow.’ He arched a dark eyebrow, keeping his eyes on her face.

  Birdie went scarlet under his scrutiny. He was no fool and she felt for a moment that he could read her guilty thoughts. ‘It’s Pat I’m worried about,’ she evaded, her voice rising with the effort of putting a show on. ‘He don’t understand why Frank was put away and has developed a passionate dislike for the uniform. Now he’s gone off and heaven alone knows when he’ll be back.’

  A smile formed on Harry’s lips and quietly he asked, ‘Would you like me to go after him and bring him back for supper?’

  ‘It’ll be ready and waiting for you both.’

  Harry threw his bag over his shoulder and hesitated, his frown returning once more. ‘Take care, Birdie. I admire your spirit in fending off that youngster, but he was only a rookie and if they’re seriously after Frank, one visit won’t be enough.’

  Birdie felt another little jerk to her stomach, as though Harry had guessed her secret. ‘Then they’ll be wasting their time in knocking on this door again,’ she replied, tossing her head. ‘They won’t find any evidence of Frank being here.’

  Harry nodded slowly, his dark eyes meeting hers. Then, his breath curling up in the cold air, he set off, whistling his way down the street.

  With uneasy thoughts crowding her head, Birdie closed the door and went to the parlour. She found her father sitting by the fire.

  ‘What do you know of all this?’ he thrust at her.

  ‘As much as you do, Dad,’ she ans
wered, bending to tend the fire in order to cover her guilt.

  ‘If your brother has the gall to come here,’ Wilfred continued, ‘I don’t expect you to welcome him. This is a respectable household and we’ve had enough thrown at us through what he did.’

  Birdie tried to keep her feelings in check, but at this, she jumped to her feet. ‘We ain’t heard Frank’s side of it,’ she argued, knowing immediately it was the very worst reply she could give.

  Wilfred pointed a shaking finger. ‘He was tried and found guilty of desertion,’ he began, coughing, ‘so let’s hear no more of . . .’ The effort to speak was too much and Birdie rushed to his side, patting his back. Still the coughing continued and she flew to the kitchen for the Collis Browne. When she returned she too was shaking as she levelled the spoon to her father’s lips. The bout of coughing subsided as he pulled a face and flapped his hand. ‘Don’t fuss, don’t fuss!’ He turned his eyes slowly on her. ‘I don’t mean to speak harshly, Brigid,’ he said, a rough depth to his voice. ‘But you’re like your mother, God rest her. She was everything to me, but she had wild ideas that sometimes caused . . .’ he shrugged, turning away and gazed into the fire.

  Birdie left him to his thoughts, feeling the weight of guilt like a stone in her ribs. It was hard to love a father so much and deceive him.

  But she loved Frank too.

  A few days later Birdie set off to collect her work from Hailing House, the imposing red-brick manor run by aristocratic ladies for the benefit of the poor. It wasn’t often Lady Hailing or her daughters, Felicity and Annabelle, were in residence, for their country seat took up much of their time. But Mrs Belcher, the housekeeper, sat Birdie down in the kitchen beside the big black-leaded range.

  ‘I’ll brew you a fresh cup, love,’ she told Birdie with affection. ‘Warm your hands by the oven there and I’ll find us a nice hot scone and a pat of best butter.’ Birdie had known Mrs Belcher from the time that Bernadette had cleaned for the ladies, taking Birdie with her to the sewing classes. Afterwards, the housekeeper would treat them to a scone in the homely kitchen.

  Now the elderly lady was close to retirement but Birdie knew the Hailings were reluctant to let her go; she kept the household running like clockwork. Mrs Belcher bustled around the kitchen, her wide hips swinging under her apron and a strand or two of brittle grey hair escaping from her cap as she wiped her sweating forehead with a rag. But it seemed today that the housekeeper was agitated as she related the news of the twice-weekly soup kitchen and refreshments she prepared for the sewing classes.

  Birdie listened patiently, whilst making swift work of the hot scone served up from the oven. A rich brown tea poured into a real china cup accompanied it, and when Mrs Belcher had at last run out of steam she sat down with a sigh and glanced uneasily at her guest.

  ‘The misses have gone off yesterday,’ she said, bringing down Birdie’s hopes of asking for extra work. ‘Lord Hailing rides with the hunt at the weekend and wants his family with him. But Lady Annabelle left you a big bag of alterations, some for herself, and another bag for the little ’uns of the nursery, what don’t have a clean pair of drawers between them. It’s all quality, mind, from the ladies’ nieces and nephews. All clean crotches and lace frills, but with the elastic gone or the sides split. Nothin’ you can’t put right, love.’

  Relief filled Birdie as two bags would provide the extra half-crown she was hoping for. The ladies paid very well, knowing they could rely on Birdie’s skills and swift return.

  ‘I’ll take one bag with me,’ Birdie decided, ‘and Pat will cycle round for the other as soon as he gets home.’

  ‘I’ll be here, ducks.’ She once more wiped her sweating brow. ‘Look, Birdie, don’t think me a nosy cow, but is your Frank still at Wandsworth?’

  Birdie put down her cup with a clatter. ‘Why? What made you ask that? And why should I know, anyway?’

  Mrs Belcher looked uncomfortable. ‘You are his sister, love.’

  ‘And what good does that do me? Dad don’t let me visit him and Frank ain’t exactly a dab hand at letters.’

  ‘Now, now, I was only asking.’

  Birdie looked keenly at the housekeeper. ‘Yes, but it’s a funny thing to ask.’

  ‘There was a couple of lines, see,’ Mrs Belcher said, her eyes flicking down to her cup as she twirled it slowly round, ‘in last night’s Gazette. Said a prisoner that came from the island escaped from Wandsworth. It weren’t much, didn’t give no names, but I must admit, it got me wondering.’

  Birdie sat in silence, her heart pounding. She should have expected this, but had been hoping that somehow the news wouldn’t get out. ‘Did it say much else?’

  Mrs Belcher shrugged. ‘Nothing as I can recall.’

  Birdie wondered why the Gazette hadn’t written more, that Frank was on his way to the hospital when he escaped. Then she realized what an outcry there might have been. The authorities would have been accused of allowing to escape a prisoner with a possible contagious disease. Now that fact was being deliberately hidden from public knowledge.

  ‘Well, I might as well tell you, Mrs Belcher,’ Birdie began, feeling she had no option but to admit to the truth. Being an old friend of her mother’s, the housekeeper had known Frank since he was a boy. ‘It was Frank who escaped.’

  Mrs Belcher put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my Lord!’

  ‘The coppers have been round, and said if he turned up, it was a crime to help him.’

  ‘The hard-hearted devils!’

  ‘Mrs Belcher, you won’t say anything, will you? If the Gazette didn’t give any names, it might not get around too quick.’

  ‘Course I won’t, Birdie. How has your dad taken it?’

  ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’

  Mrs Belcher nodded. ‘Your father is a proud man. But I can tell you this, love, if Frank turned up at my door, I’d give him a good meal and wish him the best of luck. Have you any idea where he’d go?’

  Birdie shook her head. Her lips were sealed as far as Frank’s movements were concerned.

  ‘Listen, girl, I knew your mother when Frank was just a nipper, and I saw you swell out her belly till she could hardly walk, and then birthed you with a labour that took two days and nights, and there was no finer family on this island, with your father toiling all hours and instilling into you kids a decent way of life. No one was more saddened to see Bernadette Connor go than me. Taking her last breath to save her child was the bravest thing a mother could do. I don’t care who knows it, but my belief is that your Frank is no deserter. He came from fine stock. It’s the Army that has it all wrong.’

  Birdie felt overwhelmed at this declaration. She had always liked Mrs Belcher, with whom she conducted her business when the ladies weren’t present. But she had never heard the old housekeeper speak this way before.

  ‘Yours are comforting words, Mrs B,’ Birdie said gratefully. ‘It’s Dad who’s suffered the most. People’s spite has hurt him. Me, I give them a slice of me mind, and Pat, well, he’s young and learning to stick up for himself. But Dad, being a staunch supporter of King and country, he ain’t come to terms with what Frank is supposed to have done.’

  ‘My sympathies are with you, dear. It can’t be easy, certainly not. But tell me, how is that young man of yours? I hope the gossipmongers ain’t spoiled it between you.’

  Birdie felt a sinking sensation as she thought of how Don’s loyalty to her had been tested over the past months. Though at times his feelings towards Frank had surfaced, causing them minor disputes, he had still walked out with her, for which she loved him all the more.

  ‘He’s very well indeed, Mrs Belcher.’

  ‘Have you named the day yet?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Birdie, ‘but to be sure, it ain’t far off. It’s only last year he left the railways to take over his father’s store.’

  ‘Poor lamb,’ agreed the housekeeper with a deep sigh, ‘he’s had a lot on his plate.’

  ‘We’ll get through it,’ sa
id Birdie.

  ‘Does he know about your brother’s escape?’

  Birdie hadn’t given much thought yet to how she would tell him, but perhaps he too had seen it in the newspaper? And yet she was certain that Don would have called round immediately if he’d suspected the escapee in question was Frank.

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ she told the elderly lady, who nodded understandingly.

  ‘Now, will you have another nice warm scone before you go?’ Mrs Belcher asked. ‘I’ve a jar of me own jam in the larder.’

  ‘A real temptation that is,’ smiled Birdie, ‘but I’d best catch our Pat and get him to cycle over for me parcel.’

  Mrs Belcher rose to her feet and crooked her finger. ‘Come into the scullery and fetch your work, then. The parcels ain’t lightweight, by any means, and you’re such a tiny thing, it pains me to think of you carrying it across the island.’

  ‘It’s not that far,’ claimed Birdie as she lifted the heavy bundle from the scullery shelf. ‘It was nice hearing about Mum,’ she added as she lugged the parcel to the back door.

  ‘She was full of spirit, like you, love,’ reflected the housekeeper, letting her out into the courtyard, surrounded by a high brick wall where the poor and destitute waited for the free soup. ‘With never a bad word to say for no one and always a smile on her pretty face.’

  Once again, Birdie felt moved. She walked home feeling better, even though the weight of the parcel caused sweat to form on her brow and dampen her hair. But with the extra work she now had, she could make up the money she had given to Frank.

  At the thought of Frank on the run, Birdie said a little prayer, not knowing quite how to word it, as she wanted no harm to come to Frank. And yet, how could that be, when there could be only one end in sight?

  When Pat returned from work late that afternoon, hot and breathless from his cycle, he could hardly wait to spit out his words.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ he demanded, pulling off his messenger boy’s pillbox cap and throwing it on the kitchen table.

  ‘Gone up to buy some baccy.’ Birdie knew there was something amiss as Pat launched himself in her path. There was both excitement and anger in his face, and Birdie steeled herself for what she would hear next.