by Carol Rivers
‘Frank’s escape was in the newspaper,’ he blurted to Birdie. ‘Everyone knows! Everyone’s guessed!’
‘And it’s only that, just guessing,’ Birdie dismissed.
‘So you know?’
‘Mrs Belcher told me today.’
Pat couldn’t wait to go on. ‘It’s all round the island that the copper called here. The men at the docks said they’d turn a deserter in if they caught one, fully knowing I could hear them talking.’ He sank down on the chair and, undoing the top buttons of his uniform, he wrestled open his jacket. ‘The girls weren’t much better at the offices. Sniggering and nudging each other. They’re all a lot of silly cows.’
‘Pat! Language!’ Birdie reproved, nevertheless in full sympathy with her brother, and immediately set about breaking her golden rule. ‘If they open their mouths and something vile comes out, then you just tell them to come and see Birdie Connor, who’ll soon put ’em straight.’ Birdie couldn’t help herself. She would like to get hold of just one of those silly creatures who had nothing better to do than embarrass a young boy, barely into his new job and shy of the opposite sex.
‘I’ll tell them meself,’ said Pat indignantly. ‘I’m no sissy, getting my sister to speak for me.’
‘Course you’re no sissy,’ she answered quickly. ‘You’re a fine young man now, and forgive me if I forget sometimes. Let ’em think what they like, it don’t matter to us. You and me know our Frank is innocent. With being wounded—’ She stopped, suddenly realizing what she’d said.
Pat looked up, his eyes widening. ‘What did you say?’
In an effort to cover her mistake she grabbed hold of the unopened parcel on the table. ‘Listen, there’s another of these to be collected from the House. I told Mrs Belcher you’d be along before supper.’
But he wouldn’t be put off. ‘You said our Frank was wounded,’ he repeated. ‘You couldn’t have known that, unless he told you.’
Birdie felt the heat flow over her. Pat was bright as a button and he’d caught her out. But if she told him that she’d seen their brother, her promise to Frank would be broken.
Slowly Pat swivelled round on the chair, his eyes full of reproach. ‘I’m right, ain’t I?’
Birdie nodded. She couldn’t deny it.
‘When? Where?’ Pat demanded, sitting forward, his knuckles white, as he gripped the table.
‘On . . . on Sunday, in the backyard, after supper.’
‘The night you was late making our cocoa?
Again Birdie nodded.
‘But you told Dad and me—’
‘I couldn’t say the truth, could I?’ Birdie had a lump in her own throat from being discovered. ‘I had to think of something and it wasn’t a real lie, only a fib.’
‘But Frank is my brother too. I wouldn’t have let on.’
Suddenly there was a knock at the front door. Not just an ordinary knock, but almost a pounding. Birdie froze, not moving an inch, as though she’d been caught again in the act of something terrible. Was it the bobby back?
She looked quickly at Pat and lifted her finger to her lips. ‘Not a word,’ she whispered, and suddenly Pat’s angry face turned fearful.
When the pounding came again, this time louder, Birdie gave a despairing sigh. ‘I’ll have to answer it,’ she decided. ‘Are you all right, love? You’re not going to give me away?’
Pat’s reaction was to scuff his eyes determinedly with the back of his hand. ‘Course I’m not.’
She went with a feeling of powerlessness welling up inside her, though thanking heaven that at least Wilfred wasn’t at home to face this encounter. Bracing her shoulders she made her way down the passage, each step keeping time with the thundering beat of her heart.
Chapter 6
‘Don!’ Birdie exclaimed as she opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ Relief melted over her as she looked into his handsome, familiar face. She had been fully expecting to see Constable Rudge.
Don glanced warily along the passage. ‘Are you busy?’
‘No. I didn’t expect to see you till Sunday.’
Don joined her in the passage and, seeing Pat in the kitchen, he nodded in greeting. ‘Hello there, Pat.’
Birdie quickly took Don’s arm. ‘Come into the parlour. I’ve a nice fire going.’
‘Is your father at home?’ Don asked as he followed her in.
‘No, he’s gone up for some baccy. Sit yourself down for a minute and I’ll make us a brew. And I’ll just send Pat off to Hailing House, for my work. It’ll be nice to have the place to ourselves.’
‘I haven’t time to stop,’ Don told her sharply. ‘I’ve left Mother and Lydia to close the store.’
‘Oh! Well, I shan’t be a moment.’ Birdie hurried out to the kitchen where Pat was waiting. ‘Listen now, love,’ she coaxed, ‘I’ll tell you everything tonight. I haven’t time now and, anyway, Mrs Belcher is waiting for you. Now don’t go pushing the parcel around too roughly in that basket. Last time, the cloth got caught and pulled a thread or two.’
‘You promise you’ll tell me?’ demanded Pat as she pushed him towards the back door.
‘I promise,’ Birdie nodded, eager to return to Don.
Pat shuffled into the backyard, a chill wind whistling into the kitchen as Birdie waited until she saw him take his bicycle, open the gate with a loud creak and disappear down the alley.
Hurriedly putting the kettle on, Birdie then set out the best china and returned to the parlour.
‘Oh, Don, how wonderful it is to see you,’ she gushed as she went over to him, feeling anxious that he hadn’t seated himself, but instead stood stiffly in the spot she had left him, his back straight as a washboard and his chin lifted, tightening his lips unflatteringly as he ignored her warm greeting.
‘Birdie, there’s something we must discuss immediately.’
‘What is it, my love?’
‘Your brother. Is it true he has escaped custody?’
With a feeling of dismay, Birdie searched his eyes for a glimmer of sympathy. But she found only the absence of the soft green flecks that revealed his warm and better nature. ‘I’m afraid it is,’ she conceded. ‘It was only today Mrs Belcher told me it was in the Gazette.’
‘So you had no inkling of it before?’ he asked, causing Birdie to look away from his accusing stare, hardly able to admit it was all of three days ago that the bobby came round.
‘It was, er . . . let me see, Tuesday,’ she managed in no more than a whisper, ‘that a bobby called.’
Don’s eyes opened to their fullest extent in astonishment. ‘Tuesday,’ he repeated and she nodded, praying that he would at least sit down and not collapse.
‘I can’t believe it of you,’ he barked at her, giving Birdie such a jolt that she felt like collapsing herself. ‘Tuesday!’ he exclaimed again, his face draining of colour.
‘It’s not such a long while ago,’ Birdie reasoned. ‘And it wasn’t news until yesterday. Even then, Frank wasn’t mentioned by name—’
‘Clearly it was enough to give rise to speculation,’ he interrupted her angrily. ‘People are no fools, not at all. I would have thought that you could at least have given us warning.’
Birdie looked repentant. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I have a business to run. Remember how it was when Frank’s trouble brewed up? It wasn’t easy at all. People are quick to draw conclusions and assume you too are tarred with the same brush.’
‘Frank’s no criminal,’ she insisted. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Because a court of law has pronounced him so,’ Don replied, a little less accusingly as he saw her distress.
‘Then they’re wrong,’ Birdie said, squaring her shoulders. ‘A criminal is someone that’s broken the law.’
‘Then what has he done?’ Don asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d tell me, my dear.’
How could she tell Don what Frank had told her? And even if she could, as she’d said to Pat, there was no proof
, none at all, only Frank’s account of what had happened. ‘Don,’ she pleaded, catching his arms, ‘just suppose . . . just imagine, if there might be an explanation, something that wasn’t said at his court martial . . . something of importance that never was given the light of day—’
‘Birdie, I thought we had talked this through? Now, stop all this speculation. It’s too much, it really is.’ Then calming himself visibly, he took her hands and drew her to him. ‘Birdie, don’t you see, I’m worried for you, about your soft heart and perhaps Frank turning up here, though he would be mad to do so, with every eye on the lookout for him. A man who has deserted his post and left others to do the fighting – well, even you, my dear, must see why people are so against that?’
Birdie laid her head on his chest, feeling the comfort of his arms, which so opposed the ache in her heart. ‘It’s the gossip, the tongue-wagging, that is so upsetting and bad for business,’ he continued. ‘We shall be pestered again by the gossipmongers. Can’t you see that your brother is putting us through more than we deserve? He should have served his time, finished his sentence with dignity. Not set himself on the run, causing a repeat of all the distress. It really won’t do!’
She wanted to defend her brother but just then she heard a key being drawn up from the letter box.
‘It’s Dad,’ she whispered, and Don let her go.
Wilfred came slowly into the room, puffing and drawing short breaths. ‘Hello, lad,’ he said at the sight of their guest. ‘What brings you here of a weekday?’
‘Uncomfortable matters, I’m sorry to say, Mr Connor. We’ve heard today – that is, Mother, Lydia and myself – that there has been an escape from Wandsworth.’
Wilfred nodded. ‘Yes, it’s true, I’m grieved to admit.’
‘This reflects very badly, Mr Connor. Though I am sure you’re aware of the discomfort it causes and I have no wish to add to your worries.’
‘And I’m grateful for that,’ replied Wilfred, struggling out of his coat and going to his chair where he sank down with a worried frown.
‘Goodbye, Mr Connor,’ Don said abruptly, and left the room. Birdie followed him out.
‘You must bolt the doors at night,’ Don warned her as they stood alone in the passage. ‘Tell Pat to be discreet. He must give no cheek to feed the gossipers until your brother is apprehended. With luck, it will be soon.’
Birdie felt her insides shiver at these words. He kissed her briefly and she felt a sad absence of the deep understanding that she had thought united them.
‘Put a smile on when you go out, my dear, and hold your head high,’ he whispered. ‘People will forget all this when you become my wife.’
That night, as Birdie was about to climb into bed, the cold of the room making her shiver under her nightgown, there was a soft knock at her door. She guessed it would be Pat, as all through their meal and afterwards in the parlour, his eyes had been darting to hers, their expression reminding her of her promise to tell him about Frank.
‘Come in.’ she whispered as she opened the door a crack, to allow Pat to steal in over the bare boards. ‘Let’s sit by the window,’ she urged, fearing that Wilfred, in the next room, might overhear their whispers. Bringing a rug from the bed, she sat on the wooden bench under the sash with him and placed the warm cover over their knees. The only light in the room came from Birdie’s oil lamp placed on her dresser beside the jug and washbasin.
‘Well?’ asked Pat expectantly, folding the baggy, darned sleeves of his vest over his cold knuckles. With his shock of dark hair and his freshly scrubbed cheeks, Birdie thought how young he looked. Again Frank’s warning went through her mind, not to tell a soul of their meeting. But now that Pat had found her out, she didn’t have a choice.
‘Pat, you must promise not to tell a soul,’ Birdie warned again in the firmest tone she could muster.
‘Who would I tell?’ Pat asked impatiently. ‘There’s only me and you on our Frank’s side.’
‘One word would give us away,’ Birdie insisted, ‘like my own blunder. You can’t take back the spoken word.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you everything, though how we can help our brother I don’t know. Frank didn’t escape from prison, but on his way to hospital.’
Pat gasped. ‘Is he ill?’
‘Now, calm yourself, little brother,’ Birdie said gently. ‘He’d started a fever, then was covered in spots and rashes. His guards were reluctant to go near him, thinking it might be the pox. So they sent him to the hospital and it was this that gave Frank his chance to escape.’
‘So the spots wasn’t the pox?’
‘No, course not. He was filthy and running alive with lice that caused his sores. The authorities got the wind up, that’s all.’
‘Did he say what happened?’ Pat burst out almost before she’d finished. ‘Did he say he didn’t desert?’
‘Now, I’ll try to explain in me own way and it ain’t easy, as Frank was confused himself. This is what he told me, not word for word, but near enough. One minute he was fighting the enemy, then he found himself lying in this farmhouse.’
‘And wounded?’ Pat said excitedly.
‘I felt it, Pat, a real dent in his skull.’
‘So he never ran away. Our brother is innocent, like we thought all along.’
‘Yes, but it’s Frank’s word against the Army’s.’
‘Can we tell Dad?’
‘Even if he believed us, what could he do, except worry?’ Birdie reasoned, shaking her head.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ Pat said indignantly. ‘Where is Frank hiding?’
‘I don’t know and that’s the honest truth,’ she admitted. ‘The last time I saw him was the next morning, under the arches at the park. I took him some clothes and a bite to eat. He’d slept on a barge and said he was thinking of going to someone he knew. I gave him some chloride to help the bites. And that was all I could do . . . so very little . . . and yet I yearned to . . .’ She stopped, her voice breaking with a tiny sob.
Pat sat in silence, his eyes looking deep into hers. There was a glisten of a tear there too as the truth slowly dawned on him that Frank couldn’t be helped, not by a sincere wish of theirs to assist him or the plain facts as he presented them, which were in themselves very loose.
‘Will he have to go back to prison if they catch him?’ Pat sniffed.
‘I fear so.’
‘That’s a real unjust thing,’ Pat wailed angrily. ‘Turn a good man into a wild dog and hunt him down. I hate the law.’
‘Don’t say that, love. Hate is a strong word.’
‘But I do.’
‘Hate won’t help our Frank. We’ve got to keep cool heads.’
‘So what shall we do if he comes to the house again like he did on Sunday?’ Hope shone from his eyes.
‘He wouldn’t chance it. We might be watched.’
‘I’d spot a copper a mile off,’ Pat argued.
‘Yes, but they don’t all have tall helmets and flat feet.’
‘Why is it people hate our Frank?’ Pat demanded. ‘When Fred Kirby up the road burgled all them posh houses in Poplar, Willie told me they was supposed to have drank a toast to him in the pub.’
‘Fred Kirby wasn’t accused of desertion,’ Birdie explained, feeling the injustice too. ‘Desertion is a mortal sin in the Nation’s eyes, next to murdering the life out of someone.’
‘Yeah, but our Frank’s not guilty!’ Pat protested again. ‘He’s an innocent man.’
Birdie nodded slowly. ‘I know, I know . . . Now listen, it’s late and now you know everything you have a responsibility to Frank to keep a wise tongue. You’re in the same boat as me now. I had to act out that little scene in front of the constable and must even keep my secret from Don. You won’t even be able to tell Willie.’
They sat quietly and finally Pat stood up, folding the rug over her knees. He looked down at her in the soft light from the oil lamp, then bent and kissed h
er cheek.
‘You don’t have to worry about me, Birdie,’ he told her. ‘But will you tell me if you see him again?
‘I won’t hesitate, love. Now, good night. God bless, and sleep well. And don’t forget your prayers.’
He smiled briefly and padded off, one leg of his long johns where she had shortened them, stuck up around his calf, his bare feet going silently across the draughty boards.
Birdie sat for some while, shivering in the wind whistling through the cracks of the sash, her concerns multiplying now that Pat possessed a knowledge that might be too heavy a burden to bear. She had longed to share her worries with Don today, her heart persuading her that their love could overcome anything, but she had heard from Don’s own lips the wish that Frank would soon be captured, safe in the hands of the law.
Chapter 7
A fortnight later the police arrived to turn the house upside down. Two big, burly constables barged their way in on Friday morning, just as Pat was wolfing his breakfast and Wilfred was coming downstairs. They hammered on the door, giving Birdie a fright that set all her nerves on edge, then burst into the house, waving a paper they said entitled them to search the premises.
It was clear to Birdie she couldn’t stop them anyway, as they banged behind doors and in cupboards, tramping up and down the stairs and investigating even the closet. They made as much mess as they could and Pat failed to go to work on time. They left Birdie’s sewing room in a state, with her rolls of cloth pulled from their neat piles and her cupboards emptied. And when they made down to the airey, only to find Harry’s door locked, one of them remained to wait until he came home.
Birdie flew down the steps at half-past six and found Harry’s door open. ‘Harry! Are you there?’ she called.
He appeared from the dark passage that led down to the scullery and his bedroom. His face bore the traces of dirt from his labours, as did his baggy working trousers and rough cloth shirt. He hadn’t even had time to remove his boots, she noticed.
