In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

  ‘Mother, about the ordering,’ Don greeted breezily, as Aggie swung round from the shelves she was scrubbing. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore her coarse grey apron and her hair was hidden under a scarf. Her lined, but smiling face gave him hope. ‘Before we open, may we discuss one or two things?’

  ‘Talk away, son. This has to be done before we get busy.’ Aggie returned her attention to the thick brown liquid dripping from the shelf. In one mighty sweep the mess was removed, the cloth plunged into a bucket and a dry cloth whisked over the empty space. With practised dexterity she refilled the shelf with packets of Ex-Lax chocolate, stone jars of strawberry jam, quarter-pound bags of Mazawattee tea, thick rolls of hairpins, and packets of slides. Don’s anxiety increased as he saw her reach down for the bundles of firewood that Lydia always kept at the back of the shop. Aggie lifted the basket to knee level, squeezing them on a shelf by the packets of dried prunes, her hand going to the small of her back as she straightened up.

  ‘Mother, shall I carry the firewood to the other end for you?’ he tried, sniffing the strong tarry string tying the bundles. There had been a few complaints lately that the perishables had not lasted long in the larder, tasting a little ‘sour’.

  ‘I keep telling you I don’t like ’em over there,’ Aggie snapped. ‘They’re a regular seller and I want ’em where I can reach them. When I’ve a queue at the counter I can’t go charging all over the place. And don’t go moving that nutty slack. It’s there for all who want to collect it.’

  ‘I thought the council warned us off selling inferior coal?’ Don glanced towards the sacks that he had removed to the yard last week. His mother had returned them, placing them beside the kindling, with discounted prices advertised. ‘It’s dangerous, Mother, and can spit red-hot stones.’

  ‘Me customers like it,’ Aggie retorted. ‘Would you have me disappoint them?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘Now what is it you want?’ she demanded impatiently.

  Don gave a little cough and stepped towards the counter. ‘Those trifles you’ve written in the order book, are they necessary?’ he ventured uncertainly. ‘The pegs and chocolate, for instance? And perhaps the Carbosil, when we already have Sunlight—’

  ‘Trifles! She ain’t struck them through again, has she?’ exclaimed Aggie angrily, dropping her brush. Don watched fearfully as her red knuckles went crossly to her hips, instantly reminding him of the painful clip on his ear that had struck like lightning when he was a child. ‘Go and tell her to write them back,’ Aggie barked, a sound that dried the saliva in his mouth.

  ‘But, Mother, they will go off and perish.’

  ‘Are you out to disobey me, son?’

  ‘No, Mother, but times have changed and—’

  ‘Your father would turn in his grave to hear you challenge me,’ Aggie shouted. ‘I never had a word of complaint from Stephen, God rest his soul, and I’ll not have any nonsense from you. Now bugger off and do as I tell you. And while you’re out the back, you might as well bring through them crates of brown cauliflowers and sprouting spuds. It’s Christmas coming up and the kids will be on holiday. Their mothers will have them doing their errands and where are they likely to go? They’ll come to Aggie Thorne because she’s got the two-penny and three-penny bars of chocolate up front on the counter. And along with the chocolate they’ll buy the cheap veg for their mothers instead of going up to the markets. Now, if you or she has got any argument with that, spit it out right now.’

  Don resigned himself to being defeated. No one knew better than he the mantra of his and Stephen’s childhood: look after the customers’ small needs and the big orders will come pouring shortly after. It was his father’s first rule of shopkeeping and had rung loudly in his brain right up to the day he had announced his intention to work for the railways.

  Sighing, he beat a retreat to the office. Here he tried to experience a few moments of peace but the door opened and Lydia walked in with James. Her smile, a little shy and quite beguiling, caught him off guard.

  ‘Good morning, Donald.’

  ‘Good morning, Lydia. And how are you, young James?’ The tiny, delicate-looking, pale-faced child grinned, guiltily reminding Don of his dead brother as he bent and patted the dark curls fondly, warmed by the youthful innocence in the child’s eyes.

  ‘We’re just off to school. I shan’t be long,’ Lydia said pleasantly.

  ‘Right you are.’ Don stepped back to allow them to pass, meeting Lydia’s gaze as he did so. The bloom had returned to her cheeks lately and as always he felt protective, but there was another urge now, a powerful one that tightened the muscles of his stomach in an exciting yet dreadful way.

  ‘Oh, Donald,’ she murmured softly, glancing up at him and laying her hand softly on his sleeve, ‘did you see my alterations in the book?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he faltered, not wanting to disappoint her after these few moments of intimacy, ‘but Mother feels . . .’ he searched his vocabulary unsuccessfully for an inoffensive phrase.

  ‘I understand.’ She cut him short, almost conspiratorially, her dark eyes so wide and innocent that he felt himself sink into them. ‘But we are managing on a very narrow margin. Business is not at all like it was in your father’s time. So why buy in expensive pegs when the hawkers and gypsies sell so cheaply on the doorstep? And the Sunlight and Lifebuoy are quite sufficient. As for the chocolate, we have more than enough left on the shelves.’

  Don found himself nodding his agreement and languishing in her dark gaze. He was met with an encouraging smile that made him feel a great deal more in command of things than his mother ever did.

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ she said sweetly, then went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Don felt her lips so warm and comforting, that his arm slid around her waist. For a moment they stared at one another, just like they had last week in the storeroom. She’d come in unexpectedly and tripped over an orange box. He’d caught her, bearing her weight, reluctant to let her go. And there was the incident before, when he’d taken her and James to Victoria Park. James had perched on his lap by the pond, as they sat watching the ducks, and had called him Daddy by mistake, and Lydia had smiled at the small error, let her gaze linger, a gaze that said so much. He couldn’t have been wrong, and he’d felt so enraptured in that instant.

  ‘We must go,’ she said, giving the boy a gentle nudge. ‘Run out through the yard, James.’

  Don watched him dart off and Lydia dallied, her eyes acknowledging the complicity between them with a flutter of dark lashes. For a moment, he felt as though he was a young man again, just starting at the railways in those precious years when he had broken away to find freedom. This thought alone gave him a feeling of being taller, stronger, a law only unto himself.

  ‘Lydia, I—’ he whispered, moving towards her.

  But she shook her head quickly and placed her finger to her lips. ‘Later,’ she whispered, her eyes growing wide.

  Then he took in a deep breath and nodded, watching her leave by the yard entrance after James. All too soon she had gone and, somewhat detached from his concentration, he tried to prepare himself for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 13

  Pat Connor was cycling fast through the quiet Sunday streets of the island, finally on his way to meet Willie Mason. He had already seen Willie at Mass and they’d arranged to meet that afternoon at Chalk Wharf, their usual Sunday destination. Willie was providing the ginger beer and no doubt some other goodies, and Pat had bought a sugared doughnut, Willie’s favourite, from the Carmen Café by the docks. He’d also sported out three pence for two packets of Woodbines and the Magnet. They could enjoy a smoke, whilst reading the comic, and have a few laughs.

  Pat had gulped down the meal that Birdie had cooked, eager to get out of the house. But his dad and Birdie and even Harry had been talking about the rise in numbers people of suffering from the flu. There hadn’t been a case in March Street for twelve months, and the disease was thought to be on t
he wane. But last week one of the Kirby boys went down with what was said to be the ague, bringing worries to the fore again. When this depressing subject had been exhausted, the conversation had veered to the national industrial crisis. After which Birdie had commented on the price of spuds. It was then that Pat had asked to be excused. He’d had more than enough of his Sunday observances.

  Mass had seemed endless, with the incense making his eyes and nose smart. But at least he and Willie had had a bit of a giggle. They were head altar boys now, and Willie had brought a piece of cordite with him to the vestry and let it off. The stink had filled the vestry and put the younger ones in fits of laughter during the Latin responses.

  Now there was a broad smile on Pat’s face as the wind whipped through his hair and into the open collar of his shirt. He stopped by the East India Dock, detached the studs from his stiff collar and removed the vest that Birdie said he must still wear, bundling them along with his other goodies into the message pouch attached to his bicycle. He felt free and excited. Today they’d just muck about on the wharf, but tomorrow after work they might cycle to the Hippodrome and look at the old posters of Lockhart’s Elephants, the famous touring group. Or even go as far as Mile End and the markets to buy monkey nuts on the stall outside the pie and mash shop.

  Ten minutes later Pat came to a screeching halt. Willie was already sitting on the edge of the mossy wharf, his bicycle on the ground beside him. He held a long stick with a length of string dangling from it, hoping to catch some tiddlers. The most noticeable thing about Willie, Pat reflected, was that despite being a messenger boy, and riding miles for the PLA, Willie’s plump thighs rubbed together noisily in his leggings. But today they were free of uniform and Willie sat with an open collar and a smile on his round face.

  ‘How many have you caught today?’ Pat asked breathlessly as he took up his position next to Willie.

  ‘You’re the fifth!’ exclaimed Willie, laughing raucously at his own joke. He scratched his head, which was covered by only in a thin layer of pale hair; since he’d had a bad case of nits, his mother had shaven it close. ‘I ain’t got nothing on the end of the line. See, it don’t even touch the water.’

  ‘You want to find yourself a few new jokes,’ shrugged Pat as he dangled his legs over the green, slimy stones, nudging Willie fiercely in the ribs.

  Willie dropped his improvised rod in the river. ‘Now see what you’ve made me do,’ he protested.

  ‘It was only a stick,’ laughed Pat, nudging his elbow. ‘And you weren’t likely to have a bite. Any fish in that lot would die before it was caught.’ Pat nodded to the dirty water below them.

  ‘It was the Belle that left that mess from her bilge pumps,’ said Willie knowledgeably. ‘She docked last week and has gone off again. P’raps to Southend or Clacton.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Pat. ‘You never said before.’ He felt a little indignant he hadn’t been told, for both him and Willie had applied to the purser of the paddle-steamer for jobs. The purser had said he would have taken them both on, had not the Woolwich & Clacton Steamship Company sold out to another operator, who had cut the budget. But Pat still lived in hope. Each time the Belle came in, he and Willie made their presence known.

  ‘Me brother saw her docked,’ said Willie, lifting the cloth package beside him and untying the knotted ends.

  ‘He’s not asked for a job too, has he?’ demanded Pat in alarm. Willie had six brothers and the Belle couldn’t take them all.

  ‘Course not. He can’t even swim.’

  ‘Nor can you,’ pointed out Pat, cunningly. If there was a job going, he hoped he’d be at the top of the list as he was a strong swimmer. And that might count for something if he had to save a passenger’s life.

  ‘No, but I can float.’

  Pat smothered his laughter at the mental picture of Willie floating, his ample stomach bobbing above the waves. Though they’d been to the open baths many times, and even down in the river, Willie had never tried to learn to swim. He wasn’t afraid of the water, though, but laid on his back, bobbing.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Pat peered hopefully into the open parcel that Willie had balanced on his knees. Willie’s mum always made up delicious snacks, though they were as big and succulent as a meal. Willie’s dad was a cook in the city and brought home lots of perks.

  ‘Two sausage rolls,’ Willie explained unnecessarily as he fingered the well-baked brown pastry with dirty nails; ‘a pancake that ain’t hot, but I had a bit of the corner anyway whilst I was waiting for you; this fruit pie, and four buns that have got spice in. And there’s a bottle of ginger beer in me saddle bag.’

  ‘Get it out then,’ said Pat eagerly.

  ‘Don’t eat nothing till I come back,’ Willie insisted, his movement clumsy as he climbed to his feet and leaned over his bicycle.

  Pat lifted the cloth and inhaled the delicious aroma of spiced buns. His mouth watered. He fancied most, though, the sausage rolls and the pancake, at least the end that Willie hadn’t nibbled.

  ‘We’ll go halfsy-halfsy,’ bargained Pat, when Willie had sat down again and the ginger beer was fastened between them. He unwrapped his doughnut and watched Willie’s eyes narrow to greedy slits. ‘And I’ve got some fags and the Magnet. We can read about what Tom Redwing and the Bounder done at Greyfriars. After, we’ll jump over them barges and I’ll be To m Redwing and you can be the Bounder.’

  ‘Why do I always have to be him?’

  ‘We can change over next week.’

  ‘In that case you can have an extra bun,’ said Willie generously, his tongue going round his podgy lips as Pat exhibited the sugar on his hands from the doughnut.

  They began to eat hungrily although it wasn’t yet teatime. When they’d finished, except for two buns they were going to keep for later, Pat took out the cigarettes. He had matches too, but they’d got a bit damp on his bicycle in the rainstorm last week.

  After looking around to make certain they weren’t being watched, Pat leaned close. ‘We’ll light just one, and swig from the bottle,’ he said, happy that a grey day was settling over the river, shadowing the few tugs sailing past and shielding the wharf behind them. There was a pub at the end, but apart from the noise of the singing and a few yells, no one was stumbling out.

  ‘Me mum’d kill me if she saw me smoking and getting drunk,’ said Willie with bravado.

  ‘It won’t make us really tipsy, not ginger beer.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t care, she’s not likely to come here.’

  ‘She might,’ Pat teased, looking over his friend’s shoulder.

  Willie almost fell into the water as he turned, but relaxed as Pat’s laughter rang out. The two boys pushed each other, wrestling gently, managing to keep their balance and the bottle upright.

  ‘You first,’ Pat said generously, handing his friend the Woodbine and striking the match several times before the tip caught.

  Willie took a puff and coughed until his face turned purple, then handed the cigarette to Pat. A hoot from a boat made the boys jump and the cigarette fell into the water.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Pat, drawing a guffaw from Willie. They began to laugh loudly.

  ‘Light another,’ urged Willie daringly, ‘or shall we have one each?’

  Pat glanced along the cobbles. There were a few people sauntering in the distance and there were crates for loading piled high, affording a place to smoke in secrecy. ‘Over there,’ he nodded and the boys scrambled with their bicycles to cover.

  When they were hidden, Pat lit up, passing the Woodbine and bottle to Willie. He lit one for himself, then took a long gulp of the ginger beer and sneezed as the bubbles tickled his nose. He puffed gamely, disliking the taste, but all the same he said, ‘Better than roll-ups.’ To which Willie nodded, unable to reply, belching smoke from his mouth and clapping himself on the chest as he burped loudly. Pat had smoked one or two roll-ups before, but had never enjoyed them, and Willie had once been violently sick. But he forgot
all that now, as they gulped the fizzy liquid and went into hysterics.

  Pat fell on his side, his chin coming hard down on the ground, imagining himself tipsy. The impact caused the Woodbine to fly from his lips and lie a few inches in front of him. The ash spilled on the grime-ridden wharf, and Pat was still giggling when the curve of a boot lifted above the cigarette. Pat watched transfixed, as the toe snapped down, crushing what life there was out of it.

  As his gaze lifted, attached to the scuffed but serviceable black leather boot with laces tied tightly around a slim ankle, he found a slender leg covered in brown breeches. His gaze raised higher, to the neat, dainty waist strapped by a belt and the upright, slender stance of a woman. He was in no doubt as to the true gender of this person dressed as a man, for the face under the boy’s cloth cap, was perfectly and delicately formed. A pair of dark, mysterious eyes with black lashes as thick as fans, gazed down on him. Lips as soft and smooth as silk, but with an indefinable menacing quality, slowly parted.

  The days of early December were shorter now, but it seemed a crime to Birdie to stop in when the sun’s weak rays faintly lit the island. It had been such a long day. She missed Don more than ever. She’d been to Mass with Flo, and Father Flynn had taken an age to read from the Gospel and incorporate the christening of a new-born child into the service. Pat and Willie, in their black gowns and surplices, had organized the younger boys. And Flo’s girls, Enid and Emily, had gone all bashful as they’d gone up with Flo for their blessing, going red as beetroots as Pat had grinned from the altar.