by Carol Rivers
But after arriving home and cooking the midday meal, a beef stew that she had prepared last night, she felt restless. There was no longer the anticipation of waiting for Don’s arrival. Even Pat had been anxious to leave after his meal. Not surprising, as the talk between Harry and her father had been about the troubles in Ireland and the state of the British unions. Her own heart hadn’t been in the conversation either. She missed her habit of going up to her room and dressing for Don. Not that an outing of two hours was much to write home about, but it had been very precious to her.
Was he missing her as much as she was missing him? Dare she hope that at two or three o’clock there would be a knock on the door? But the hours passed and now the sun was going down, peeping through a cloudy sky that had threatened rain all day.
As Pat still wasn’t home and her father was asleep in his chair, and she had already cleared her bench in her sewing room, Birdie lifted her hat from the hallstand and set it gently over her waves. Taking her coat, she wrapped herself up, not quite knowing where she was going. At the last moment, she scribbled a note to leave on the table, explaining her absence. Pat was sure to come in wanting his supper, but he would have to wait.
Outside a breeze was still busy across the pavements, drifting down the sounds of the children at play. The Kirby twins were as riotous as ever, the other children either taking their lead or defying it. A ball came tumbling across Birdie’s path, to be scooped up by little Amy Popeldos. Birdie liked the Popeldos family. Mr Popeldos was Greek and worked in the docks as a casual. His wife worked at the markets, often taking the kids with her. Little Amy was no more than four, and the youngest of seven children. Her brothers and sisters were playing outside too, bellowing back at the Kirbys in their own strange language, half-Greek, half-English.
Giving Birdie a sticky grin from under her heavy dark, straight fringe, Amy wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Her coat was a size too large for her and her boots were heavy with Blakey’s. ‘T’ra,’ she called to Birdie, and Birdie grinned back.
A little further on, Birdie saw Vi and Annie Carter, standing together on their doorstep, arms folded across their chests. As soon as the two spinster sisters saw her coming, they disappeared inside.
Birdie felt the slam of the door as if it was an insult. She paused for a moment, knowing they would be scrutinizing her from behind the lace curtain. Just as Ma Jenkins, no doubt, would be next door, thought Birdie, the blood rushing heatedly to her cheeks.
She was annoyed and angry, but what use was there in causing a scene? Then to her surprise, the portly figure of Ma Jenkins appeared, as her front door flew open. Dressed in a shapeless brown coat that made her look as wide as she was tall, she gave a little start when she saw Birdie. Her narrowed gaze under a basin-shaped hat gave Birdie only the slightest hint of recognition.
‘Afternoon,’ Birdie said politely as the older woman stepped out and folded her arms challenging.
‘Don’t try putting on that sweet smile for my benefit,’ shouted Ma Jenkins. ‘It don’t wash around here no more.’
Birdie felt her anger rise as she stepped slowly forward. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? Bad blood, that’s what I’m saying. It runs in the family. You should be ashamed of yerself. First it’s that high-and-mighty shopkeeper calling at all hours, then ’im from downstairs always in and out, and Gawd knows how many more you let in by the alley. What sort of house are you keeping, or have I just answered me own question?’
‘You suspicious, foul-mouthed old crone,’ Birdie gasped as she drew her shoulders back and confronted the bristling woman. ‘You sit at the window all day and fester on the lies you’re telling. How dare you talk about innocent people in that way? I keep a decent home and make an honest living. It ain’t none of your business who comes in or goes out of my door.’
‘You’d have to be bleedin’ blind not see ’em,’ Ma Jenkins retaliated. ‘What with the law disturbing everyone’s peace, and bringing down the reputation of a good decent neighbourhood. Who knows who you’re keeping hidden there, and, mark my words, if I ever get a glimpse of that no-good brother of yours—’
Before Ma Jenkins could finish, Birdie fell on her. She knew that she was close to losing her temper, but this time her neighbour had gone too far. ‘Don’t ever – ever – talk about Frank in that way again.’ Pinning the terrified woman against the door jamb, Birdie pulled herself up to her full height and, poking her finger hard in the gossip’s trembling shoulder, she threatened, ‘Birdie Connor might be half your size, and seeming to be a pushover because she has the manners to bid her so-called neighbour good morning. But go against her kith and kin, and she’ll make you’ll wish you’d never spoken such filth aloud.’
Birdie swirled round and, without a glance back, flung herself in through her own front door, slamming it fiercely behind her. She stood there, shaking. Her skin pricked with rage. Even her hair felt as though it was standing on end. It was a few moment before she managed to breathe normally, but she was still left seething. How dare that old prune call her a loose woman! And to accuse the family of being bad blood!
As Birdie stood there she knew the street must have witnessed the argument. Ma Jenkins’ lies would already have circulated and spread their poison. But no one was going to speak of the Connors in such a way!
For once, Birdie didn’t have the heart to put the kettle on. Her anger subsiding, she walked dejectedly to the kitchen. Was she so angry because there was truth in what Ma Jenkins had said? Frank’s conviction and escape must seem proof to others that the Connors were disreputable. Had welcoming Harry into the fold as one of the family given the wrong impression whilst she was seeing Don? But it must be known by now that Donald Thorne no longer appeared at the Connors’ front door of a Sunday afternoon. Yet Harry’s innocent visits were used by Ma Jenkins to fan the flames of idle gossip.
Birdie felt a familiar sinking sensation inside her. It was a feeling that had lived at the pit of her stomach every day since Frank’s arrest. She woke up with it each morning, forcing it from her mind, pretending nothing was amiss until her visit to Hailing House. Was Don justified in his comments about Frank?
A desire to see Don suddenly filled her. Why had she refused his proposal? Why hadn’t she done as he asked? Instead, she’d allowed her pride to get in the way, believing that Don was behaving unjustly towards Frank. Yet, could she now see it from his side?
On the spur of the moment she left the house again, holding her chin high as she passed Ma Jenkins’ closed door. Soon she had skirted the docks and was heading to Poplar. Suddenly she couldn’t wait a moment longer. She just had to see Don.
As Birdie walked along the High Street, her heart beat rapidly at the thought of what she was about to do. What would she say to Don? There was a hunger inside her that had to be satisfied. Dear Don, her sweetheart, who was probably missing her just as much as she was him. Had their pride kept them apart? Perhaps she could suggest they begin afresh, forget their quarrel for now?
Birdie crossed the road, in between the carts and lorries, and though the streets were not half as busy as they were on a weekday, the unofficial traders were out, dodging the law: the young posy-sellers with their roses wrapped in silver paper and smelling of perfume; the pub-buskers mingling with the dark blue uniforms of the Salvation Army; the salt-seller with his barrow and block of salt carved by a rusty saw. A lamplighter was dismounting from his bicycle, the long ignition pole balanced on his shoulder. The hot-chestnut barrow by the dock wall had little paper twists of blackened chestnuts, smelling of charcoal. At the crossroads by the hospital, a woman was standing at her barrow, scooping winkles into newspaper cones.
Now Birdie was so close to the store, a fine sweat beaded her forehead. In just a few moments . . .
She stopped beside the alley that led down to the traction engine yard. There were no smoke-stained blinds ahead, their frills waving in the breeze, and the smell of horse
dung and over-ripe vegetables, laced with the tang of paraffin, was nowhere near as pungent as it was on a weekday. The pedestrians strolled slowly along, in no great hurry to get anywhere and in the growing dusk, the lamplighter began his work.
In the distance, quite a way up, were three figures she recognized. A straight-backed man with proud shoulders under his smart Sunday overcoat, a woman in an elegant camel-coloured suit and matching cloche hat, a young boy, dressed in his Sunday tunic and short trousers. James held tightly to Don’s hand and Lydia slipped her fingers over his arm. The three of them sauntered slowly to the door that led off from the street.
A pain went though Birdie’s chest, as sharp as a knife. She watched them leave the street, saw their casual ease and smiles, noted how James was hoisted easily up into Don’s arms and heard the drift of laughter from Lydia as they disappeared inside.
Birdie leaned back against the wooden joist of the yard gate. Closing her eyes, she wiped her brow with her handkerchief. It was only the sound of a vehicle horn that roused her and sent her awkwardly back in the vague direction of March Street.
Chapter 14
When Birdie arrived home it was dusk. She went straight to the parlour and found it empty. The fire needed attention and so she added a few more coals. Then she hung up her coat and hat and went to the kitchen. What was left of a meal remained in a bowl, and the dirty plates were piled on the draining board. She went upstairs and knocked on her father’s door but, as she expected, he wasn’t there. Pat’s room also was empty and she went downstairs again, more than ever aware of the emptiness around her. Wilfred had most likely gone to join his friends at the Quarry and Pat was not yet back from meeting up with Willie.
She tied on her apron to tackle the dishes. She tried to hum and even sing, though something seemed to prevent a melody coming out. As she furiously scrubbed the dishes, a pin fell from her hair, allowing a lock to fall over her eyes. She brushed it back with wet hands, and the scraping of Sunlight that she’d added to the water mysteriously touched her eyes.
‘Ouch!’ she cried aloud, but there was no one to hear her. Screwing up her eyes, she made it all the worse by running her hands over her face. Half blinded, she felt for the drawer and a clean cloth, but it escaped her grasp. So she tore her apron from her waist and plunged her face into it. Dropping down on a chair, she allowed the sobs to come up from her chest, one after another.
‘You daft thing, Brigid Connor.’ The apron smelled of the beef stew and other homely aromas, but the faint whiff of paraffin from the kindling made her start all over again. It reminded her of the store and of Don and everything that seemed so far removed from her grasp. ‘If only you’d just said you’d do what he wanted,’ she told herself miserably. Was his one request too much to ask? ‘Oh, Birdie Connor, you are the most—’
‘Birdie?’ a voice interrupted, and she twisted so fast that she dropped the apron, her fingers going out to follow it, but the soap in her eyes smarted all over again. ‘Is that you, Pat?’
‘No, it’s me.’ Harry pressed the apron back in her palms, guiding her hands to her eyes. ‘Now you just have a good cry. And don’t let me stop you. I only looked in to see you were all right.’
‘Well, of course I am,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘The soap went in my eyes.’
‘A great hazard,’ he agreed, ‘when washing the dishes.’
‘Are you laughing at me, Harry Chambers?’
‘I should never do that. Unless I had your permission of course.’
‘Well, I’ll give you permission now.’
He sat down beside her. ‘Is it more than soap that’s making those pretty eyes red, I wonder.’
‘I was giving meself a good talking to.’ She heaved a big sigh. ‘I suppose me dad’s gone down to his pals?’
‘He’s in good spirits,’ Harry assured her. ‘Certainly a shade or two up on his daughter.’
Birdie dropped the apron in her lap. ‘I’ve had . . . I’ve had . . .’ she began, refusing to give way to the tremble on her lips, ‘what Mum would have called the devil of an afternoon.’
Then, without a word of prompting, she found herself telling him about the Carter sisters and Ma Jenkins and their downright rudeness, and her sudden desire to see her sweetheart, followed by her unexpected march to Poplar. And though she didn’t quite know how to put it, how the sight of Don with Lydia and James had so disturbed her. She listened to herself, thinking she sounded so peevish, so small-minded. But she knew very well as she spoke – but couldn’t admit to Harry – that she’d been guilty of the worst of all sins: a case of the severest and greenest jealousy.
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked to be in your shoes,’ murmured Harry, listening with quiet attention.
Birdie sat forward hopefully. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, I do.’
‘It just seemed rude to interrupt,’ Birdie explained, ‘with them looking so . . . so well, together,’ she settled for. Then added guiltily, ‘And why shouldn’t they be? There’s no harm in a walk out on a Sunday afternoon, no harm at all!’
Harry nodded slowly. ‘No, none that I can imagine.’
‘She is his sister-in-law,’ Birdie continued. ‘Not as if she wasn’t family.’
‘So maybe it was all above board?’ he ventured, a dark eyebrow shooting up to his hairline.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Birdie, her attention caught by the expressive gentleness of his face.
‘There was your beau,’ he confirmed, ‘and his sister-in-law, Lydia, and her boy, James, simply out for a stroll. And isn’t it the way of nature for James to be close to his uncle? With no grandfather or pa, your man is likely to take their place.’ The eyebrow fell back into place. ‘Certainly this is not fresh news to you, Birdie. You must have known it for some time?’
Birdie sat in disappointed silence. All at once, the gravity hit her of what she must accept in marriage to Don. ‘I suppose I’ve known it,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t quite see it, until today. I’ve been thinking of our own children and Don loving our babies.’ She blushed.
‘But then again, he couldn’t let the little lad down, now, could he?’
Birdie sat clutching her apron. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t acknowledged the presence of Lydia and James in Don’s life. She had, but in a way that was removed from herself and Don. For a moment she thought she might have imagined it all, but then the memory of Lydia’s smile and the happy look on James’s face returned, his small hand grasped tenderly in Don’s larger one.
‘Now, how is that finger of yours?’ Harry asked, standing up, indicating he was about to leave.
‘Oh, it’s healed perfectly, thank you.’
‘Most wounds do, if left to nature,’ he smiled, standing and sliding his work-bag over his shoulder.
‘Goodbye, Harry. You can forget all me complaints now. It was just a passing moment.’
‘Ah, think nothing of it,’ he grinned. ‘The world seems an unkindly place sometimes.’
She caught the last of his words as he turned, striding his way up the passage. She heard the front door close behind him and Birdie sat in the silence, a less lonely silence now, where the house didn’t seem quite so empty, nor the shadows so gloomy.
Pat’s hands gripped the handlebars of his bicycle tightly as he raced towards Stepney. He was excited by the thought of seeing Frank again. The woman who’d been dressed in men’s clothing and had approached them at Chalk Wharf had drawn him aside from Willie.
He’d listened in awe to her strange accent as she had said she would take him to Frank that evening. He was to meet her by Stepney Green, but he wished now that he’d insisted on knowing more. Instead, he’d stared, quite beguiled by her big, dark eyes, shielded by the brim of her cap. She had warned him that no one must know of the arrangement, only him. Then, as quickly as she’d appeared, she’d vanished.
As Pat cycled along the Commercial Road, he heard the clock of a church strike seven. He was in plenty of time and w
ished he hadn’t bolted his stew. But he’d been keen to get out of the house after his supper. Birdie had gone to her sewing room and as his dad had taken himself off to the Quarry again, Pat had made a dash for it. Luckily, he’d bumped into Harry and, as an afterthought, left a message for his sister that he’d be home by nine.
Pat gulped the air to the back of his throat, knowing he was entering Stepney, an area jam-packed full of all nationalities. There was a muddle of two-and three-storey houses with narrow streets and dark alleys. He’d cycled through here a few times on his rounds, trying to avoid the dozens of kids playing in the street. Some were the children of gypsies, others costermongers, and this evening a group of men were carrying banners, demonstrating for workers’ rights.
As he made his way towards Stepney Green, he thought guiltily of Willie, who had been annoyed that their afternoon had been spoiled.
‘Who was that?’ Willie had demanded as the woman had left.
‘A friend of my sister’s,’ Pat had improvised, eager to leave Chalk Wharf to solve the mystery.
‘Funny friends your sister has, dressed up like a man. How did she know you was here?’
‘Birdie must’ve said. I’ve got to go and help with Dad.’
‘What now?’ Willie had questioned suspiciously.
‘I told you, he has funny turns.’
Willie had given him a doubtful look but had dutifully picked up his bicycle and the remnants of their food, and Pat had given him two Woodbines to keep him happy. ‘See you tomorrow,’ Pat had shouted as they parted, though Willie cycled off calling he might not make it. Pat knew he would. Willie was just disappointed their smoking and drinking had been brought abruptly to an end.
Suddenly Pat put on his brakes. There was a commotion going on in the middle of the narrow street. A Salvation Army band and choir, singing their Sunday hymns, was being heckled. One man, in rough cord trousers and a cap, was shouting at the bandsmen to clear off. A few yards up two men were arguing. One of them waved a board announcing the railway union strike.
