In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

All these thoughts were stored in her mind as, abruptly, Don stood up to leave.

  ‘Why didn’t you say about the licence?’ Birdie asked anxiously when they stood at the front door.

  ‘It wasn’t the right time,’ Don said as he put on his coat and goggles. ‘And, Brigid, I must remind you that in becoming my wife, your life here ends? Remaining nurse and housekeeper to your family is out of the question. I really don’t think it wise to make promises to your father you can’t keep.’

  ‘But I shall come on one or two days!’

  ‘You can’t be in two places at one time. A wife’s duty is to her husband. Even your father understands this. Now, stop fretting and let’s be glad our differences are resolved.’

  ‘But, Don—’

  He drew her to him and kissed her. Then striding out into the damp day, he waved goodbye.

  When the vehicle had roared off, Birdie closed the door, her feelings confused. ‘Oh, you daft thing,’ she muttered crossly. ‘Don’s right. You can’t run two households.’ And yet there was an ache deep inside of her. She felt as though she was abandoning her old life without a care, leaving Wilfred and Pat to fend for themselves. Surely she would be able to convince Don that she was needed here too? If only for a few hours in the week . . .

  Birdie pulled back her shoulders. Why was she fretting? It had turned out to be a wonderful Christmas Day. She had Don back, the man who meant everything to her. Wasn’t she just the luckiest and happiest girl in the whole wide world?

  Chapter 22

  It came as a shock, after the mild weather at Christmas, that in January the temperatures dipped close to freezing. But to Birdie, everything seemed lighter and brighter from the minute she woke up until the time she fell asleep. At last she was to be married!

  It was a cold Tuesday morning later in the month when Flo called round to inspect the girls’ dresses that Birdie had begun work on.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Flo, somewhat wistfully, drawing a finger across a lemon cotton bodice, which was pinned and tacked to the paper pattern. ‘It’s just a shame they won’t be real bridesmaids, not in the true sense of the word.’

  ‘Well, it’s the best I can do,’ said Birdie disappointedly, placing the two dresses aside. After all the trouble she had gone to in getting Don to give his approval, Flo didn’t seem very appreciative.

  ‘Are you really sure you’re doing the right thing, Birdie?’ Flo asked after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Don’t let’s go over all that again,’ said Birdie irritably. ‘I’m lucky Don has decided he’ll marry me after all that’s gone on.’

  ‘I’d say he was the lucky one,’ Flo retorted, her tone cooling again. ‘You’re a Roman Candle, ain’t you? Doesn’t he understand what marriage means to a cradle Catholic?’

  ‘Course he does,’ said Birdie, becoming even more agitated that Flo couldn’t seem to see her point of view. ‘He’s got his family to think of too. Their beliefs are just as important as ours. And to keep everyone happy this seemed the best way.’

  ‘It won’t make your dad happy,’ put in Flo with a grimace. ‘I can just see his face when you—’

  ‘Oh, Flo, do let’s talk about something else.’

  Flo shrugged. ‘I was only saying, that’s all.’

  Birdie was desperate to change the subject. ‘Now, do you want to see Lady Annabelle’s frock?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Have you finished it, then?’

  ‘Not quite, but I’ll have it ready to fit well in time for Lady Hailing’s party at Easter.’ Birdie took her to the cupboard and at the sight of the frock, Flo gasped.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely!’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘That’s a daft question! Just look at the way that tangerine bow sits on the end of the bodice. And the way you’ve cut the skirt! Oh my!’

  ‘It’s cut on the bias,’ explained Birdie as she held out the folds. ‘And the bow will compliment the one on the hat that Lady Annabelle drew.’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything. What material is it?’

  ‘Chiffon,’ explained Birdie, wondering if Lady Annabelle would like the mischievous sweep of the skirt, which had been very challenging to cut but was all the rage in fashion circles. ‘I saw a dress just like it on this woman who was going into the Strand Hotel, that afternoon I was with Harry,’ Birdie said thoughtfully. ‘She was very pretty, but not as pretty as Lady Annabelle.’

  ‘And what did Harry say about you making it up with Don?’ Flo asked flippantly.

  ‘Nothing much,’ shrugged Birdie. ‘Just said he hoped I’d be happy.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Flo as she studied Birdie’s forlorn face. ‘You look as though you’ve lost ten bob and found a penny.’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter. Not really . . .’

  ‘Spit it out.’ Flo was insistent.

  ‘Well, if you must know, it’s Harry. I thought we was getting along just fine, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  Birdie sighed wistfully. ‘He doesn’t talk so much. And he never stops and plays dominoes or cards these days. Though, to be fair, Pat is always off out with Willie. But Harry used to like my cooking, least he said he did, yet these days it’s as though he can’t wait to leave, to get out of the house. Says he got a lot of work on, but that shouldn’t stop your appetite, should it?’

  Flo grinned. ‘No, but I know what would.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s a bloke, ain’t he?’

  ‘So?’

  Flo rolled her eyes. ‘He’s got his needs.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’

  Flo nodded sagely. ‘He isn’t going to tell you everything. You’re not his mum.’

  ‘But he would have said something, I’m sure. Or brought her round. Or something.’

  ‘Listen, Miss Know-it-all,’ said Flo, wagging a finger in front of her nose, ‘you need your eyes tested, you do. Harry is a good looker, in case you haven’t noticed.’ She pushed back her hair and tucked a strand behind her ear, adding, ‘Me and Reg went to see this film at the fleapit up Stepney. The Tramp, it was called, with Charlie Chaplin. It was about this fellow who falls in love with the girl of his dreams and helps her out of a real sticky spot. But she’s stuck with this old grumpy guts who is more trouble than he’s worth—’

  ‘Flo!’ Birdie exclaimed. ‘Don ain’t grumpy!’

  ‘I didn’t mean Don.’

  ‘It sounded like you did.’

  Flo only raised her eyes. ‘All I’ve ever heard Don talk about is the store, and that ain’t no laughing matter. Anyway, as I said, it wasn’t Don I was meaning. All I was saying was there’s more to Harry than you think. Like Charlie in The Tramp, protecting the heroine, Harry stuck up for you against old Ma Jenkins. From what you told me he put the old cow well and truly in her place. And when has Don ever done that, or taken you up the Dock Road of a Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘He doesn’t get time, else he would,’ retorted Birdie, annoyed that Flo should point this out, even though it might be true. ‘And you can stop going on about Harry, as you’ve said yourself he’s courting.’

  Flo gave a strangled cough. ‘I only said he might be.’

  Birdie hung Lady’s Annabelle’s dress back in the cupboard. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, help me tidy this mess.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ said Flo, making a face and plunging the scissors, cottons and thimble into Birdie’s work-bag. But Birdie couldn’t stop thinking about what Flo had just said. Her friend must see something in Harry that she didn’t. He was just, well, just Harry. The lodger and friend, who never spoke much about himself or boasted – not that Don was a boaster! No – what was she saying? She didn’t mean that at all. Don was a proud man, that was all. Why shouldn’t he talk of himself and the store in the way he did? And what did Flo mean about Don’s sense of humour? Sure, he had a fine appreciation of a joke.

  ‘Come on, let’s go out,’ suggested Flo, glancing out of the window longingly. ‘I
t’s cold, but too nice to stay in.’

  ‘I’ve got too much to do,’ said Birdie, indicating the pile of alterations on her worktop.

  ‘Oh, blow them for a lark,’ said Flo rebelliously. ‘Let’s do our shopping at the market. I made neck of lamb stew yesterday for dinner and there’s some left over for tonight. We’ll buy a fresh loaf and you can have tea with us, for a change. You could leave something cold for your dad and Pat,’ said Flo with a shrug. ‘And you don’t even know if Harry will show up, do you? It ain’t gonna hurt ’em all to look after themselves for once. After all, they’ll have to do it when you’re married.’

  After some persuasion, Birdie gave in. What Flo said was true. One day in the not-too-distant future, her family would have to cater for themselves. The point was made yet again as Flo reminded her that her husband would demand all her attention, as arm in arm, they made their way to market.

  After enjoying a tasty meal with Flo and her family, including Flo’s mother, Birdie left for March Street. She was well wrapped up in the icy cold and trod carefully over the old iron bridge towards Cubitt Town. Here she paused to watch the boats tied along the jetty. A group of bargemen were gathered, waiting to off-load their cargoes, whilst other groups of other men – casuals in the docks, less fortunate than the bargemen – idled their time on the stones, disappointed at not having been chosen to be hired for a day’s labour.

  The tugs, with their bright red funnels, let out their hoots as warning, overtaking the Scandinavian timber boats full with their stacked cargo. As a mist threatened, a police launch sped towards some urgent mission and left the smaller boats to bounce in its wake.

  Shivering a little in the cold, Birdie paused again by the wall that ran along the foreshore. The smells were all heightened: the river’s salt and the seasoned wood, which were so different from the commercial smells of the inner city. For a moment or two she thought about Flo’s comments. But there was nothing more in the world that she wanted than to become Don’s wife.

  Birdie tried to imagine life in the rooms above the shop. The accommodation would be much smaller than March Street. How would they all fit in? Which room would she and Don share?

  ‘Stay where you are.’ A sharp command brought her out of her thoughts. ‘If you want to see your brother alive, you will do as I say.’

  Birdie’s heart raced. She turned, only to jump half out of her wits as she saw the woman standing beside her. A pair of dark, fierce eyes were almost hidden under the peak of a cloth cap. Then with another sickening lurch of her heart, she saw the glint at her side and felt the tip of the blade as it pressed into her.

  Chapter 23

  Birdie sat in the covered wagon, her legs having just managed to carry her from the waterfront to the road, where she had been roughly pushed up into the back of the cart. It was dark under the canvas and she could see very little. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw that a man with a long black beard and wearing a dark hat was sitting opposite her.

  ‘Wh . . . who are you?’ she stammered, gripping the rough wooden bench she sat on and trying to keep her balance as the cart rumbled along. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  The man stared at her. Birdie tried again but with no success. She glanced across to the end of the wagon, where two bales of hay were stacked. There was no easy escape and anyway, the woman had barked at her to sit still and soon she would be seeing Frank. Was it true? Were they keeping Frank a prisoner? Where was he? Were they the same people who had captured Pat? Fear was making her panic. A fine sweat ran down between her shoulders blades and over her forehead. Where was she going to end up?

  The wagon rolled along and Birdie knew that, by now, it must have left the island. She wondered if she would hear what Pat had heard, a clock or bell somewhere that would give her some indication of where she was. But all she could hear was the loud drumming of her heart. Unlike Pat, she hadn’t been blindfolded. As far as she remembered no one had seen her being put into the wagon. The woman had made sure of that, hurrying her along, with the blade of the knife at her back.

  When the wagon stopped, Birdie saw it was still daylight. A chink in the canvas let in the pale light. Then suddenly the flap at the back was thrown open. The woman jumped over the tailgate and onto the dusty boards.

  She took a rag from her pocket. ‘You will be blindfolded,’ she said abruptly. ‘Nothing will happen to you.’

  ‘Where’s our Frank?’ Birdie demanded, shrinking back.

  ‘You will see him soon.’

  There was nothing for it, Birdie realized, other than to do as she was told. The woman tied the rag round Birdie’s head making certain that it came down well over her eyes. She was so frightened that she wasn’t sure if she could move. But then a hand gripped her wrist and she was bundled out of the wagon.

  ‘Birdie, it’s me, Frank.’ He untied the rag and held her shoulders. ‘Don’t be scared. They had to do it – pick yer up like that. The law have got eyes everywhere.’

  Birdie stared into a stranger’s face. Frank’s hair was dark, not his lovely red colour. He looked much thinner, his high cheekbones thrust out as the skin drew tightly over them. His big blue eyes had a haunted look. ‘Oh, Frank, is it really you?’

  ‘Course it’s me. Give us a hug.’ He drew her close, his arms holding her tight.

  ‘Have they harmed you?’

  ‘No, course not. They’re me friends.’

  ‘Where is this?’ She looked around and in the light that reflected from a lamp on the table, to her dismay she saw a filthy room. The walls were peeling and mould-ridden. The wooden chairs and table were stained and the floor strewn with rubbish. There was a strong smell of decay.

  ‘I ain’t allowed to say. Sit down for a minute, take the weight off yer feet.’ He pressed her gently onto a chair. She dreaded to think what muck might cling to her clothes. He pulled up another chair, moving the lamp so he could see her clearly.

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Inga dyed it for me.’

  ‘Is Inga the one who wears breeches?’

  He laughed. ‘She’s quite a looker, an’ all.’

  ‘How do you know these people are friends?’ Birdie whispered trying not to tremble and shake as she sat there. It had been a shock, being taken off like that, with a knife pointed at her heart.

  ‘’Cos, they’re kosher,’ said Frank nervously. ‘They’re trying to help their families back home. In Russia they are a lot worse off than us. They got freezing weather and no food—’ He stopped as Birdie jumped up from her chair.

  ‘I . . . I just saw something move on the floor,’ she cried. ‘It had a long tail.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s a rat. There’s lots of them round here.’ He banged the wall with his boot.

  ‘Frank, this place is dreadful.’

  ‘The peasants in Russia would think it a palace,’ he said, taking his seat again. ‘Inga told me they kip in the woods and mountains, ’cos they’re being done in by these Bolshies. A right lot of cutthroats, according to Inga. They murdered their Royal Family, shot ’em in a cellar. Now they want to take over Russia.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with you?’ Birdie was worried about what she was hearing. It didn’t sound like her brother.

  ‘Well, nothing, I suppose,’ said Frank softly, leaning close, ‘but Inga says if I help them against the Reds, they’ll help me.’

  ‘Who are the Reds?’

  ‘They’re against the Whites.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Dunno. But I’m going along with it for now.’

  ‘Frank, you shouldn’t be getting involved with something you don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes, but Inga’s promised to smuggle me on a boat to France. I got to find someone who remembers me.’

  ‘Even if that was possible,’ Birdie said doubtfully, ‘it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘It’s me only chance,’ Frank said earnestly. ‘Or else I’
m gonna be on the run for ever. I gotta clear my name, so I can look Dad in the face again. Meanwhile, I’ll play along with this lot.’

  ‘How did they find me today?’ Birdie asked, a shiver going over her as she thought of Frank getting deeper and deeper into trouble.

  ‘It’s Erik, see,’ Frank said with a wink. ‘He nips round everywhere.’

  ‘You mean he’s their spy?’

  ‘Well, yes, you could say that.’

  ‘I don’t want him spying on me.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Frank promised. ‘It’ll be me you see next. Afore I leave for France.’

  Birdie looked around at the slum that Frank was living in. What were these people doing in England? He was convinced Inga was trustworthy, but as usual, it sounded as if he had fallen for a pretty face.

  Just then the door creaked open. Inga appeared and Frank nodded. ‘Inga’s gonna take you back now.’

  ‘Frank, be careful.’

  ‘I can take care of meself.’

  But as she was blindfolded and returned to the island, Birdie thought about what Frank had told her, and her doubts grew. Frank was naïve, but he was also desperate. He was eager to grasp at any straw to save himself. But what would happen when he was no longer needed for their purpose?

  Why, when they had what they wanted, would they take him to France?

  Somehow Birdie muddled through the next few days, her thoughts repeatedly going back to Tuesday night. After she had been blindfolded again, the journey home was frightening. She had imagined that her end might be close. She couldn’t even hope to defend herself. Why were they doing this? Who were they really? She didn’t have the same belief in them that Frank did.

  When at last they set her loose in East Ferry Road, her legs had still been shaking. She’d told Wilfred and Pat she’d stayed late at Flo’s and felt terrible for the lie. But how could she tell them what she’d been through? And Wilfred wouldn’t want to know about Frank, anyway.

  The next morning she looked from the window, wondering if Erik was still spying. But there was only the Popeldos kids and the Kirby tribe causing their usual rumpus.