In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

  When Don called for her on Sunday, she looked up and down the street carefully, half expecting to see a shadowy figure.

  But when Don stepped in, he was full of his own troubles. ‘Lydia isn’t well,’ he complained. ‘She is suffering from . . . oh, well . . . some kind of ague and Mother insists she rests.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Birdie didn’t want to talk about Lydia. She couldn’t of course talk about Frank either, and Don seemed reluctant to talk about their wedding. A definite date still hadn’t been proposed and the original idea of their being married shortly after Christmas had never been raised again.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he muttered.

  ‘But I only see you on Sundays.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to the shop tomorrow? We shall be hard-pressed without Lydia and your help would be most welcome.’

  Birdie’s heart sank. She had to finish Lady Annabelle’s dress, but how could she refuse him?

  ‘We can be together all day – every day from now on,’ he added, squeezing her waist affectionately, ‘You will, after all, soon be Mrs Thorne.’

  ‘You mean, start work?’ Birdie asked uncertainly. She had so much to do before they were married: a clean sweep of the house right through, putting away her dressmaking things and spending time with Pat in the kitchen, so he’d at least know how to make a meal and be able to keep body and soul together.

  ‘Why not? This is the perfect opportunity. And there is, after all, nothing to keep you here now.’

  ‘But I—’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s natural for you to be nervous but Mother will guide you through every step of the way. Our customers will be delighted to welcome you. Mother already talks with pride of her new daughter -in-law, and though it’s a great pity Lydia is absent, there will be no better time than the present. None better at all.’ He cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her, a kiss so full of promise that Birdie forgot all her worries, imagining how sweet every moment would be from now on. Her future was assured. With God’s blessing, there would be sons and daughters to bring into this world and raise as good Catholics, a point on which she was certain Don would finally agree. He was a hard-working man who could offer her security in uncertain times, and would be considered by many women to be a step up the ladder. What more could she ask for?

  Birdie looked around her in awe at the clutter spilling over the shelves of the store. Don had told her that Aggie had trimmed down the stock, at Lydia’s request, but from what Birdie could see, every inch of space was filled. On her arrival this morning Aggie had given Birdie orders to clear and restock the shelves at the far end of the shop, above the coal and paraffin.

  To Birdie’s dismay she had been asked to display the old stock at half price beneath the outside window. But she could see at a glance the dust that covered it announced its age. Dressed in one of the coarse aprons that Aggie insisted she wear, Birdie studied the greasy-looking bottles of Anzora Hair Cream which, through leakage, had faded labels and which stood next to the delicate packets of gas mantles, most of which were already broken and showered their fabric down to the shelves below. Hovering precariously behind these were ancient jars of hairnets and Pears’ Brilliantine. These were only distinguishable by the ticket in someone’s handwriting that announced a reduced bargain. Crammed side by side on the very bottom shelf were grimy, half-empty bottles of sweets that clung together in unappetizing lumps. Sherbet, liquorice Pontefract cakes, toffee, wine gums, jelly babies, mint imperials, and chocolate squares, hardly distinguishable from one another. A large dog-eared notice strung around the neck of one of the bottles, instructed the opener of the bottle to use – independently for each sweet so there was accuracy to the weighing – a pair of tongs. These were hanging on a rusty nail. The most unpleasant sight of all was a mug of elderly faded pink rock covered in the bodies of dead insects unfortunate enough to have settled on the sticky mess.

  Birdie rolled up her sleeves. She had been charged with the duty of clearing and replenishing the shelves before midday and that was what she would do. Aggie wouldn’t find her slacking and she would know that her daughter-in-law-to-be, of whom apparently she was so proud, was up to scratch. A list had been written of other jobs, the sweeping, clearing and stacking, and Birdie undertook them all as Aggie was busy with the long queue of customers.

  Business was as brisk as Don had warned. Each time Birdie glanced up to draw her arm across her sweating brow, Aggie was flying around like a dervish. Don himself had barely time to acknowledge her. There had been hardly a ‘good morning’ between them. Since her arrival at seven o’clock, the pace had been relentless.

  ‘You ain’t ditching those, love!’ Aggie exclaimed that afternoon as Birdie kneeled on the hard tiles, panting with the effort of scrubbing hard with a moulting bristle brush. She had discovered a shelf of flour with burst bags that had spilled down onto the next shelf. A pile of tarred wooden blocks, neglected for years, seemed glued to the shelf. It had taken her the best part of an hour to clean and turf out the rotted stock.

  ‘But they’re no use,’ Birdie protested as she gazed up into Aggie’s frowning face. ‘The flour’s so old it’s going brown, and the blocks have got worm.’

  ‘That don’t matter. Someone will buy them at the right price,’ returned Aggie, burying her arms in the waste bin and retrieving the soiled goods. ‘Bag up the flour in them brown packets over there. No use wasting a profit, no matter how small. As for the blocks, there’s a chopper out back. You’ll get a nice bit of kindling from them, despite the worm. They split easy enough, just watch you don’t get a spark, or you’ll set the place alight. Now, get a move on, love, or else you’ll be on your knees all day.’

  Birdie found herself struggling to obey, for she wouldn’t herself eat the flour for fear of being poisoned. Was there really custom for this? By the time she had found the chopper and managed to separate the tough blocks into bundles neatly tied with string, it was well past three o’clock.

  When Aggie called across the shop for help in weighing up the potatoes, Birdie hardly dare imagine the sight she must present. Her face and hands were grubby and her apron contaminated by the mould and dirt. Shop work wasn’t like dressmaking at all, where everything, including herself, had to be kept clean and presentable.

  ‘Aggie, I’ll just go and wash—’ Birdie began, but Aggie was already shaking her head.

  ‘You’ll do fine as you are. Let’s lift in those sacks between us and weigh up a few pounds of potatoes.’ Aggie didn’t seem to care how Birdie looked. Don’s mother worked as though her life depended on it and seemed to expect everyone else to do the same.

  By the time Birdie was sent to eat, she had no appetite at all. There was bread set on the table with a large carving knife beside it. A small army of flies had gathered around the gauze on the dripping.

  After thoroughly washing the enamel mug left for her, she made herself tea and struggled to ease her back. It was aching from the heavy lifting. Her hands were chapped and rough from the scrubbing, and her hair, over which she was so careful, was lank with dust thrown up by the sacks of vegetables. Her throat was sore, though the tea helped to soothe it.

  At six o’clock, Aggie told her to put on her coat, take a lamp with her and sweep the yard. As Birdie found the broom by the closet, the bad smell was overpowering. At least she hadn’t been asked to clean in there. But the assortment of rotting cauliflowers, cabbages and carrots that she began to shovel in the pig bin added nauseously to the aromas of the cooked meat shop across the road. Pease pudding, saveloys, faggots and tripe were being cooked in preparation for tomorrow. Over the yard wall, a strong whiff of salted cod and smoked haddock came from the fresh fish shop.

  Birdie’s stomach heaved. She clamped a hand over her mouth and for a moment, she swayed, leaning against the wall for support.

  ‘Brigid?’

  She turned to find Don frowning at her.

  ‘This waste should have been cleared ear
lier,’ he said, his tone a little abrupt, ‘but no matter, you’ll soon be acquainted with the routine. At least the bitter cold has kept the smell down.’

  ‘Don, I’ve not had a moment—’

  ‘I am sure of that, my dear,’ he acknowledged, sidestepping the mound of vegetables she had swept into a pile. ‘Perhaps you realize now I was not exaggerating when I told you how busy the store is.’

  Birdie nodded, still fighting off the heave of her stomach. ‘I could do more to help in the shop if we had someone to do this. A young lad, perhaps, after school?’

  ‘Patience, my sweet,’ he smiled, at last moving closer, picking his way carefully across the stones. ‘This is only your first day. Once you begin to understand the business, then you’ll see that our profit margins are very narrow. And we have just bought the delivery vehicle. Now, it will soon be time for you to catch the bus.’

  ‘But you promised me a ride home.’ She was looking forward to being alone with him.

  ‘I have to collect our perishables from the warehouse. I’m sorry but I must go now.’

  She tried to hide her disappointment. There would be no kiss or cuddle in the delivery van as she had hoped.

  Seeing her face, he drew her towards him. ‘There will be other times, my love.’

  Birdie leaned her head against his chest. She could feel the strong beat of his heart as they listened to the traders shouting over the wall and the rumbling of the steam engines back to their yards. Was it always to be like this, she wondered. There seemed no romance at the shop, nothing here that could lend itself to affection. Even Don seemed to be another person.

  ‘I’ll call for you in the morning. It will be at six o’clock prompt.’

  Birdie gazed up at him. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Birdie thought of all the things she would have to do before leaving the house in the morning. There was the meal to prepare, the washing and ironing to attend to. And of course, Lady Annabelle’s dress. But she would do it all willingly, for Don.

  Despite Don’s reluctance to hire help, Birdie suggested it to Aggie the next day.

  ‘We might have before your arrival,’ Aggie told her tightly, ‘but I’m happy to say that you seem to be filling Lydia’s place nicely. I told Donald – I said to him, “Despite the slight look of her, Brigid is willing and able.” Boys only play about and smoke me cigarettes and pinch the grub. No, dear, we’ll manage as we are for now.’

  Birdie hadn’t time to answer before Aggie was busying herself with the customers. It was a number of heavy chores later, when Birdie met Lydia and James. Her good morning was brief as she made her way from the store to school.

  ‘Is Lydia better?’ Birdie enquired as she lifted a box of oranges from the delivery vehicle.

  ‘A little, perhaps,’ Don threw over his shoulder. But when Lydia returned she disappeared upstairs and for the rest of the day it was left to Birdie to resume the heavy duties.

  By the end of the week, all Birdie’s efforts to follow a routine at home had failed. Meals had been missed or were late, the housework had mounted and her back ached from her neck to the base of her spine. She was too tired even to lift a needle.

  Chapter 24

  Birdie was hopeful that she might deal with the customers on Monday. Don had promised her she would, but Aggie had other ideas. All morning Birdie was kept busy with stacking the boxes of vegetables outside in the bitter cold. According to Aggie’s instructions, she had to label the fresh produce. But Birdie saw it was not fresh at all. Aggie told her to trim carefully last week’s rejects of their rotting stalks and leaves. It was a dirty – and, Birdie felt – a sly job, lengthened by the disposal of the pig-bin rubbish. Thankfully this bin had been emptied, but by the time Birdie had finished, it was half full again.

  ‘You had better go easy next time, love,’ said Aggie, frowning at the display that Birdie had worked hard to make presentable. ‘You’ve cut too much off the cauliflowers and left them bald.’

  ‘But they were brown,’ Birdie protested in her innocence. ‘I’d never buy a cauli at the market that was rotten like that.’

  ‘And you won’t buy one at Thorne’s,’ sniffed Aggie crossly. ‘There’s a knack to tidying up veg and the sooner you learn it the better. Now, Donald’s just arrived round the back with the delivery van. He’ll have a few sacks of spuds to off-load. Give him a hand, making sure none escape and go rolling about the floor.’

  Birdie was eager to help Don, but the van was stacked full. It was back-breaking work. By the time they had finished, there were just a few moments to sit in the storeroom. Even Don seemed a little disconcerted by the challenging work.

  ‘It would really pay us to find an apprentice,’ Birdie dared to suggest again as they sat in the dusty space beside Lydia’s desk. ‘A boy for just a few mornings or evenings. Or an older man who needed a few hours’ work.’

  ‘Mother doesn’t approve of strangers,’ Don refused on a final note. ‘She doesn’t trust anyone except family.’

  ‘And do you agree with her?’ Birdie couldn’t see the sense in that at all. If the business was to flourish they needed assistance.

  ‘It’s not up to me to say,’ Don barked back. ‘We’ll manage somehow.’

  Birdie held her tongue. She was no mastermind, but even a fool could see that help was essential. Before, when the wholesalers had delivered by cart and pony, the driver had helped Don to off-load. But now it was clear that in trying to save pennies, Aggie expected Birdie to fill the gap.

  Determined to press Don again on the subject when the time was right, Birdie finished her day as before. But there was no time to consult with Don that evening, and she found herself making her way home by bus as before.

  On Saturday evening, as she was waiting to step off from the bus, her mind filled with doubts. Would Aggie ever approve of her or allow her to voice an opinion? Aggie’s complaints had been relentless throughout the fortnight. Nothing Birdie could do seemed to be right. Her fruit and vegetable pruning was pronounced clumsy. Her hands, which were swollen and chapped, were slow to weigh the dirty, earth-crusted potatoes. Aggie insisted she leave on their heavy clumps of earth. Her motive was clear – to increase the profit – but once more Birdie held her tongue.

  Birdie jumped down from the bus, her thoughts on the injustice done to the customer. As her heel turned and she lost her footing, a pair of arms reached out to save her. With considerable relief she looked up to see Harry. And not just relief, she realized, but gratitude at such a friendly face.

  ‘You’re sure you can walk?’ Harry asked a little while later as he helped her limp along the pavement. What in heaven’s name was Donald Thorne thinking of, allowing his bride-to-be to struggle through a day like the one he had just heard about, without the offer of a ride home in that hulking great vehicle he liked to flaunt.

  ‘Look,’ Harry suggested, worried by the pain that was etched on her face, ‘let’s sit down over there in the park. A few minutes’ rest will help to ease your foot.’

  ‘All right, but I must get home soon.’ Her hand held onto his arm so tightly that he knew she must be suffering. ‘There’s supper to cook and I’ve somehow got to deliver Lady Annabelle’s dress, which I’ve just finished.’

  ‘It’s swelling slightly,’ Harry pointed out, glancing down at her ankle. ‘You’ve given it a nasty twist.’

  ‘Oh, I’m clumsy, I am. My thoughts were miles away,’ she agreed, clinging on for dear life as they struggled their way to the bench.

  He slid his arm around her waist and, almost lifting her off her feet, set her down on the bench. Harry felt an unexpected shiver go through him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as did the ones on his arms. It wasn’t even as though he’d been expecting to see her. He’d been sizing up a private job for a chap just off Poplar Lane and was as startled as she when she almost fell into his arms. He’d felt a great pang of protectiveness wash over him, as though heaven had emptied her right into his care. At first he’d listened wi
th amusement to her stream of apologies, but then, as came natural to Birdie, the truth came out and he managed to piece together the events that had brought her crashing down from the bus.

  It was those damned Thornes again. They had worked her like a skivvy; he had noticed her sore hands. And it needed no great wisdom to see that her beautiful brown hair was tucked hurriedly away with pins, some of the crushed waves springing out in an unwieldy fashion. There was dirt smudged over her left ear and cheek, though she couldn’t have known it, or had time or place to rectify the damage. But worst of all, a nasty red graze glowed on her chin.

  ‘And how did this happen?’ Harry indicated the spot and her hand went up to cover it.

  ‘Oh, does it notice?’

  ‘I can see you must have caught yourself on something.’

  ‘It was only a box of apples, that’s all.’

  ‘A box of apples?’ he repeated. ‘What was it doing near your chin?’

  She gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘It was me own fault. I didn’t even know I’d done it. I should’ve asked Don to lift it down from the van. But you know me, I can’t wait for me own breath to come sometimes.’ She gave a little laugh, but to Harry it was no laughing matter.

  ‘But what were you doing emptying the van?’ he asked, knowing that a heavy box of apples was no easy matter to manipulate. She was so small, so delicate – it just didn’t seem right. He’d already been told by Pat that she was up at the crack of dawn, attending to all the chores. And that skinflint Thorne had soon waned in his enthusiasm to collect her, not that Harry had heard one word of complaint. He tried to compose himself as the cold February wind swirled around them.

  ‘It was just a few things I moved,’ she told him, not looking him quite in the eye. ‘And it will pay me to watch me footing in future.’

  Harry’s irritation couldn’t be contained. He knew he had no right to be angered, but she wasn’t cut out for drudgery.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Birdie said, putting a bright smile on that he knew was for his benefit, ‘it’s only a little twist. And tomorrow I’ll deliver the dress. Perhaps I’ll ask Flo to bring the pram after Mass. Though Lady Annabelle won’t be there, I’ll ask Mrs Belcher to make certain the dress fits.’