by Carol Rivers
Birdie stared into Aggie’s conniving face and would have laughed if she hadn’t been so angry. Did Aggie really think she was so easy to fool? Lydia had confirmed Birdie’s suspicions: what Pat had overhead Mrs Mason say was true. But was it possible Don would give up the store for Lydia?
Birdie swept past Aggie without a word. If Aggie thought that nothing had changed, then she was about to discover that Brigid Connor was not the fool Aggie took her for.
Birdie made her way carefully down the slippery green-stained stone steps that overlooked both yards. For all her determination to see this through, she felt sick with dread. The prospect of confronting Don and hearing words she might not want to hear was almost too much to bear. She wanted to turn round and run away. But this time, there was nothing for it, but to go on.
As she reached the bottom step, she stood still for a moment, asking herself if it could have been her who was in the wrong. Had she somehow made all this happen? Was she scared of growing old alone? Had she been prepared to marry at any cost, any cost at all? Had she spent the last few years running after Don, trying to please him and losing herself into the bargain? But she did love him, she did! If Don admitted to loving Lydia, what would she feel? What if he denied any feelings for Lydia? What if he took Aggie’s side?
Suddenly she could hardly breathe for confusion. But then Lydia’s words echoed tauntingly. If Donald has any sense, he’ll come with me. This could mean only that Lydia wanted to be with Don. Did he feel the same about her? Yet if it was Aggie who had forced Don into marriage, then it was already an empty, shallow proposal.
Somehow Birdie managed to pick her way over the piles of rubbish to the broken fence. Soggy, blackened sacks and battered boxes of ruined stock lay everywhere. Don was working tirelessly amongst them, like Aggie, in perpetual movement, as his breath curled white in the cold morning.
‘Brigid!’ He pushed back his dishevelled hair that no longer had a middle parting or any parting at all. His face was dirt-smeared and his overall covered in stains. ‘Have you seen Mother?’ he shouted excitedly, as he made his way towards her.
Birdie stood before him, seeing him as she had never seen him before. He seemed a stranger almost, someone she didn’t really know.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ he panted breathlessly, waving his arms at the cluttered yard. ‘Just look at the state of things, though God only knows how the fire started. We lost everything in the shop, but Mother had the presence of mind to close the passage door. Much of this we can salvage with a little attention. We haven’t a moment to spare, not a moment.’ Pushing his dirty hands down his overall, he blinked at her. ‘Well, my dear, you’ll need to change. That coat is most unsuitable for cleaning.’ He gave an impatient tut. ‘But then, you couldn’t have known about the fire, of course.’
Birdie glanced down at her best blue coat. She’d worn it today as she wanted to equal Lydia in appearance. A silly, vain whim, perhaps, but after what Pat had told her, she felt she needed to be at an advantage. Don hadn’t even remarked on how she looked but how unsuitably she was dressed for this emergency.
Pulling herself up, she fixed him with a straight gaze. ‘No, I didn’t know about the fire,’ she agreed. ‘Neither did I know about a lot of other things, either.’
‘Other things?’ he repeated vaguely, his attention barely with her as he turned to toss aside an empty sack.
‘Is it true you’re only marrying me because Aggie wants it?’ There it was out! Said!
‘What?’ He almost jumped round.
‘Now Aggie and Lydia have fallen out, is it true that you’d wed me for the sake of the store?’ she demanded.
‘You’re talking in riddles,’ he protested, laughing. ‘Lydia and Mother may have their differences—’
‘Lydia has threatened leaving and hopes you’ll go with her.’
‘What nonsense!’ he scoffed. ‘You’re overwrought, my dear. Why don’t you go home and rest?’
‘I’m going, to be sure I am,’ she agreed fiercely. ‘I would have followed you to the ends of the earth if you’d asked me. All I ever wanted in return was your love. But I was never to have it, was I?’ She lifted her chin proudly. ‘I thank the Blessed Virgin I never had that pretty ring slid on me finger. Or the gold band that for so long has eluded me.’
‘Brigid, this is not like you—’
‘It is quite like me,’ she interrupted, her heart hammering. ‘Just why it took so long to dawn on me that I was being shuffled here and there for you and your mother’s benefit, and for Lydia’s too, I’m sure I don’t know. But the penny has dropped at last and I believe there’s not a word more to be said.’
She turned and hurried up the mossy steps, past Aggie and down the front stairs to the street. She could hear Don calling after her, his voice ringing out in the ripe morning air. She didn’t look back, but pressed on past the steam engine and pump, still hissing and spurting water outside the burned-out interior of Thorne’s General Store.
Chapter 29
Birdie walked to the East India Dock Road and caught the first tram she came to. It was headed for Aldgate and quite packed. But she found a seat by a small woman in a battered feathered hat and hoped that conversation wasn’t necessary.
‘Cold enough for yer, duckie?’ said the woman, with a grin. ‘These bloody trams are freezing. At least where I work in the laundry they got ’ot water to warm up yer ’ands.’
Birdie listened to a few more comments that were interspersed with yawns. She was relieved when a gentle snore came from the next seat. She felt weak at the knees and a little sick. Had she really just turned her back on the Thornes? Was her prospect of marriage over once and for all?
Birdie gazed out of the dirt-spattered window, seeing very little. The warmth and the swaying and rumbling of the tram’s iron-banded wheels had a soothing effect. She had taken the ride in a kind of daze, replaying each unpleasant memory in her mind as she’d fled the store. Aggie, and the sly, conniving Lydia and her outright resentment, Don and the guilt that was clearly etched on his face. How had she not seen it all before? She had even doubted Pat’s word!
A green Parcel Delivery Service van barred the tram’s way ahead and just managed to move off the lines, whilst a bus pulled up alongside, slowing down for new passengers. The tram didn’t stop. It wouldn’t end its journey until Aldgate, when the passengers would file off, having enjoyed an unbroken ride. Birdie wouldn’t have cared, this morning, which direction she had gone. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
Twenty minutes later, the woman in the feathered hat woke up. ‘Did I miss me stop?’
‘No, we’re nearly there.’ Birdie sighed softly. What would she do when she got off? A heaviness had begun inside her, a deep hurt and humiliation. Don had betrayed her. He had been reluctant to name the day, until Aggie had insisted he do so. She had thought his Christmas Day visit had been because he loved and missed her. Now she knew that it was because Aggie had no time for Lydia and believed Birdie Connor enough of a fool to take her place.
‘Come on then, gel, move yerself, we’re here,’ said the woman beside her, almost tipping her out of the seat. She looked at Birdie’s smart blue coat and tidy appearance. ‘I’ve got to earn a few bob to keep body and soul together, even if you ain’t.’
Birdie found herself pushed off the tram and into the cold day again. Still muttering, the woman hurried off. Birdie stood there, watching the change-round operation at the terminus, where the careful manipulation of the live overhead conductor pole was in process. The tram would now reverse its forward journey back to Poplar. Should she climb aboard again?
Then suddenly she realized she had used her last sixpence for her fare. She hadn’t even recalled paying it over, but she must have. She had been so deep in thought and shock.
As she hesitated she began to pull herself together. The woman in the feather hat had looked at her enviously. But truth be told, she was no better off than the laundry worker. She’d had no wage whilst at the store
and had relied on Harry and Pat’s money. Lady Annabelle’s generous payment had brought them up to date with the rent and stocked the larder. But now, it was up to her to start sewing again.
Birdie pushed back her shoulders. The strength was returning to her legs. It was a long walk home from Aldgate, but it would be good for her. She made her way briskly through the busy thoroughfare. She may not be engaged any more, but what kind of life would she have led with Don? Flo was right: she had been brought up with Bernadette’s high standards and had been foolish enough to drop them. If she were ever to fall in love again . . .
For some reason, as she walked, Harry came to mind. He’d been out quite a lot and had stopped leaving his washing. She could guess why. His ladylove must be a very obliging person.
She envied Harry his romance. It was wonderful to be blind with love. Had Don ever felt anything for her? His kisses had always seemed so real. Could a man love two women at once?
Birdie lifted her face to the cold chill. She walked faster and faster, as if trying to leave her hurt behind. Her thoughts turned to Frank. If only he had been here, she could have told him everything. She missed him. Tears sprang to her eyes but she wouldn’t let them drop.
It was much later in the afternoon when Birdie reached Westferry Road. The walk had tired her, but settled her mind a little. She found herself passing close to Ayle Street and wondered if she might call in to see Flo. But the sight of a tall figure dressed in a long, dark coat made her pause. She took a few paces more, listening to the cries of the children playing in the street. Some girls and boys had tied a rope to a lamppost and were swinging on it. They almost bumped into him as he passed. Then he seemed to disappear. Birdie walked slowly to where he had stood and looked down the narrow alley into which he must have turned.
‘Did you see a tall man go down there?’ she asked one of the children, who wiped his dirty mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Yer, Old Nick,’ laughed the boy, continuing to swing on the rope. ‘If you go down there ’e’ll ’ave yer, missus.’ The giggling became loud laughter as the other children joined in.
Birdie had to see for herself. She walked to the opening and saw a fleeting shadow. The blood in her temples banged so hard it drowned out the children’s noise. The man she had just seen was Erik.
If it really was Erik, then could Frank be close? Perhaps she had made a mistake? But she had been certain it was Erik! Should she follow him and would he lead her to Frank? There were hundreds of cuts on the island. One cut ran at the back of March Street – a decent one, where a horse and cart could drive up, or where the kids could play under the gas lamp. But this was no more than a footpath, dark and dingy and full of shadows. The house walls ended and a little light shone over the yard fences. Though it was day it was still very gloomy, the close atmosphere made worse by the smell of urine from the tumble-down closets in the yards. It was a grim area, you could smell the neglect and the hardship. And the noises coming from over the walls and fences only confirmed it: shouting, yelling, cursing and babies crying.
Birdie glanced suspiciously at each hole in a fence or gap in a wall. Could she be mistaken? But she had been certain the figure was Erik. In the shadow of the next block of houses she paused to listen. When she looked behind her, she had the strangest feeling. Was she imagining being watched?
Then a thud came from nearby. A hand went over her mouth. A moment later she was forced into a space in the wall. Big arms were around her, preventing her from struggling and her assailant spoke in a foreign tongue. Eventually, almost unable to breath, she stopped resisting.
Gradually he peeled his hand away. ‘Do not scream,’ he whispered. ‘Be quiet.’
Birdie strained to see his face, covered by the black beard and the rim of the dark hat. ‘Wh . . . what have you done with Frank?’ she stammered. ‘Is he all right? Where’s my brother?’
There was an uncertain pause before he snatched his hand away. She was keenly aware of his powerful presence, so close that he could easily grab her again. ‘You must come. I take you to him,’ he growled in a voice that sounded anything but friendly.
Birdie could just see the long aquiline nose and glinting, close-set eyes. His black beard was cut shorter than she remembered, but it was the menacing aura that came from him that frightened her the most. It was easy to see why the kids in the street had called him ‘Old Nick’.
‘Have you been spying on me?’ she demanded, realizing that he must have planned to trap her.
‘Your brother sent me,’ he muttered in a thick accent, and Birdie knew he was lying.
She stepped back. ‘G . . . go away. Leave me alone.’ She glanced right and left down the alley. It was deserted. The Tall Ship wasn’t far away. If she ran, could she reach the pub without him catching her? Once she was inside it, he wouldn’t dare to follow.
But in the blink of an eye he grabbed her and though she twisted and turned, nothing she did could make him let go. All the while he was muttering in a foreign tongue and she had the feeling he’d expected her to go with him. She wriggled all the more, trying to slide her wrist from his grasp. Then suddenly she heard the rattle of a cart and clip-clop of hoofs. A woman’s call rang out and Birdie recognized Inga’s voice.
A cruel smile passed over Erik’s lips.
Chapter 30
Harry frowned. He’d lost sight of Birdie. She hadn’t seen him striding towards her, even though he’d attempted a wave and shouted a greeting. A big bugger had stepped between them and the noise of the kids swinging on the lamppost had drowned out his shout.
He was in good spirits, for after a satisfactory day’s labour, he’d sunk a jug or two at the Tall Ship. There had been a bit of a knees-up in the not-so-salubrious ale house and the Sally Army had called by, in the form of a very presentable young female officer. She’d gathered up the generous offerings; him and his mates had doled out a tanner or two, knowing that the bunce went to the homeless and starving. He’d always put his hand in his pocket for the Sally; after all, it was on charity he’d survived as a boy. And with a pretty smile included today, he’d spent a good five minutes almost getting himself converted. But he’d not go down that road. He’d had enough of wearing uniforms for a lifetime. Not that he objected to the blue and red, especially when it was glued so attractively to a female form. But he wasn’t a Bible basher, though he had great respect for his Maker. Nor did he have the desire to belt out a hymn or bang a drum. He’d made her laugh, though. And given her one of his best winks. And when he’d walked out into the cold day, he’d felt a good deal better than he had before.
It was then he’d seen Birdie, her small, but unmistakable, figure. But then, quite suddenly, she’d disappeared.
Now, as he stopped a few feet away from the alley where he’d seen her, he was baffled. Perhaps she had called at Ayle Street where Flo lived. It was not far off. He glanced down the alley. It led west, away from her homeward route to March Street and so it was unlikely she’d go that way. But something drew him and he narrowed his eyes against the shadows. He could smell the stench and muck. It was the kind of alley the dock dollies used . . . not a safe place to walk . . . and then, as he was about to turn, two figures appeared.
The sight of Birdie in the big man’s grip turned Harry’s stomach. At the far end of the alley was a cart and horses, and though the rider wore breeches, the voice calling was a woman’s. The moment he gave chase, Birdie was lifted and thrown over the bastard’s shoulder.
‘You!’ Harry yelled, gaining fast on his quarry. ‘Put her down, you damned devil!’
She was all screams and defiance, beating his back with her fists, and Harry effortlessly increased his pace. With a final spurt and a cry of anger, he flung himself forward.
‘Run!’ he yelled to Birdie, as all three of them crashed down, though no sooner had he gathered breath than a fist as hard as a frying pan flattened his cheek. He aimed one back and it found its mark, knocking the fellow back with a thump against the wall. Bu
t he steamed in again, too soon, and collided with a punch that lifted him off his feet. All his breath left him as he reeled like a drunkard on the damp, mossy ground.
‘Damn you,’ he muttered, dizzy with pain, and another boot to his ribs took what air was left inside him. He lay breathless and in agony, and squirmed away from another vicious kick. But the weight of it sent his arm almost out of its socket. He tried to decide if he was capable of standing and knew in a flash he wasn’t.
Raking in a deep breath, he braced himself and lowered his head. With a cry of desperation rather than anger, he threw himself sideways at the bugger’s shins. The fall glued them together and they rolled, first Harry on top and then the other man. Over and over they went, in the filth and muck. Harry fought and cursed, and kicked when he had the chance, but soon he lost any feeling and all he could do was spit venom, and listen in shame to his wheezing breaths.
Release came, surprisingly, in the form of a police whistle. Harry lay there, watching the flight of his assailant as he sped down the alley and jumped aboard the wagon. As soon as it had disappeared, two navy-blue-clad legs filled his vision.
‘You all right, son?’ The policeman extended a hand. ‘Come on, give us yer arm and I’ll help yer up.’
Harry let himself be aided, but he quickly shook himself free and leaned stiffly against the wall. ‘Reckon I owe you, mate,’ he rasped to the young copper.
‘Know them two, did yer? Right lot o’ ’ooligans they looked like.’
Birdie was standing to one side of the policeman, now, and Harry saw the warning in her eyes. ‘No, must’ve chanced their luck, thinking I had a few bob.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘But I only got a hole in me pocket, see?’ He pulled out the lining and added, ‘I was taking a short cut after a bevvy at the Tall Ship. Well, to be honest, I probably supped one or two too many.’
‘They must’ve followed yer. Seen the same trick, I have, up Mile End,’ said the constable. ‘The crafty buggers.’
