The Wingless Bird Page 10

  The tone, the attitude, the look on the young fellow’s face sobered Arthur Conway for a moment, but only for a moment, for now he bawled, ‘Get your hands off my daughter! And who the hell are you? But need I ask.’ He peered further. ‘My God in heaven! That she has let the likes of you touch her. You’re a Felton, aren’t you? One of the scum from the quay. Christ Almighty!’

  ‘I’m no more scum than you, mister. At least when I take a wife it’ll satisfy me. I wouldn’t go whoring. Look’—he stepped back, at the same time pushing Jessie to the side—‘I don’t want to knock you out, seein’ as you’re her father, but by God, I’ll do it, if you come at me like that again!’

  But no warning could check Arthur Conway’s fury, and with a lightning leap he managed to grip the young man’s throat, and so fiercely that he forced him backwards, only the next moment to have his arms snapped downwards, when he would have fallen on his back if he hadn’t come up against the coalhouse wall and, unfortunately, a shovel that was propped there.

  It was done in an instant: the coal shovel, like a boomerang, sped at the young fellow’s head, but unlike a boomerang, it did not return. And when Jessie saw this man that she loved slide down the wall, then drop onto his side, she screamed; but her screaming was soon checked by her father who, staggering towards her, put his hand over her mouth then twisted one of her arms behind her and thrust her towards the staircase door. But he had to release his hold on her mouth as he dragged her up the stairs, so she screamed at Agnes and her mother, who were already on the stairhead, ‘He’s killed him! He’s killed him, Aggie.’

  ‘In the name of God! What’s all this about? What is the matter? Will someone tell me?’

  At this Agnes now turned on her mother, crying, ‘Yes, I’ll tell you, Mother. Jessie is going to have a baby. She’s over three months gone. The father is downstairs and by the sound of it your husband, and my dear father, has just killed him.’

  As she stared into her mother’s horrified face it came to her how strange it was that she had never liked her mother, because her mother had never liked her. In fact, her mother didn’t like anyone.

  She turned from her and ran down the stairs and into the yard, there to stand for a moment petrified when she saw the young fellow lying on his side, the blood oozing from somewhere above his ear.

  Her two hands went to her face; then she was flying to the door next to the factory and, hammering on it, called, ‘Tommy! Tommy!’

  When a window opened and Tommy put his head out, she looked up at him and spluttered, ‘Come and help me, Tommy. Please. There’s a young man…he’s been hurt. I don’t know whether he’s dead or not. Father’s hit him with a shovel.’

  ‘Wha…at! What you talkin’ about, lass?’

  ‘Come down, please, Tommy.’

  When the old man came into the yard she pointed towards the coalhouse; the next minute, looking down on the bloodied form, he said, ‘God in heaven!’

  ‘Can…can you help me lift him? Open…open the factory door. You’ve got a key.’

  ‘Aye, yes. Aye, lass; it’ll have to be the factory, we’d never get him upstairs. We’ll have to drag him across; you can’t lift him and I’m past it.’

  ‘Go and get the key. Go and get the key.’

  She now knelt down by Robbie Felton’s side and tentatively she put her hand inside his thick blue cloth jacket, then drew in a long slow breath when she could feel the beating of his heart.

  When Tommy Grant next appeared, his wife was with him. She was a sturdy woman, some years younger than him; and, looking down at Agnes kneeling by the side of the young man, she said, ‘Oh, miss, miss. What a to-do! What a to-do! But come on, come on, the three of us can get him in. Tommy, you take his legs. Miss, will you put your arm under one oxter, an’ I’ll do this side. Oh my, the blood! Look at the blood!’

  Half carrying, half trailing the inert figure, they reached the factory door, then edged their way in and laid the unconscious form on the floor. ‘Get a light, Tommy! Get a light!’ she called to her husband. ‘He might just be stunned. There seems to be a lot of blood, but, you know, a little blood goes a long way. Hurry with the light, Tommy!’

  After lighting the gas jets, he also lit a candle which he held above the young man’s face. Mrs Grant now turned to Agnes who was kneeling by her side and said, ‘Oh! Oh, look at that. Just look at that, miss. The end of the shovel must have caught him. Pretty deep there; it’s a wonder it didn’t slice the top of his head off. Eeh! I think it’s a hospital job, this. D’you know where his folk live?’

  ‘No. No; I don’t. I only know he’s one of the Feltons.’

  ‘The quay Feltons?’ It was Tommy now asking the question; and when she nodded, he said, ‘Oh my God! This’ll mean trouble. They’re a rough lot, them. How did he come into the yard?’

  ‘Well, you’ll know soon enough.’ She glanced from him to his wife. ‘He’s been seeing Jessie and’—she bowed her head—‘she’s going to have a baby.’ The old couple were silent; then Mrs Grant sighed and Tommy said, ‘Bad business. Bad business,’ and his wife added, ‘It happens though; ’tis nature. It happens though. But he must be got somewhere. I wouldn’t like to be the one to go and tell his folk. I think ’tis best if we could get him to the hospital. ’Tisn’t all that distance. But it’s a stretcher we need, an ambulance, sort of. Tommy, you put on your coat and go down to the police box and they’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Aye, that’s good advice, Bella. Aye, that’s good advice. But my God, for the boss to do this!’

  ‘And hurry up, Tommy, if you don’t want this lad to croak.’

  Her words stabbed at Agnes like an ice pick. Yes; what if he croaked? What if he died? And she cried within herself, Yes, do hurry up! Someone please hurry up! Oh dear God! Why had this to happen? It was twenty minutes later when the ambulance arrived. What had happened, the first man asked of Agnes. And she replied with the answer she had prepared in her mind: ‘He slipped in the yard and caught his head on a shovel.’

  ‘Slipped and caught his head on a shovel! What’s his name?’

  She paused: ‘Robert Felton,’ she said.

  ‘Felton?’ The two ambulance men now exchanged sharp glances, and one of them said, ‘Robbie Felton?’ then added, ‘Slipped and caught his head on a shovel? Well, well; strange things happen. Let’s get him up.’

  ‘May I come with you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes; they’ll want particulars; somebody’ll have to come. But’—the man hesitated—‘you’re no relation, are you?’

  ‘No; I’m no relation.’

  As they carried Robbie into the yard she glanced towards the staircase door and wondered if she should ask them to wait a moment until she went and got a coat and hat. But, once upstairs, she knew she would have a job to get out again, especially if her father knew her destination. Yet, she felt slightly naked in having to get into the ambulance without a coat or even something on her head. Nevertheless, she allowed herself to be helped up the high step and onto a bunk opposite the one on which Robbie was now lying…

  She had never before been in the Royal Victoria Infirmary. The size of the place alone amazed her and the bustle confused her. She had followed the stretcher into the emergency department there, to be asked particulars about the patient. And all she could repeat was what she had said to the ambulance men.

  Where did he live, the patient? What was his address?

  She couldn’t tell them. The nurse at the desk was a bit sceptical. Why was she with him then?

  He had been visiting her home and when he left he had slipped in the yard, et cetera.

  Take a seat, they said.

  She took a seat and from it she saw nurses going in and out of the cubicle where they had taken Robbie. Then a doctor appeared and more bustle followed, until a wheeled stretcher was pushed out and Robbie was wheeled away.

  She rose swiftly and went to the cubicle, where a nurse was straightening the bed and she asked, ‘Where are they taking him?’

/>   ‘To the theatre,’ was the abrupt answer.

  ‘Is…is he very…bad? I mean…’

  ‘Well’—the nurse turned from the bed—‘he’s got a cut in his head that I wouldn’t like.’

  ‘How long is he likely to be in the…theatre?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. It all depends on what they find.’ Her voice changed to a kindly note. ‘Go along to the waiting room.’ She went ahead of Agnes out of the cubicle and pointed. ‘It’s just down there. I’ll try and let you know.’

  The forms in the waiting room were most uncomfortable and at one period she got up and began to walk about, apparently to the consternation of other people who, docilely, were also waiting for news. So she sat down again and looked at the clock and she couldn’t believe what she was seeing: fifteen minutes past ten!

  It was exactly eleven o’clock when the nurse came to her and said, ‘You may go and see him for a minute.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, you may go and see him for a minute, he’s out.’

  She…she didn’t want to go and see him; she just wanted somebody to tell her he was alive and, what seemed important was how she was going to tell his people what had happened to him and where he was.

  She said to the nurse, ‘I…I’d rather not see him. All I want to know is, will he be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he will. But it’s a stroke of luck. Whatever implement it was that hit him went a long way round his skull but didn’t penetrate very far, for which he should thank his stars.

  ‘He…he won’t die then?’

  The nurse gave a small laugh as she said, ‘Well, not until he’s ready, and I should think not this time. But he’ll have a sore head for a pretty long time, I should imagine.’

  Then Agnes said something that sounded very silly even to herself. She said, ‘My name is Agnes Conway. My father owns a confectionery factory and shops in Spring Street. I…I rushed out without any money, and before I go home I must go and inform Mr Felton’s people where he is. Do you think there’s anyone who would loan me, say, a shilling for a cab fare?’

  The nurse looked at her as if she were a new species from a different planet. This girl, this young woman, coming here and asking for the loan of a shilling for a cab fare. She’d had some requests made of her in her time but none seemingly as outrageous as this. And yet, she didn’t look a sponger, she didn’t sound a sponger. She said, ‘How far is it to his people?’

  ‘I…I don’t know.’

  ‘Then how d’you know you’re going to get there?’

  ‘Well, I know they live near the quay, and the cabby would know of them; they are well known.’ Oh yes, yes, they are well known.

  ‘Well, I haven’t got a shilling on me. You wouldn’t expect me to carry money around in my uniform, would you? You can try the voluntary box people. Oh’—she gave an impatient twist to her apron—‘that’ll be put away. Anyway, they’ve gone this hour.’

  ‘You want the loan of a bob, lass?’

  A man who had been sitting silently by on the wooden form got to his feet, his hand outstretched, and he said, ‘There, take it; and if you want to pay it back put it in the voluntary box she was talking about.’ He nodded towards the nurse.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. But…but I’d rather pay you. What is your name? How can I get in touch?’

  ‘Any day in the market, miss. Bill Stoddart’s me name. But it’s all right. What’s the name of your sick friend’s people?’

  ‘He is not a—’ She closed her eyes for a moment, then said, ‘His name is Felton.’

  ‘Felton? One of the Feltons from the quay?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so…’

  ‘Huh!’ He laughed. ‘And he brought into hospital! It’s generally the other way round, lass; it’s them at the other end of the Feltons’ fists who generally land up here. I’d like to see the end of this.’ He laughed again. ‘And you were about to say, lass, he’s no friend of yours. I picked that up from the look on your face. Anyway, good luck to you when you tell ’em that one of their tribe’s got his head busted. If he hadn’t been covered with blood I would have recognised him. Which one is it?’

  ‘His name is…is Robert, I think.’

  ‘Oh aye, Robert…Robbie. He’s the youngest. Anyway, if you want a cab, lass, go to the stand in the Haymarket, just down the road opposite. You’re bound to find somebody there till twelve o’clock and any one of them will be able to take you to your destination.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you. And I will return the money to…to the box as soon as possible.’

  ‘Do that, lass. Do that. An’ thank you, ’cos you’ve lightened me night by the very fact that one of the Feltons has been busted up an’ knocked flat.’

  ‘Goodbye; and thank you again.’ She nodded at the man, then at the nurse before hurrying out.

  Outside, she stood and looked about her at the maze of buildings. And her mind didn’t question how she had got into this situation but how she was going to get out of it.

  The wind had gone down but the night had turned chilly and she shivered as she hurried towards the hospital gates, which were brightly picked out, as was everything else, by the moonlight.

  She was thankful for the moonlight for, without it, she knew she would never have found her way to the cab rank. She wasn’t acquainted with this end of the town, never having had any need to visit a hospital. When she reached the main road she didn’t know which direction to take, but seeing two men accompanied by two women she hurried to them and said, ‘Would you please direct me to the cab rank?’

  ‘Cab rank, lass? Straight across the road; your first turning right and there you are.’

  She thanked them, then actually took to her heels and ran.

  There were two cabs standing by the kerb. She said to the driver of the first one, who was standing within the shelter of a doorway smoking, ‘I…I understand you will know where the family called Felton live? They work on the quay.’

  The man nipped out his cigarette, pushed the stub into his breast pocket; then peering at her closely, he said, ‘There are a number of Feltons, but you say the ones that work on the quay. You sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure; there are a number of men in the family.’

  ‘Oh, aye, if that’s the Feltons you want there are a number of men in the family. Well, get in, miss. Get in, and let everybody mind their own business. That’s what I say.’

  ‘How much will you charge?’

  ‘What? Charge? Well, it’s only a short distance, I know—you could have done it in less than five minutes in the daylight—but we won’t see eleven o’clock again. It’ll be a bob.’

  ‘That’ll be all right. That’s what I’ve got.’

  Again he peered at her, then taking her elbow, he helped her into the cab. ‘You must have been in a hurry to come out without your coat; you’ll feel the chill afore the night’s out.’

  The door banged. She heard a ‘Gee up, there!’ and then the cab was rolling over the cobbles.

  If she could have walked it in five minutes, then the cab should have done it in less, but it seemed a long five minutes before it stopped again and the cab driver opened the door, saying, ‘Here we are then, lass.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s it, there.’ He pointed. ‘And they’re still up; there’s lights on up and down.’

  The house was one of a number in a terrace. It wasn’t a slum terrace, as she had expected, but from what she could make out through the moonlight they were good working-class houses, each with its small rectangle of iron-railed garden in front.

  She thanked the driver, lifted the latch of the low iron gate and took four steps that brought her to the front door. Here, she hesitated before she raised her hand and lifted the black knocker.

  She heard voices from behind the door; then it opened and a tall burly man was looking down at her. ‘Aye?’ he said. Then bending forward, he asked, ‘Who might you be? And what you after?’

&nb
sp; ‘I…I am Miss Agnes Conway. I…I have some news about your brother.’

  ‘You’ve got news about who?’

  He turned and looked back into the room and towards what she dimly made out to be a number of people. Then, looking at her again, he said, ‘Must be wor Robbie you’re after?’

  ‘Why…er yes. I mean…’

  ‘Aye, well, lass, if you’re after wor Robbie you’ve come to the wrong shop. You’ll have to take a good swim to find him the night, over to Holland, I’d say. Now, now, don’t start any of that. Whatever you’ve got on wor Robbie is atween you and him. So…’

  ‘Your brother’s in hospital. May I come in?’ Her voice was loud now and held a tone of command.

  Another figure appeared near him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. She’s after wor Robbie.’

  ‘I am not after Robbie. I have news of him. He is in hospital.’

  ‘Bring her in. She’s no tart; certainly not wor Robbie’s type.’

  The men stood aside and she walked in between them…almost stumbled in between them; and then she was in a large room in the middle of which was a long table covered in oilcloth. At the far end of the table was a spirit bottle and two glasses, at the nearer were two beer cans and two mugs, and spread about the table were playing cards. The room was quite brightly lit by two gas brackets, one at each side of a shining black stove. The mantelpiece above was crowded with gleaming brasses, which she vaguely made out as candlesticks. The room was warm and smelt musty. It was a strange smell; she did not liken it to spirits, beer and maleness, only that it was increasing her feeling of faintness. The man who had opened the door looked at the two men seated at the table and said, ‘This dame here says she knows about wor Robbie; she says he’s in hospital. What d’you think of that, when just about now he’s supposed to be hitting Holland?’