Birdcage Walk by Kate Riordan Page A

factory for his usual Saturday morning shift and escape the close atmosphere of Wiltshire Row early enough to stop Cissy asking any questions. The matter decided, he felt calmer and more resolute than he had for weeks. Turning his limp pillow over to its cooler, cleaner side, he smoothed out the rough cotton and lay his head down.
    Reaching out a hand towards Cissy, he gently stroked her fine hair, a gesture of affection he knew there was no risk of her knowing about. Then, pinching the sputtering flame out of its misery, he got into his usual position, face turned up to the bare window. Beyond it, a breeze stirred the towpath weeds just as the wind high above had already swept the sky clean of any cloud cover. George’s mind also clear, he gazed out, glad to know that there was truly nothing between him and the great dome of navy-coloured sky.

Chapter Seven

    When George awoke soon after dawn, the new day’s sun had flung a square of light over his knees under the thin blanket. Keen to be up making the most of the crystalline morning, he sat up and stuck his head out the window. Last night’s breeze had sharpened into a cool wind and looking across the canal’s inky sludge towards the north, he could see clouds mustering at the horizon. Undaunted, he wondered if his moth-eaten umbrella was fit to be seen in public.
    “You’re going to be late,” Cissy muttered sleepily as he pulled at the creases in his better shirt. “And why are you worrying about that now, when you always leave your shirts in a heap?”
    He’d hoped to make himself some breakfast before Cissy woke and started up with her nagging but now he would have to leave quickly, before she came to properly and discerned the excitement that lightened his movements. Already her face looked sharp in the cold early light as she sat up in bed.
    “You shouldn’t wear that shirt to the print anyway,” she continued. “It’s your last decent one that hasn’t gone threadbare or got ink all down it.”
    “Just leave it, alright?” He frowned at her to cover the nerves that had abruptly knotted in his stomach. The benefits of his sound, dreamless sleep were already being eroded and it was only just seven. He went to swing out the door but reached back to retrieve his flat cap from its iron hook just as Cissy opened her mouth to remind him of it. He gave her a tight smile and then took the stairs two at a time, desperate to be out in the brisk air.
    With the momentum of his own eagerness and the lack of traffic on the roads, it was no surprise that he had reached the gates of Aberdeen Park before the clock belonging to the church on the enclave’s small green showed half past seven. The weather was hardly mild but George had worn his thickest jacket and a scarf and thought he might sit out comfortably in it for an hour. He had no firm plans other than to better memorise the white house, but he was afraid of being noticed when so few others were abroad. He retraced his steps back to Highbury Fields, which was nearly as deserted, and went over to a wooden bench placed near the centre of the grassed area. Visible through the half naked branches of the trees, the sun was succeeding in burning off the scudding clouds and it felt warm on his face. With something regained of the previous evening’s serenity, and a timely drop in the wind, he was soon fast asleep.
    By the time he awoke, the sun had moved around and the surrounding gardens were now thronged with promenading elderly couples and nurses stoically pushing enormous perambulators, black and shiny as beetles.
    “What’s the time please, miss?” he called to a passing girl laden with parcels. His voice cracked with sudden apprehension as he spoke, fearful that he had wasted his precious day off.
    “There’s a clock over there,” she replied curtly, nodding her head towards a draper’s shop at the far end of the Fields, where above a pair of gaily striped awnings, an ornate clock reached out over the