Sarah frowned at it.
‘That Esther’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’ Bernard remarked as the horses turned, causing a slight traffic jam, and plodded off down George Street. ‘I don’t know how Adam puts up with her. Don’t know how I’m going to put up with her.’ He stepped into the shop out of the light breeze and retrieved a silver snuff box from his coat pocket, tapped the lid twice and opened it. Taking a small pinch between thumb and forefinger he rolled it for a few seconds to release the aromatic oils, then sniffed it into each nostril. ‘Still, it’s only for three weeks, I suppose. And it’s for Adam. If she was anyone else’s missus I’d tell them — sorry, too busy.’
Sarah gave a polite little smile. He sounded as though he genuinely disliked Esther, but he might not. This could all be a trick cooked up by Adam — or, even worse, Esther — to test her loyalty to them. You never knew how fickle people could be; she’d learnt that lesson some time ago.
‘Mrs Green has her good points.’
‘Well, she can cook, that’s true,’ Bernard said. ‘That’s one. And she’s a fine-looking woman, there’s no denying that. When she’s not scowling, that is. Face like a smashed crab otherwise.’ He sighed. ‘Damn shame, really. Good man, Adam. Don’t know why he took up with her.’
Sarah thought she did; he must have loved her. It was the only reason she could think of. Having come to know him over the past year, she’d decided, contrary to what she’d initially assumed, that he wasn’t the sort of man to marry a woman for her money, and anyway she doubted Esther had had much, being an ex-convict. On the other hand, Bella Jackson had arrived in New South Wales with plenty of dosh, so perhaps Esther had, too. But she still couldn’t see Adam as an opportunist of that ilk. And Bernard was right — Esther was an attractive woman, and capable of considerable charm when she felt like it. Adam had fallen in love with her, it was probably as simple as that. He cared a lot for her now, Sarah knew, but did he still love her? And more to the point, why should she care whether he did or not?
‘And by the way, Sarah,’ Bernard added, ‘you don’t have to watch your tongue. There’s no love lost between me and Esther Green, and even less between Esther and my missus. They hate each other’s guts. Esther thinks we’re common. So we are, and we’re proud of it. And truth be told there’s not a lot of difference between my Ruthie and Adam’s Esther, bar about three stone in weight and a put-on toffy accent. They’re both East End lasses and they’re both emancipists.’
East End? She’s doing a good job of hiding that, Sarah thought.
‘I was transported for receiving, same as Adam, in case you’re wondering,’ Bernard went on, ‘and he’s told me about you. A cracksman? You don’t see many lasses doing that. I have to say I’m impressed.’
‘I wasn’t transported for that,’ Sarah said.
‘No, but still. He’s been very trusting with you, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he has.’ Why was he saying this to her?
‘He must think a lot of you.’
That’s none of your business, Sarah thought. Shut up.
Bernard beamed. ‘Anyway, that’s between you and Adam. Now, what’s this I hear about a ghost?’
Feeling on far less dangerous ground, Sarah said, ‘Did Adam tell you?’
Pulling his watch from his waistcoat and checking the time, Bernard said, ‘Why don’t you tell me over a nice cup of tea? We don’t have to open for half an hour and Esther won’t be back for a while. I always say a good story goes best with a nice cup of char.’
So Sarah made him tea, which he rounded out with three of the buns he’d brought, and told him how the ghost of Rachel Winter was haunting both herself and her friend Harrie, as well as this house and now, apparently, Esther Green. She spoke earnestly, and Bernard received the account as though it were the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard.
‘We had a ghost once, Ruthie and me, in a house we had in Suffolk Lane. This was a few years ago now, when our kids were still small. Our youngest, Albert, would have been about six or seven. The ghost was the spirit of a little girl, drowned in a cesspit in the yard.’
‘Really?’ Sarah said. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Ruthie felt sorry for the poor thing wandering around caught betwixt one world and the next, and the kids were getting sick of having their bedclothes pulled off in the middle of the night and what have you, so we got a spiritist to come in. This woman, you should have seen her, she was only in the house twenty minutes and managed to come up with all this history about our ghost. Apparently her name was Pansy — the ghost, not the spiritist, her name was Mrs Savage — and she was nine years old and she’d slipped into the cesspit reaching for a doll she’d dropped, and drowned. What a terrible way for a kiddie to die. Well, for anyone, really. But it’s marvellous what they can do, these spiritual people.’
‘It certainly is,’ Sarah said. ‘And so altruistic of them to work for nothing.’
‘Actually, it cost me a tenner,’ Bernard said, frowning.
‘And did Pansy go away?’
‘No. We ended up moving ourselves. Ruthie had another baby and we needed a bigger house. Well, we could afford it. Pansy might still be there, for all I know. So you actually know this ghost of yours?’
‘Yes, Rachel was a very close friend of ours.’
‘And what does she want, do you know?’
Sarah said, ‘I don’t know if she wants anything at all from me or Harrie, but I think she might be angry at Esther because Esther wouldn’t let me attend her burial.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She told me one night, in a dream.’ Sarah almost cringed because it sounded so silly.
‘Mmm. Well, it certainly seems to be scaring the stuffing out of her ladyship,’ Bernard said cheerfully. He dug a knife into the butter and plastered his bun with it. ‘That’ll teach her for being so heartless, won’t it? I wonder if I’ll see her? Your ghost, I mean.’
Highly unlikely, Sarah thought. She looked at the clock. ‘Time to open up.’
Friday lurched her way up the Barretts’ stairs, swearing, tripping and clattering her crutch against the wall. This wasn’t exactly keeping her leg elevated.
Nora Barrett appeared at the top of the stairwell holding the baby, her little boy Sam clutching at her skirts.
‘Mr Barrett said Harrie’s in?’ Friday said.
Nora nodded. ‘What have you done to your leg?’
‘A dog bit it.’
The little boy went, ‘Woof woof!’
‘Woof’s right,’ Friday muttered.
‘Do you need help?’ Nora asked, coming down.
‘No, I’m good, thanks. But could you fetch Harrie, please? If she’s not busy?’
Nora retreated, and by the time Friday reached the top of the stairs Harrie had appeared. Beside her hovered Hannah Barrett, looking unusually clean, her wet hair stuck to her head.
‘Friday!’ Harrie exclaimed. ‘What happened?!’
‘A dog bit me,’ Friday said, hobbling to the sofa and collapsing on it. ‘Can I sit down, please?’
‘Of course.’ Nora waved her free hand.
Hannah asked, ‘Can I see the hole?’
‘No, you can’t,’ Harrie said.
‘Oh, pleease! Is there pus?’
‘Hannah!’ Nora reprimanded.
‘I just wondered!’
‘Well, go to your room and wonder.’
‘Can’t. My hair’s wet.’
Harrie attacked Hannah’s head with a towel, rubbing her hair so energetically the little girl lost her balance.
‘Have you got rabies?’ Hannah asked when she’d regained her bearings.
Nora’s face paled.
‘I don’t know,’ Friday said. ‘Shall I bite you and see?’
Hannah shrieked and tore off to the children’s room.
‘There’s no sign of it,’ Friday said to Nora. ‘I’m under a doctor’s care.’ She swore, apologised, and shifted on the sofa to ease her leg.
‘Fuck fuck,’ Samuel said.
Nora took his hand. ‘We’ll be hanging out the washing, Harrie. Not too long, now. We’ve that gown to cut out.’
Harrie nodded. When Nora and the children had gone, Friday said, ‘Where’s the oldest girl?’
‘Abigail? With her father in the shop, I think. Why? How on earth did you get bitten by a dog?’ Carefully, Harrie sat next to Friday.
‘I don’t want anyone to hear us. It’s about Bella. I finally got a note.’ Harrie’s hands crept towards her ears, but Friday caught and held them. ‘You need to listen to this, love. She’s demanded a hundred and fifty pounds, and we’re going to pay it. We have to. We don’t have a choice.’
Harrie stared at her, eyes slowly filling with tears.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Friday said, though it was. ‘She could have asked for a lot more.’
‘I can’t do it,’ Harrie whispered. ‘I can’t be the one who gives it to her.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, I’ll do that.’
‘Will that be the end of it?’
Friday so desperately wanted to lie. ‘No, it won’t. She’ll keep making demands so we’ll have to save twice as hard now.’
Harrie looked stricken. ‘It’ll never end, will it? It’ll go on and on and on.’
‘Don’t worry, Harrie, please. We’ll find a way to stop her.’
‘But how, Friday? How?’
And Friday could only stare at her, because she had no idea.
Matthew loitered in the shadow of the Commissariat Stores on George Street, mustering the courage to go ahead with what had initially seemed to be such a wonderful idea. He’d taken the day off work, sending Dolly with a note citing a recurrence of the ague he’d suffered several weeks earlier, and had already ducked into the pub for several stiff whiskies, retiring to the dimmest corner lest he be seen by someone he knew, so now he was feeling half drunk — at ten in the morning! — as well as nervous.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he crossed the busy street and strode briskly along the footway, trying to look as though he had somewhere vitally important to be, then dodged quickly into the alleyway beside the Sailors’ Grave. Expecting to encounter reeking piles of rubbish and possibly a dead dog or two, not to mention prostitutes and lurking pickpockets, he was pleasantly surprised to note that the alley was free of detritus and no more smelly than the rest of the Rocks. Halfway along he came to an open doorway, across which hung a brightly painted bamboo curtain. A sign declared the premises to be OPEN FOR BUSINESS. He knocked before he could change his mind.
‘Enter!’ came a gruff voice.
Matthew parted the bamboo reeds and stepped into the little shop, blinking at the bright light within.
A shirtless, heavily muscled man sat on a waist-high wooden bench, dabbing salve onto what was clearly a new tattoo over his right pectoral area. It wasn’t his first, either; his arms were covered with them and there were already two on his chest. Beside him an older man, his hair, moustache and beard all very grey, sat bent over a tea trolley laden with implements, wiping off a handful of wicked-looking needles with what smelt, even from the doorway, like raw alcohol.
The old man said without raising his head, ‘Can do you something very small, or maybe an outline. You’ll have to come back if you want anything bigger. I’ve a booking at one o’clock.’
‘Er,’ Matthew said.
The old man turned around.
‘Are you Mr Leonard Dundas?’ Matthew asked.
‘Who wants to know?’ the grey-haired man said, his voice heavy with suspicion.
‘Oh, no one, just me. My friend recommended you. Harrie Clarke.’
‘Did she now? And who might you be?’
‘Matthew Cutler,’ Matthew offered a hand.
The man looked at it but didn’t take it. ‘Aye, I’m Leo Dundas. What do you want?’
Matthew hesitated; this Mr Dundas didn’t seem anything like the ‘very nice man’ Harrie had described. ‘Well, actually, I’d like a tattoo.’
Leo exchanged glances with the fellow on the bench; they both burst into snorts of laughter.
‘You do know what a tattoo is?’ Leo said. ‘Once it’s on it’ll never come off again.’
‘Yes, I do realise that.’
‘You don’t look like a sailor.’
‘That’s because I’m not,’ Matthew said patiently. ‘I’m a civil servant.’
Grinning and shaking his head, the newly tattooed man got off the bench and shrugged into his shirt. ‘How much do I owe you, Leo?’
Leo told him and the man left the money on the trolley.
‘Mind you keep up with the salve, Bill. And don’t ruddy well pick the scab this time!’ When Bill had gone, Leo said to Matthew, ‘You’ll have to pardon my bad manners, lad. I’ve a certain reputation to maintain. I am busy, but if you’re a friend of Harrie’s I’ve got time to listen.’
Leo had only met Harrie three times, but already he was growing fond of her. He’d seen how gentle she was with Walter, and he was grateful to her for it. He was a rough old bugger himself and knew it. Walter was still young, he’d had a shocking time with that Furniss bastard, and could benefit from the kindness and gentle ways only a woman could provide. She was pretty, too, Harrie, and round in all the right places; Walter shouldn’t have to put up with an ugly, weathered old sailor’s face all the time.
‘All the same,’ he added, ‘I don’t think you do want a tattoo.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Matthew said firmly. ‘Though obviously I don’t want it right in the middle of my forehead or anywhere like that.’
The corners of Leo’s mouth twitched.
‘And I’d like something that has … resonance.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I don’t know. What about one of Harrie’s, er … flashes? Is that what they’re called?’
Leo suddenly realised what had brought this young man to his shop. ‘Flash. She hasn’t produced any yet. Not had the time. Look, lad, if you want to impress her, why don’t you just buy her an extravagant gift?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I want a tattoo. She said —’ she thinks your work is beautiful, he finished to himself. ‘Never mind. I can’t afford to buy extravagant gifts, and anyway it’s not that straightforward.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Unfortunately, no, it isn’t.’
‘Well,’ Leo said, ‘if you’ve set your heart on getting inked I won’t stop you. And I admit you wouldn’t be the first gentleman to do it. But I meant what I said, once a tattoo’s been done there’s no getting rid of it. Unless you flay it off, and to do that you have to go fairly deep.’ He winced. ‘Not nice, lad. And it leaves a bloody great scar.’
Matthew crossed his arms but said nothing.
Leo gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘Right then, what did you have in mind? I am booked up this afternoon, so if you want a map of the globe across your back you’ll have to come back another day.’
‘Just something smallish,’ Matthew said. ‘And nothing too, well, vulgar.’
‘Nothing a sailor’d want, you mean?’
‘I wasn’t going to say that. But nothing too … effeminate, either.’
‘Where do you want it?’
‘Well, not on public view.’
‘Then how’s she going to know you’ve got it?’ Leo asked slyly. ‘Or are you planning on strutting around in front of her in the nud?’
‘Certainly not!’ Matthew said, his face heating up.
Good, Leo thought, I don’t think I like that idea. ‘Well, does anything on the wall take your fancy?’
Matthew spent about ten minutes having a really good look. ‘Nearly,’ he said at last. ‘I like some of these oriental ones. This lion thing here is quite appealing. Or is it a dog? It’s a bit hard to tell, isn’t it? Would it have to be that big, though? I was thinking of my upper arm.’
Leo opened his cabinet and took out a book. ‘Some of those are Chinese lions and
some are Korean temple dogs. That one you’re looking at is a lion, or a kara shishi. Strictly speaking they’re all actually Japanese designs. You often get both in Japanese work. It’s part of their mythology. There are more images in here.’
Matthew thumbed through the beautifully illustrated book, full of colour plates. ‘This is marvellous. Where did you get it?’
‘I studied the art of irezumi for some years. That’s Japanese tattoo, to you.’
‘Not in Japan, surely?’
Leo nodded. ‘That book was given to me as a gift by my tutor.’
Matthew eyed him with new respect. ‘How on earth did you get into Japan?’
‘In my younger years I was a sailor. I jumped ship, didn’t I?’
‘But it’s been closed to other nations for two hundred years, hasn’t it?’
‘Big jump, very quiet splash. It’s not that closed.’
‘So how long were you there?’
‘Long enough,’ Leo said in a tone that suggested he’d finished talking about his time in Japan. ‘If you want the lion you have to have a peony as well.’
‘Peony as in the flower?’
Leo pointed with an ink-stained finger at an image of a particularly luscious-looking bloom. ‘Aye, one of these. The lion is all-powerful and all-protective, a symbol of guardianship —’
‘Oh, I like that,’ Matthew interrupted.
‘Thought you might,’ Leo said dryly. ‘And guardianship is yin. To balance that you have to have something that is yang. The peony, symbolic of good fortune, a hint of risk-taking and high honour is yang. You can’t —’
‘Sorry, I’m getting confused.’
‘Yin and yang, very complex oriental concepts. Two opposing forces and what matters is the balance. I’ll not go into it or we’ll be here all day. The lion always appears with the peony, and I won’t do the lion without it. Up to you.’
Actually, Matthew really rather liked the peony; the way its rich red petals curled delicately at their edges was quite sensuous and the packed profusion of smaller petals unfurling at the centre of the bloom evoked in him a sense of something … spurting out, an idea that stirred his loins with embarrassing effect. He turned slightly away from Mr Dundas. What a funny idea to get from a drawing of a tattooed flower. Hell, he was getting desperate.
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