As he opened the front door, warmth and the mouth-watering smell of oxtail stew wafted over him. On entering the kitchen he greeted his mother and his sister Mattie. Sarah Nolan acknowledged her son with a nod but stayed seated by the fire. Patrick strode over and kissed her on the head then slipped half a dozen coins in her hand.
‘That should keep the rent collector happy for another week,’ he said.
Mattie looked up from stirring the pot over the fire and smiled at him. She was still dressed in her drab workaday gown but she had taken off the tight-fitting cap that kept her hair clear of the machinery in the sugar refinery where she worked. She shared her brother’s colouring, his green eyes and his coal-black hair, but whereas his hair just curled around his ears hers cascaded down her back when it was allowed.
‘No Kate?’ he asked.
As if she had heard her name, Kate appeared at the back door. She too had an abundance of curly hair but, whereas Mattie’s was black like Patrick’s and their pa’s, Kate’s was fair, like her mother’s. She looked particularly pale as she entered the kitchen and there was a fine sheen of flour dusted over her.
‘You’re late,’ Mattie said.
‘We had a batch of pies ruined so we had to make up another two dozen ready for the morning,’ Kate replied, taking off her cap and sending a puff of flour into the air. ‘I found this on my way home, too.’
She cocked her head behind her to where Gus was standing. He drew in an exaggerated breath through his nose.
‘Am I in time for supper?’
Sarah laughed. ‘When are you not?’
Gus grinned. He had yet to fill out and still had three or four inches to go before he would match Patrick’s height, but he promised to match Patrick in stature. Like Kate he had their mother’s fairer looks, but like the rest of the Nolan menfolk he was always hungry.
‘It’ll be ready soon, won’t it Mattie?’ he asked, pulling out a chair from the corner and sitting down.
Mattie rolled her eyes at her younger brother then turned back to Patrick. ‘Annie’s taken Mickey to bed and is probably reading him a story by now,’ she told him. ‘Have you been for a drink?’
‘Me and Brian had a pint at the Town. He said he’d be around later.’
‘Never mind about Brian,’ Sarah said, folding her arms across her bosom. ‘A birdie told me you were arguing with Harry Tugman outside the Boatman the other day.’
‘The news is a bit slow around here if you only heard that today,’ Patrick said, shrugging off his jacket.
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give them a wide berth. They’d slit a man’s throat without breaking their stride, so they would,’ Sarah said.
Mattie waved a spoon at him. ‘I don’t know why you come home past that gin shop every day instead of just carrying on along Wapping Wall,’ she said, sending little specks of gravy flying.
‘I go that way because that fecking old bag sits there every day and I want to make sure she sees me.’ Patrick jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. ‘I smile at her and wish her a good day with such a grin on my face just to see the frustration in her beady old eyes.’ He gave them both an exaggerated smile. ‘I’m a free man. I’ll walk anywhere I have a mind to and Ma Tugman will not make me do otherwise.’
‘Good man yourself, Pat,’ Gus said. ‘Show that old bag she’s no say over you.’
Sarah gave her youngest son a sharp look which he ignored. ‘You heard about Peggy Grady’s son?’ Mattie said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Of course I did,’ he replied. ‘And sorry I was for him, too.’
Sarah leant forward. ‘By the time Charlie Tugman had finished slicing him he looked more like a butchered pig than a man.’
‘Bled all the way to hospital,’ Gus cut in.
Katie nodded. ‘Those who saw it said they didn’t know a man could shed so much blood without the spirit departing his body. Right across his face it was,’ she drew her finger across her cheek. ‘It’s a pure mercy that he still has two eyes. He’ll carry the scar to his grave, so he will.’
‘I don’t need reminding what the Tugmans are like, Mam,’ Patrick said, ‘but I’ll not kowtow to scum.’ He stared at his womenfolk. ‘And after a day of shovelling coal I would be obliged if you would quit your nagging, at least until me belly’s fed.’
‘If you were just passing how come you and Harry were seen squaring up to each other?’ Sarah asked.
‘If you must know, I was saving a young lady from Harry’s attention,’ he replied, remembering Josie in her expensive gown and smart jacket being jostled by the thug. He took the kettle off the stove and poured the water into the enamel ewer, to take to his room for his evening wash.
His mother tutted. ‘The trollops in the Boatman are used to Harry’s mucky hands so I don’t see why you had to int—’
‘It was Josie O’Casey,’ he said, in what he hoped was a level voice.
Mattie’s, Kate’s and Sarah’s mouths dropped open, and even Gus was lost for words. They all looked at each other in astonishment before Mattie recovered her wits.
‘Josie O’Casey? Your Josie?’
He gave a hard laugh. ‘She’s not mine anymore.’
‘Of course not,’ Sarah said. ‘Is her husband here? Has she any children?’
A lump formed itself across Patrick’s windpipe. ‘She isn’t married.’
His mother mouth dropped open. ‘But—’
‘It was her cousin who wed at her house. I heard it wrong,’ Patrick said as the constriction around his Adam’s Apple tightened.
Sarah gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Oh, well, perhaps it’s for the best. You and her are worlds apart now.’ A soft look crept into her eye. ‘I did have hopes that you and Josie would marry one day, and now she’s back, who knows? Although I expect she’s a proper lady now.’
‘Her money and my lack of it is neither here nor there, nor is the fact that she isn’t wed, Mam,’ Patrick said in an exasperated tone. ‘My being married - to someone else - is why she isn’t my Josie any more.’
‘Why was she outside the Boatman?’ Mattie asked.
Patrick told them.
‘I bet she was right pleased to see you,’ Gus said. ‘Especially with that fat Harry mauling her.’
That was true enough. Josie’s relief was palpable when she turned and looked at him but, remembering the way her gaze danced over his face, Patrick suddenly hoped the pleasure she showed at seeing him was for more than just deliverance from Harry.
‘She asked after you.’
‘What does she look like after all this time?’ Mattie asked.
What does she look like? Patrick’s mind conjured up the picture of her that had barely been absent from his memory - her rich auburn curls escaping from under her bonnet and her slim waist emphasised by the tailored cut of her jacket, her upturned face and large eyes - these images embedded themselves in his mind. Josie had always been a pretty girl, but now she had matured into a real beauty, so stunning it hit right to a man’s core.
‘Grand. She was grand,’ he replied, knowing it was well short of the mark. ‘She even said she might visit.’
His mother rocked back in her chair. ‘I hope she does. I’d like to hear how Ellen and her doctor are after all this time.’
Mattie stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did you tell her about Rosa and the children?’
Patrick raked his hands through his hair. ‘I didn’t have time . . . we were in the middle of the High Street.’ He wished he didn’t sound quite so defensive.
Kate gave a flat laugh. ‘So when are you going to tell her, Patrick?’
‘The next time I see her,’ Patrick answered firmly. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. ‘She said she’ll send word when she’s to be expected and I’ll make sure I’m here when she arrives. ‘He grasped the jug of water and opened the door to the passage. ‘And then I’ll tell her everything.’
As Harry opened the small door into the
main cellar under Number Six Burr Street, a shaft of light cut into the narrow passage. He stooped so as to avoid braining himself on the low lintel and cursed Ma for not making the secret entrance to their underground warehouse higher.
As he stepped into the main part of the storeroom, he shifted his burden into a more comfortable position. The main room was usually kept empty in case the local police wanted to have a nose around, but today it was crammed with crates and barrels, tobacco and tea.
The Maid of Plymouth had arrived from the Indies on the evening tide and weighed anchor mid-stream. Harry had gathered his henchmen and they had swifted away a decent haul from right under the nose of the ship’s captain and the police patrols.
Ma sat in a colourless old armchair just to the right of the stairs, her eyes darting back and forth over the goods as they were fetched in. She always came down to supervise the division of a big shipment. The main storage and distribution centre of stolen goods in the area lay under a row of old tenements.
They were owned by some lord or earl but his rent was collected by Messrs Glasson, Glasson and Oakes, a small but respectable law firm with offices in Aldgate. They might be respectable but their chief clerk was not. It was he who had pointed Ma towards the crumbling three-storied houses by the railway arch of the Blackwall to City line. Although Ma could tally in her head as quick as any bank teller, she could only just write her own name, so the lease on the four dilapidated houses was agreed with a spit on the palm and a shake of the hand.
When she’d taken them over, most of the rooms were already used by the local prostitutes so Ma just formalised the arrangement and added some muscle to ensure that the police looked the other way, but the real value of the terrace was in the cellars of the houses. Seeing their possibilities from the first, Ma had left the cellar under the end house open and filled the front of the other three with rubble, then she had bricked up false walls, concealing the cavern that held all their stolen goods awaiting a buyer. Anyone looking down into the area to the old servants’ quarters would just think the cellars had been abandoned.
Harry rolled the barrel off his shoulder to join the other four by the stairs. Ma watched, but her gaze ran over him without any obvious pleasure and he wondered again what more he could do to please the old cow.
‘What took you so long?’ she barked, but before Harry could decide on a suitable reply, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Charlie Tugman sauntered in, wearing a dress suit complete with a threadbare top hat. As it couldn’t have been more than seven in the morning, he looked quite ridiculous.
Ma’s eyes darted upward to where her youngest son stood and a look of pure adoration spread across her face, giving it an oddly innocent appearance.
Harry’s shoulders sagged with despondency. He knew the only thing he could do to please the old harpy: be Charlie.
His brother stomped heavily down the stairs, the treads creaking and cracking beneath his weight. He yawned when he reached the bottom, and took off his tall hat. He scratched his head, setting his oiled hair askew.
The men carrying the crates of sugar and stacks of tobacco back into the inner recess of the cavern acknowledged him and continued with their task.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ Harry said, glaring at his brother.
Charlie threw himself on the chair beside Ma. She reached out to stroke his hair out of his eyes but he flicked his head away and she let her hand fall.
‘You eat and drink the food off the table same as I do, it wouldn’t hurt you to work to put it there,’ Harry snarled, kicking one of the crates of tea.
‘Watch your boot, Harry!’ Ma snapped. ‘Those chests are like glass. You bust them and there’ll be leaves all over the floor and no profit to take.’
Charlie grinned at Harry. ‘I have been working,’ he said, stooping down and picking up the bottle of brandy beside his mother.
Harry gave a hard laugh. ‘Work! You don’t know the fecking meaning of the word,’ he said, stomping across the floor to where they sat.
‘And you don’t know the meaning of most words,’ Charlie replied, taking a large swig from the bottle.
Harry grabbed his brother by the lapels and dragged him to his feet. ‘Why, you little bastard, you—’
Charlie shoved back and Harry crashed into the tea chest. The side split and a stream of brown tea leaves poured out.
Ma heaved herself up from the chair and lumbered between them. ‘That’s enough.’ She smacked the back of her hand across Harry’s arm. ‘I told you to mind the crate.’
Harry pointed over her head at his brother. ‘You heard ’im insult me. And where has he been all night while I’ve been busting my balls?’
Charlie snorted. ‘I’ve been working all right, it’s just that I can do it with me head.’
Harry lunged at him again but Ma stood in his way.
‘Charlie!’ she snapped. He grinned at her. ‘Stop riling your brother.’
She turned to the bench and her eyes fell on the spilled tea. ‘Oi! Scotch.’ The man heading into the tunnel with a barrel on his back stopped. ‘Go up to China Rose and tell her to send any of her doxies without a man down here and set them to packing that tea.’
Scotch lowered the barrel to the floor and stomped up the stairs. The treads squeaked and groaned again. He returned a few minutes later with four young women, dressed in gaudy evening gowns, trailing behind him.
Harry knew them all by sight but could never remember their names. They all looked much alike to him, with their scraped-up hair and bright patches of rouge on their cheeks. The clothes didn’t help either - they rented their gowns by the day so whoever stumbled out of bed first had the pick.
Charlie tossed the empty bottle away and it skidded across the floor and hit one of the girls on the ankle. She winced.
‘Did you find out who she is?’ Ma asked.
‘Who?’ Harry asked.
A smirk spread across Charlie’s face. ‘Your little lady love. Miss O’Casey. The little darling who Nolan walked away with.’ He pulled out a cigar, jammed it in his mouth and then struck a Lucifer on the sole of his boot. ‘It seems Miss O’Casey wasn’t always dressed in feathers and lace. In fact, her mother sang in old Danny Donovan’s pubs before she married one of the doctors at the hospital.’
‘Did you find out the doctor’s name?’ Ma asked.
‘Munroe. Robert Munroe. It was his investigation into Danny Donovan’s dealings what sent him to the gallows, and’ ‘Ellen O’Casey, who is now Mrs Munroe, helped put the noose around old Danny’s neck. Charlie drew deeply on the cigar again and blew some smoke rings. The little sweetie who gave you the brush-off is her daughter, Josie. They went to America after the trial and only came back a month ago.’
‘Danny Donovan was a hard man but fair,’ Ma said in a tone of deep respect. ‘Your father was one of his top men.’
Charlie let out a long whistle between his teeth. ‘I remember I smashed into Danny Donovan in the street one day. I nearly shite meself.’
Harry studied his brother lounging in the chair. He would like to see his lazy, sniggering brother shite himself. In fact he’d give his eye teeth to see Ma look at Charlie, just once, with the contempt she always reserved for him.
It didn’t matter to Ma that he’d spent all night on the river lowering barrels and boxes over the side of a ship. Or that, without even seeing his bed, he’d had to hump the same fifty or so crates and sacks down into the storeroom while Charlie snored in drunken oblivion. No. Because anything Charlie did was just dandy in Ma’s eyes.
‘Hey, Harry,’ Charlie said chewing on his cigar. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked, leaning back.
‘She was all right,’ he said, trying to sound uninterested to avoid them finding something else to ridicule him for.
Charlie raised his hands and cupped them in front of his chest. ‘Did she have a good handful?’ he asked flexing his fingers.
Harry grinned. ‘Enough.’ Thinking about her trim figure and
bobbing curls . . .
Charlie shifted forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. ‘What else did she have?’
‘Nice eyes,’ Harry blurted out.
Charlie snorted. ‘Nice frigging eyes! Do you hear that, Ma?’
Ma chuckled. Harry glared at his brother. He hated himself for not being quick enough with a stinging retort but he hated Charlie more.
A faint titter came from across the room and he glared at the sallow-looking redhead at the end of the bench. She lowered her gaze back to the dusty tea leaves but not before her lip curled up.
A Glimpse at Happiness Page 6