Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  Freddie laughed. ‘I should have known it. I should have guessed good old Pat would set you up. Your fucking Paddy family were always thick as thieves.’

  Kate clenched her fists by her sides. ‘My brother wouldn’t see me and my children starve, if that’s what you mean. Now, I’ve no notion as to why you’ve decided to turn up after four years, and I care even less. So I’ll thank you to be on your way—’

  His hand shot out and grasped her throat. His eyes ran slowly over her face. ‘You always did look your best with a temper on you,’ he said in a heavy voice.

  Kate tried to twist out of his grip but he pressed his thumb into her windpipe. She let her arms fall to her sides. Looking at her husband’s half-closed eyes and loose, moist lips, a shiver of disgust ran through her. At least he wouldn’t kiss her. He never did.

  Freddie pressed her back against the kitchen table and rammed his knee between her legs.

  ‘If you ain’t got yourself another man yet, you must be panting for it.’ He grabbed her breast and squeezed it painfully. ‘You always were a good handful.’

  He pulled up her skirts and thrust his hand between her legs. ‘Let me see how much you’ve missed me.’

  As his fingers poked painfully into her, Kate’s stomach heaved. She forced it down and moulded herself into him.

  ‘Oh, Freddie,’ she murmured.

  He laughed, gripping her hair and forcing her head back. ‘I knew you wouldn’t say no to a bit of ’ow’s-your-father,’ he said, fumbling with her bodice buttons. ‘You never could.’

  His hand left her throat and tore the front of her gown open. He yanked the flimsy chemise aside and ran his tongue over her breast, leaving a damp trail.

  Kate reached out, grabbed the heavy metal pie dish and smashed the rim into his ear. As Freddie arched back and clutched his head, Kate jerked her knee into his crotch. He let go of her and doubled over, clutching the front of his trousers.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he croaked, then vomited over his boots.

  Kate shoved him back. ‘Get out!’

  Freddie staggered to his feet. ‘I’ll stay if I want. You’re my wife and what’s yours belongs to me. That’s what the law says.’

  ‘Call the law then! I’m sure the local coppers’ll be glad to know you’re back in the area.’ Kate strode to the back door and threw it open. ‘Go on then. If you’re quick you’ll catch Sergeant Bell on the corner of Pennington Street checking the patrols.’

  Cradling his injured genitals Freddie stumbled into the shop. There was a crash as the cash drawer hit the floor. He reappeared, knocking aside a stool and trampling her knitting underfoot. As he reached the back door, he turned.

  ‘You may have got the drop on me this time, you cow, but right’s right and as your lawfully wedded husband, this,’ he held up his fist holding the day’s takings, ‘is mine, so don’t think you’ve seen the back of me.’

  He shoved her hard-earned money into his pocket and, nearly tripping over himself, staggered out the back door.

  Kate shut the door and stood frozen. Her heart was pounding and when her knees threatened to give way, she sank on to a chair. Staring blindly, she rebuttoned her bodice with shaking fingers.

  Yes, she remembered the winter of ’49. In that bitter December six years ago Freddie moved out of the home she’d made for them and in with his trollop. Left alone with a hungry child and another in her belly, she spent her last shilling on a bag of flour, a knob of fat and a couple of pounds of beef, which she’d used to bake her first two dozen pies to sell at the dock gates.

  The following March, six weeks before Joe came into the world, Freddie was sent down for eighteen months in Coldbath Fields for receiving stolen goods. He’d come back to bother her again just when Ella had learnt to tie her bootlaces. Shortly after, he was arrested and sentenced to another two years for aggravated burglary. When he didn’t turn up after his release a year ago, Kate implored the Virgin Mary, for her children’s sake as well as her own, that she would never have to set eyes on Freddie Ellis again. It seemed her prayers had gone unanswered.

  Chapter Two

  Captain Jonathan Quinn of the Coldstream Guards marched past the adjutant’s desk to the window for the third time in ten minutes. He’d been ordered to present himself to the colonel at three o’clock sharp, which he did – thirty minutes ago.

  The Main Guard, the guardhouse running between the Conqueror’s White Tower and the Wakefield Tower, wasn’t the worst place he’d been summoned to for a dressing-down. If pushed, he’d say that that honour would go to the commander’s tent, shot through and splattered with gore, beside the Hariawala. On that occasion he’d been threatened with a flogging for refusing to lead his men to certain death into the guns of the Sikh army. Although this interview wasn’t to upbraid him for insubordination to an incompetent senior officer, Jonathan knew it would be just as hostile.

  Pulling down the front of his red dress tunic, he clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his study of the squad being drilled on Tower Green.

  The lieutenant sitting behind the desk coughed and Jonathan turned.

  ‘I’m certain the colonel won’t be much longer, Captain,’ the young man said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Jonathan replied in a tone that implied otherwise. He tilted his head. ‘It’s Parnell, isn’t it?’

  The soldier jumped to his feet and saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Stand easy.’

  Parnell’s shoulders relaxed. ‘It’s good of you to remember me, sir.’

  Jonathan looked him over. ‘It was a while ago, I grant you, and you’ve grown a . . .’ He pointed to his top lip. ‘But I never forget a man who has served under me.’

  The lieutenant smoothed his waxed moustache. ‘Yes, sir. We’ve both changed a bit since our stint in Alexandra in ’46.’ His gaze flickered to the eyepatch covering the mangled socket of Jonathan’s left eye.

  ‘Just so,’ he replied, forcing himself not to adjust its position.

  Parnell stood to attention again. ‘I hope you’ll pardon me for mentioning it but the regiment, every man jack of ’em, is right proud of your actions on the Heights of Alma, sir.’

  ‘I did no more than my duty.’

  ‘Maybe so, but everyone in the garrison knows there would have been a dozen more widows if you hadn’t done it so well,’ Parnell replied.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ bellowed a voice from the other side of the oak door.

  The adjutant dashed over and opened it. He snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is Captain Quinn there?’ the colonel’s gruff voice shouted from inside the room.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then send him in, God damn you. They’re expecting me at Horse Guard’s at five.’

  Parnell gave another crisp salute and stood back. Jonathan pulled down the front of his jacket again, adjusted his scarlet sash and marched into his commanding officer’s study.

  As he expected, the regiment’s senior officer was sitting behind the long mahogany desk studying a pile of letters with a pen in his right hand and a large brandy in his left. Framed on the wall behind him his predecessors, wearing uniforms, wigs, and shouldering arms from bygone ages, stared down at him in silent splendour. On the dresser over by the window lay unfurled maps and a pile of unread despatches with their blood-red seals still intact.

  Jonathan double-stepped to attention and saluted. ‘Captain Quinn, reporting as ordered, sir.’

  The colonel threw down the pen and looked up. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he grasped a letter from the top of the heap.

  ‘Tell me, Captain Quinn, what is this pile of horse shit?’

  Jonathan regarded him coolly. ‘My resignation.’

  ‘Damn you,’ the colonel forced out through clenched teeth. ‘I can see that. But why?’

  ‘I thought I had made my reasons clear.’

  ‘Did you? Did you indeed?’

  The colonel held his gaze for a second or two then pulled out his monocle
and glanced over Jonathan’s letter again. ‘You can’t expect me to send this up to the Colonel-in-Chief.’

  ‘Why not, sir?’

  ‘Because you describe your commanding officer as an “incompetent fool”,’ he replied, as if explaining to a child.

  ‘He is, sir.’

  ‘Good God, man!’ he said, as the monocle fell from his eye. ‘He is also the Duke of Cambridge. The Queen’s cousin.’

  ‘Well then, he’s an incompetent royal fool, sir.’

  The colonel slammed his fist down on the desk and the inkwell rattled. ‘And what of the regiment, blast you? Have you forgotten your family connection to the Guards?

  ‘No, sir, but my resignation stands.’

  The colonel glared at Jonathan and muttered a series of unintelligible oaths from under his moustache.

  ‘Look,’ he said, resting his elbows on the desktop and steepling his fingers in front of him. ‘Let’s forget I’m your commanding officer for a moment and let me talk to you as your father.’

  Jonathan regarded him levelly.

  ‘I know you’ve been though the mill losing your . . .’ he tapped under his left eye. ‘But it’s not reason enough to throw away a promising career. I mean to say, there’s hardly an officer in Horse Guard’s who hasn’t had a bit shot off in some battle somewhere.’ He laughed. ‘Look at old Dog Meat Huntley. He had a leg hacked off at Waterloo, lost three fingers to a dodgy grenade in Ghuznee and his ear bitten off by a horse at Moodkee and he’s still serving Queen and county as Provost Marshall of equipment and supplies.’

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, sir, that probably explains why the men in Sebastopol haven’t got their winter uniforms yet.’

  Irritation flashed across the colonel’s face. ‘It’s that sort of impertinent quip that’s given you the reputation as an agitator.’ He fixed Jonathan with the look that had scattered Frenchmen, Hindu Kush tribesmen and junior ranks alike. ‘Our ancestor and your namesake, Sir Jonathan Quinn, marched south with General Monck two hundred years ago. We Quinns have served in this regiment ever since and now you’re going to turn your back on your obligations because you’ve had an eye shot out.’

  ‘Have you read my letter, Father?’

  ‘Of course I have. Well, the first couple of lines before my dyspepsia prevented me from reading further.’

  ‘Had you’d read it in full, you would know that I’m not resigning because of my eye. I’m resigning before I’m court-martialled for—’

  ‘Court-martialled!’

  ‘—for refusing to lead any more good men to their slaughter on the orders of some short-sighted buffoon of a general who can’t tell his left from his right.’

  An unhealthy colour mottled his father’s cheeks. ‘That’s no way to talk about Lord Raglan. He is our most experienced and capable field marshal.’

  ‘Tell that to the widows of the Light Brigade.’

  They glared at each other and then his father jammed his monocle back under his brow and chewed his moustache. ‘And what has Miss Davenport to say about all this? I assume you’ve told her of your crackbrained idea.’

  ‘I have. She was naturally a little shocked but I’m certain she’ll come around,’ Jonathan said, remembering the look of horror on Louisa’s face. ‘She and her mother are in the country visiting family at the moment, so she has time to get used to the idea.’

  His father looked him over, then threw the letter into the elephant-foot waste bin beside his desk. ‘Well, she might come around but I won’t. I will not accept it. Do you hear? I won’t. You’re dismissed.’ He picked up the pen and shuffled the pile of papers in front of him.

  A small pulse started in Jonathan’s temple. ‘I’m afraid you have no choice, sir,’ he said, in a flat voice. ‘Under the Queen’s army order governing the Purchase and Relinquishing of Commissions, section twenty, subsection—’

  His father’s face flushed again and this time his eyes bulged, too. ‘Don’t quote army regulations to me! I was fighting under them while you were still wearing a bum-rag.’ He stood up and planted his thickset hands on the table. ‘Now hear this, Jonathan. I don’t give a hell-roasting damn about your opinion of the high command, army regulations, your poxy men or your bloody missing eye, but I will not have a my son dishonour me and the family’s name. And I’ll tell you this’ – he leant forward until his nose was just inches from Jonathan’s – ‘you can dress up your reasons for throwing away a promising career any way you like but I’ll tell you what I call it: cowardice.’

  Jonathan’s jaw clenched as he fought the urge to grab his father by the lapels and haul him over the desk. Somehow, despite his pounding temper clouding his thoughts, he kept his arms by his sides. He matched his father’s enraged expression for a moment then stood to attention and saluted. He turned and marched to the door.

  ‘Quinn!’

  Jonathan turned.

  ‘How dare you turn your back on your commanding officer!’ His father jabbed a finger at him. ‘This will earn you a week in the guardhouse.’

  Jonathan gave him an icy look. ‘I’m not turning my back on you as my colonel. I’m turning my back on you as my father.’ He saluted again. ‘Good day, sir!’

  Jonathan burst out of the office and took the stairs two at a time in order to put as much distance between him and his father as possible. He marched back through the Tower’s precinct.

  He automatically returned the salutes of the guards on duty as he passed under the Byward Tower then continued to the Middle. The sergeant leading the patrol down from the residential quarters took one look at his face and brought his troop to immediate attention. Jonathan forced out a ‘very good, Sergeant’ as he stormed past. Even the captain of the soldier posted at the final guardhouse gave him a wary look as Jonathan checked himself out. He marched over the drawbridge and, leaving London’s oldest castle behind him, started up the road towards Tower Hill.

  Coward! Jonathan thought. He was damn lucky I didn’t . . . He drew a deep breath and forced his mind and pulse to slow.

  With his boots crunching over the flint cobbles, Jonathan passed the newly built Tower ticket office, the Inland Revenue building and the row of taverns and eating houses that were already filled with soldiers from the garrison.

  His father’s flushed face loomed back into his mind as Jonathan pushed his way through a group of spotty delivery boys who jumped aside.

  A woman with dirty brown hair piled haphazardly on to her head stepped in front of him. She was wearing a tatty gown, rouged lips and a willing smile.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the handsome captain, then.’ She swept her gaze over him and then caught sight of his expression. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she said, as she scuttled back to her friends.

  The argument with his father still rolling around in his head, Jonathan continued at route-march pace for twenty minutes.

  ‘Wotcha self, General.’

  Jonathan stepped back as a laden wagon skimmed past him. He looked around, puzzled as he tried to get his bearings. It didn’t look like Leadenhall.

  The broad thoroughfare he was standing in had shops clustered together on both sides of the street. Each vied with the other to attract customers with artistically arranged window displays or gravity-defying pavement displays. The usual traders of butchers, greengrocers and drapers were interspersed with others such as rope manufactures, watch and chronometer makers and one shop with the sign ‘J. Salmon, world-famous ship’s biscuit bakers’, written in bold type across the window. Even though it was almost dark, there was still a constant stream of drays in both directions, the horses on one cart with the noses almost touching the backboard of the wagon in front. There was also a number of public houses; he counted five within view. He glanced up at the St George’s High Street sign.

  He gave a short laugh. You bloody clot, you’ve walked right passed the Minories.

  A gust of icy wind cut through him and Jonathan realised that in his eagerness to get away from his father, he�
��d left his greatcoat behind.

  He looked around in the wintry light and spotted a chop house on the other side of the road. The windows were steamed up, like all the other shops, but the bright paintwork and draped curtains made it seem homely and welcoming.

  Kate’s Kitchen, Jonathan mused. No doubt the coffee tastes like dirty dishwater but . . .

  Dodging between the wagons and sidestepping the horse droppings and rotting vegetables, he crossed the road. Pushing open the door, he ducked to avoid knocking his head as he stepped in.

  A couple of the dockers sitting around the tables gave him the once-over and then returned to their mugs of tea. Jonathan made his way to the counter.

  The shop had a low beamed ceiling and a bare wooden floor but it was newly swept. The tables were of various sizes and makes yet they were all scrubbed clean. The work surface was also spotless as were the two piles of plates and the dozen china mugs stacked on it. Jonathan leant back, rested his elbows against the worktop and waited for the proprietor to appear.

  He’d have a cup of whatever passed for coffee here and then head back. He had a train to Colchester to catch in the morning and no matter what his father said, once he’d handed in his equipment at the end of the week, he would be a civilian again.

  Jonathan heard a door open behind him. He turned.

  Standing behind the counter and looking up at him with a welcoming smile stood a young woman with cornsilk-coloured hair swept into a soft swirl on her head. She had a broad forehead, a small but defined chin and high cheekbones. Her sage-green gown showed signs of wear but it tucked into every curve of her body. ‘Good evening, Captain, what would you like?’ she asked, the smile on her full lips growing wider.

  ‘A coffee, if I may,’ he replied. He leant across the counter and smiled back at her. ‘With plenty of sugar.’

  As the captain’s gaze ran over her, Kate’s heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t done since she first fell for Freddie. She cut the feeling short. She wasn’t foolish enough to be stopped in her tracks by a man in uniform.