Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  That said, she couldn’t help but notice he stood a little over six feet tall and filled out the shoulders of his jacket to their full capacity. He was clean-shaven and his neatly trimmed hair was dark brown. His eyepatch drew her attention but didn’t hold it as the strong angular nose, blunt chin and square jaw demanded their fair share, as did the admiring expression in his remaining hazel eye.

  Kate turned to the stack of cups and reminded herself where being dazzled by a handsome face had got her last time.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ll like it strong, sir,’ she said, spooning a heaped measure of coffee from the earthenware jar.

  ‘Please,’ he replied, behind her.

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. This is ridiculous, she thought, filling the percolator with water and putting it back on the stove.

  Why was she so flustered? It wasn’t as if a day went past without some docker, stevedore or porter trying to sweet-talk her as he ordered his meal. And wasn’t this soldier doing just that? He had probably done the same to every woman he’d come across since he started shaving.

  She looked coolly at him. ‘It’ll just be a moment.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Would you like a slice to go with it, sir?’ she asked, nodding at the fruit cake under the glass cover.

  ‘Please, it looks tempting,’ he replied, not even glancing at the cake.

  Kate cut a slice and eased it into a small plate. ‘That will be a penny for the coffee and ha’penny for the cake,’ she said, handing it to him.

  He fished a couple of coins out of his pocket and slid them across the counter. Kate gave him his change.

  ‘Are you posted in the garrison?’ she asked, as she poured the coffee into one of her larger mugs.

  He shook his head and a thick fringe of hair fell over his forehead. ‘I’m stationed at Colchester,’ he said, combing it back with his fingers. ‘I’m only here for today – catching the train back tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a journey for one day, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Kate replied.

  A wry smile spread over his face. ‘Colonel’s orders.’

  Kate made a play of wiping the counter. ‘That sounds serious.’

  An odd expression flitted across the captain’s face. ‘It was.’ He gripped the mug.

  ‘Be careful, sir. It might be a little hot still,’ Kate said.

  ‘I’m used to drinking it near scalding. Sometimes on patrol it was the only thing that kept me from freezing.’ He took a sip. ‘Perfect. Just like the wallah in Bangalore used to make.’ He took a bite of cake. ‘This is delicious. Did you make it?’

  ‘I did,’ Kate said, only just stopping herself from falling for such an obvious bit of flattery.

  She turned and busied herself behind the counter. As she tidied the plates and bowls ready for the end-of-day rush, she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of his red coat out of the corner of her eye. And when she turned, she found him still studying her.

  He popped the last chunk of cake into his mouth and licked his thumb. ‘That’s the best I’ve tasted since I can’t remember when.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kate replied. ‘It’s a pity you won’t be here to sample tomorrow’s madeira.’

  ‘Who knows, maybe I’ll pass this way again sometime.’ He threw back the last mouthful of coffee and put the cup down. ‘Good day.’

  He turned and strode across the shop. Kate stared after him and listened as the bell tinkled a couple of times to mark his departure.

  Sally came back and put the dirty dishes on the counter. ‘Cor, it would certainly add a bit of spark to the place if he dropped by now and again,’ she said, gazing dreamily at the door.

  Kate laughed. ‘Well, don’t get yourself too keen. He’s not likely to.’

  Sally sighed and went back to the customers’ side of the shop. Kate picked up the captain’s empty plate and mug and thrust them into the water.

  Yes, the good-looking captain would indeed add a bit of spark but she didn’t need it. Spark in a man dazzled your eyes and muddled your brain. Spark coupled with a handsome face and gravelly voice made you do things you shouldn’t ought to and that you lived to regret. She’d been fooled once before but she was older and wiser now and wouldn’t be led into that trap again, especially not by a well-spoken toff in an expensively tailored uniform.

  Chapter Three

  Aggie Wilcox’s gaze idly traced the patch of damp on the ceiling as the bells of Christ Church Spitalfields chimed four o’clock across the road. The attic room in Moody’s common lodging house was a far cry from the Retreat, the discreet establishment for gentlemen just off Bloomsbury Square, but a girl had to live. She turned her head and looked at the heavily built man sprawled across the bed beside her. With receding sandy hair, a pot belly and quivery jowls, Tom bore a striking resemblance to the cattle he drove to London each week for slaughter.

  Carefully, without bouncing the straw-stuffed mattress, Aggie slid off the bed. Sitting on the edge of the only chair in the room, she lifted her skirt and wiped between her legs with her petticoat. She hadn’t conceived since the old crone, who looked after the girls in the brothel, hooked the last unwelcome infant out of her six years before, but she couldn’t be too careful.

  Tom farted and muttered something before his breathing returned to a regular rhythm. Aggie eased herself from the chair and, avoiding the squeaky floorboard, tiptoed to his jacket hanging at the end of the bed. She fumbled through his pockets and found a tobacco pouch, a flint box and a handkerchief. There was a small T stitched in the corner, no doubt embroidered by his wife for a birthday or anniversary. It wasn’t much, but she might get a penny for it at the pawnbrokers. She opened the drawstring and took a wodge of tobacco, twisted it in the handkerchief, then tucked it inside her bodice. She put the pouch and metal box back and searched the other pocket. Pulling out a handful of coins, Aggie held them in the fading light streaming in from the window. Seventeen shillings and threepence. Not bad for half a dozen mangy cows.

  Her fingers itched to take one of the crowns that sat twinkling among the dull pennies but even after a skinful of ale he would notice if one of them went missing. It had been taking a similar risk that had almost been the undoing of her and she wasn’t going to make that stupid mistake again. Besides, if she got shot of Tom soon she could probably catch herself another clodhopper or two before sunset. She selected a sixpence and a couple of coppers, tucked them in her skirt pocket and then slid the rest back.

  Tom coughed and blinked awake. He sat up, ran his dirt-caked hands over his face and shook himself like a tawny mongrel. ‘I must have dropped right off.’

  Aggie put her hands behind her back and swayed provocatively. ‘I ain’t surprised, you old tomcat, you.’

  He got off the bed, leaving mud on the threadbare counterpane where his heels had rested.

  ‘I bet you say that to all the men,’ he said, rebuttoning his flies.

  Aggie looked downcast and she sidled over to him, coiling her arm around his. ‘Course I do, but’ – she gave him a sideways glance – ‘I don’t always mean it.’

  He laughed and rummaged in his pocket, giving her a florin. ‘For my favourite girl. I’ll be back next week.’

  Aggie looked up at him and her lower lip trembled slightly. ‘I might not be here next week. Not if the landlord throws me and me poor old mother out on the streets.’

  Tom’s bushy brows pulled together. ‘Now, now, duck, you know I’m happy to pay a bit more than the going rate but I gave you an extra shilling last time. I can’t keep—’

  ‘I know you did and,’ she forced a tear, ‘you’ve paid me fair and square for your jiggy. I ain’t asking you for more. I’ve got my pride, you know. You’ll just have to find another special girl to make you happy next time you come to market.’

  Tom scratched his head. ‘Won’t the local church help? After all, your pa was a parson.’

  Aggie shook her head. ‘Ma won’t allow me to go begging them for
a penny. Not after the way the bishop treated her.’

  ‘Perhaps your landlord would let you stay if you gave him half what you owe him,’ Tom said.

  ‘And how would I buy my ma her medicine if I did? It’s the only thing that dulls the pain.’

  ‘Well I . . .’

  Aggie walked her fingers up his arm. ‘He’s a terribly wicked man, is my landlord. And even if my old ma weren’t on her last breath – which I swear she is – he’d still throw us out.’ She pressed her groin into his. ‘Couldn’t you find it in your heart to spare a bob or two?’

  ‘I don’t kn—’

  Aggie ran the palm of her hand down the front of his trousers. ‘I am your special girl, aren’t I?’

  Tom swallowed and fumbled in his pocket again. ‘If you promise to be in the Ten Bells waiting for me . . .’

  Aggie caught him around the neck. ‘I will and . . .’ she whispered something that the woman who’d embroidered his handkerchief would never in a thousand years consider doing.

  Tom’s eyes lit up. ‘I could stay a while longer.’

  Aggie picked up his coat and shoved it at him. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I only wish I could.’ She bundled him towards the door. ‘But I have to get home to Mother.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’

  Aggie closed the door and leant against it. There was silence for a moment then she heard the sound of his boots clomping down the stairs.

  Aggie fastened her bodice, leaving the last four buttons open, and rearranged her grubby chemise over her breasts. She took out the few remaining pins in her red hair and held them in her mouth while she combed her fingers through it. Bending forward, she twirled it into a knot on the top of her head and secured it. She adjusted her cleavage and smoothed her skirt. It was her favourite gown – emerald green with a low-cut, tight-fitting top. It was just right for catching a man’s eye and keeping his mind from worrying about the cost of her company.

  Dancing across the floor to the window, Aggie studied her reflection in the dirty glass. She smiled and, judging Tom would be halfway to Minories station to catch his train by now, she left the room. She trotted down the rickety stairs, past the communal rooms with the coffin-like beds and into the entrance hall.

  Isaac Ketch, the bully-boy who supervised the lodgers, was sitting with his feet up on the fender cleaning his teeth with the point of his knife. He looked up and grinned as she swept over to him.

  ‘You made swift work of that yokel.’ His eyes drifted down to her cleavage. ‘You out for another?’

  Aggie nodded. ‘Keep the room free.’ She adjusted the front of her gown again. ‘I’m popping into the Blue Coat Boy for a couple before I catch another dick.’

  She stepped out into Dorset Street and shielded her eyes against the hazy December light. The closely packed houses on either side seemed to lean towards each other and the sun only illuminated the cobbles briefly at sunrise and sunset. The rest of the time the squalid thoroughfare was left in shadow. The once-fine homes were now mainly lodging houses and outside each there was the usual collection of tatty individuals waiting for the superintendent to let them in for the night. As the working day had not yet ended, it was mainly barefooted women clutching babies and children, huddled together against the biting cold. Aggie pulled the edges of her velvet jacket together, thankful she’d had the foresight to snatch that from the peg before Madame Tootle threw her out.

  It had been that jealous bitch Rosie Potter’s fault, but she’d taken the smile off Rosie’s face, literally, when she’d pressed her poxy moosh to the side of the stove-pipe boiler. She’d like to see the old madam try to wring ten shillings out of a punter now for an hour of Rosie.

  Side-stepping the pungent slurry of human and animal waste, Aggie started down the street. A couple of navvies on the other side of the road looked her way as she passed but she’d have to steel herself with a gin or two before taking another punter up to Moody’s loft. She’d entertained several clients a day at the Retreat but they had been gents who had appreciated her charm; now the men she had to endure hardly noticed her prettiness at all.

  Shoving aside a couple of rag-tag kids who stood in her path, Aggie headed for the Blue Coat Boy. A couple of early customers propping up the bar glanced over as she sauntered in but soon returned to their drinks. At the far end of the pub in his usual place sat the man who could be the answer to her prayers: Ollie Mac, the leader of the Black Eagle Gang.

  Well, in truth, the weasel-faced, balding leader of the Spitalfields gang was hardly a man to set a girl’s pulse racing but if she could snare him her position would be secure. Of course, she had to get rid of the old sow he lived with: Lilly. That shouldn’t be too difficult but if she were lucky she wouldn’t have to do a thing if the sprog Lilly had stuffed up her skirt carried her to the grave in a few weeks.

  Aggie sauntered over to the bar, her skirts sweeping a path through the damp sawdust. Mary, the fat barmaid, stopped polishing the glasses and came over.

  ‘Gin,’ Aggie said, twisting back and forth to check herself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘And the good stuff. Not the pissing gut rot you usually serve.’

  ‘And a good afternoon to you, Lady Muck,’ Mary replied, uncorking a bottle from the back shelf.

  Aggie threw a ha’penny on the counter and took the glass. She swallowed half the measure in one gulp, enjoying the sensation of the liquid burning as it passed down her throat and into the pit her stomach. Ollie Mac was talking with Stefan, the big Swede who acted as his muscle. They laughed and then Stefan moved away. Aggie pressed her lips together to bring the colour back and swayed over.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Mac,’ she said breathily as she leant forward to show her cleavage to full advantage.

  Ollie’s eyes slid down to her opened bodice. ‘Afternoon, Aggie. You’re looking perky today. Can I get you another drink?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She sat on the vacant chair next to him.

  Ollie signalled to Mary. ‘You been out turning tricks already?’

  Aggie gave a throaty laugh. ‘They’re queuing up, Mr Mac.’

  He sat back. Aggie pulled a small leather wallet from the bottom of her bodice and counted out the half a crown she’d earned that morning. ‘That’s this week’s money, Mr Mac.’

  Ollie chinked it in his hand a couple of times then slipped it in his pocket. ‘That’s what I like about you, Aggie. You pay on the nose and don’t give me the excuses – like some I could mention.’

  Aggie drew closer and rested her hand lightly on the top of his thigh. ‘I hope that’s not the only thing you like about me, Mr Mac.’

  A spark of lust flashed in Ollie’s eyes. ‘It’s not.’ He reached across and fondled her breast.

  Aggie giggled as his fingers delved beneath her bodice. She allowed him a free roam for a moment or two then drew back. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t . . . not just yet,’ she said. ‘It can be dangerous to unsettle a breeding woman.’ She placed her hand on the bare flesh above her breasts. ‘And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to your Lilly.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ Ollie said.

  Aggie stood up, then leant forward again and ran her finger along the line of his stubbly chin. ‘And a whole lot more, for a man who treats me right.’

  He chuckled then slapped her rear. ‘Off you go before Lilly finds you here.’

  Aggie straightened up and blew him an exaggerated kiss. She turned and, satisfied that his eyes were glued to her bottom, ambled towards the door.

  Freddie walked out of the clothing warehouse behind Leman Street and turned to look at his reflection in the shop window. He adjusted the blood-coloured cravat and smoothed the lapels of his new black jacket. If he said it himself, not bad. He fixed the angle of his new billycock hat and walked towards Aldgate.

  Leman Street was one of the main roads running north from the docks, and other than the fact that the Garrick had been rebuilt and was now grandly named the Albert and Garrick Royal Amphitheatre, the r
est of the street looked very much as he remembered. There were a couple of new white-stoned offices with brass plates on their walls between the old soot-blackened shops. The road was packed with wagons and people going about their mid-morning business. Delivery carts piled high with furniture, hay and crates negotiated their way between the fly-pitch barrows selling the early catch from Billingsgate market half a mile away. The icy wind fluttered the bunting on the shop awnings and whirled the smoke from the coffee sellers and the hot-chestnut men’s two-wheeled stoves. He crossed the road and, leaving the workaday bustle of Whitechapel High Street behind, entered the dark alleys at the south end of Spitalfields rookery. Within a few minutes Freddie had reached the front door of the Blue Coat Boy in Dorset Street. As the first flurry of snow settled on the shoulders of his new jacket, Freddie stepped into the warm bar.

  Although there was hardly space in the bar to breathe, sitting at the back of the pub at a table in a well-defined space sat a slightly built, clean-shaven man with a large glass of brandy in his hand. He was flanked by two men; one with a mop of white-blond hair and the other with a shaven head.

  At first glance you could have mistaken Ollie Mac as a clerk or a shop worker but, if you studied him more closely, you’d see that his herringbone suit was made to measure rather than from a warehouse rack, and that a diamond pin held his silk cravat in place. The brewery might own the Blue Coat Boy but it was Ollie Mac who ruled it. He looked up and studied Freddie for a second before a wide, crooked smile cut across his face, revealing a gold front tooth.

  ‘Well stone the crows, Freddie Ellis,’ he shouted slamming the palm of his thick-set hand on the table.

  The bruiser sitting on Ollie’s left looked up from honing his blade and rose to his feet. Stefan Magson’s broad features clearly showed his Scandinavian ancestry. He had the look of a playful bull mastiff about him but the harsh glint in his ice-blue eyes warned you not to be fooled.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ he said and stomped towards Freddie.