The local bobby plodded towards Joe at his regulation three miles per hour and looked at him suspiciously but Joe kept his eyes on the faded door of the Old Rose and carried on until he was outside.
Ma would be furious if she found out that he’d gone into a pub alone but what else could he do? Pa hardly ever came to the house and when he did, Ma sent him packing. It wasn’t fair. Not after Pa had been away for so long.
Joe pushed open the door and stepped into a fog of tobacco smoke and noise. With his eyes watering, Joe pushed between the drinkers and spotted his father lounging on the bar at the far end of the pub.
‘Pa! Pa!’
Freddie looked around. ‘Gawd luv us. If it ain’t my Joe,’ he said to the men surrounding him. He lifted Joe off his feet and sat him on the counter. ‘What you doing here, son?’
‘I came to find you, Pa,’ Joe replied, grinning up at his father.
‘See, didn’t I tell you my boy was a chip off the old block?’ Freddie said to the other men.
‘He’s a replica of you,’ said one.
‘’E’s a lad to be proud of, that’s for sure,’ said another.
Joe’s chest swelled.
‘Oi! Conny, fetch my boy a couple of mouthfuls,’ Freddie called to the barmaid.
The roly-poly woman behind the bar blew him a kiss and filled a small mug. She handed it to Joe. ‘There you go, ducks. That’ll put ’airs on your chest.’
Joe peered down into the drink. There was dirty froth floating on the top along with specks of sawdust.
‘Knock it back,’ Freddie urged.
Joe closed his eyes and forced a mouthful of bitter liquid down.
‘Does your ma know you’re here?’
Joe shook his head.
‘Good.’ His father grinned at the men around him. ‘See, he’s learnt already not to tell a woman his business.’
The men laughed again. Freddie drained the last of his drink. ‘Right, I’m off. Come on, Joe. I’ll walk you home. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my boy, would I?’
By the time Joe got down from the counter, his father was already halfway to the door. Joe hurried after him and caught up with him outside the pub.
‘I like your new suit, Pa,’ he said, trying to mimic his father’s rolling gait.
Freddie flicked an invisible speck of dirt off his left sleeve. ‘It ain’t bad, is it?’
‘Pa, are you looking forward to Christmas?’
Freddie shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’ve given it much thought.’
‘But Ma has told you we’re all at Aunt Mattie’s this year?’ Joe asked. ‘Last year Aunt Josie had a side of beef so big Uncle Pat had to cut it in half to get it on the plate. And there’ll be pudding and jelly and custard and this year we’re having a tree. With—’
‘I don’t know I’ll be invited,’ Freddie cut in.
‘But why, Pa—’
‘Hasn’t your ma told you?’ Freddie asked. Joe shook his head. ‘Well, I used to work in your aunt Mattie’s coal yard but then when your ma took a fancy to me your aunt Mattie turned against me. She told your uncle Pat a pack of lies and he came looking for a fight – but I gave him a right pasting instead. When he heard I was going to marry your ma he had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t good enough for her.’ Freddie’s expression turned ugly. ‘Him, his sisters and their bunch of sprogs are nothing but Irish tinkers, the lot of them.’
Joe’s mind whirled. If Uncle Pat, Aunt Mattie and the rest of the family were Irish tinkers what about . . . Joe stopped and looked down at his boots.
His father turned. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Am I an Irish tinker, too, Pa?’
Freddie scuffed his hand across Joe’s head lightly, disturbing his hair. ‘Don’t be daft. You’re my boy. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come to Christmas dinner and then you and me can tell your uncle Pat, aunt Mattie and uncle Nathaniel to fuck themselves?’
Joe laughed uneasily. ‘So you’ll come?’
‘Course I will.’
He stood up and they walked on to the shop. Joe was about to cross the road when he noticed his father had come to a halt.
‘Aren’t you coming in, Pa?’ Joe asked, looking up at his father hopefully.
‘Not right now, boy. I have a bit of business to do.’ Freddie hunkered down. ‘Do you think you could do me a favour?’ Joe nodded. ‘Pop in and fetch me a couple of bob out of the till?’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Joe stammered.
‘A shilling or two will do.’ Freddie repositioned his hat, shoved his hands in his pockets and leant against the wall.
With his heart like a lump of lead in his chest, Joe crossed the road and slipped through the yard gates. Holding his breath, he crept into the house and down the hall to the parlour. He almost laughed with relief when he saw the room was empty. He dashed through and into the shop. Without pausing, he pulled open the drawer under the counter and grabbed a handful of coins. With his heart thundering in his chest Joe ran back through the house, out of the yard and to his father.
Freddie held out his hand and Joe dropped the money into his palm. Freddie’s fingers closed around it and he shoved it in his pocket.
‘As I said, a man needs a son to look after his interests.’ He peeled himself off the wall.
‘When will I see you, Pa?’ Joe asked as his father walked away.
‘Soon,’ Freddie called over his shoulder.
‘And you will come for Christmas?’
‘Of course.’
Joe stared after him for a moment or two then he went back into the house, closing the door behind him.
‘Is that you, Joe?’ Kate called down the stairs.
‘Yes, Ma.’
She came down the stairs and into the parlour. ‘I told you to be back hours ago,’ she said, looking furiously at him.
‘I’m sorry, Ma.’
‘You will be for making me worry. I was just about to start searching the streets.’ She ran her fingers through his fringe. ‘I’ll get your supper but next time this happens, young man, you’ll be going without it.’
Joe sat up at the table and his mother put a plate of mince and potatoes in front of him. ‘Come upstairs when you’ve done and get ready for bed. Don’t ask me if you can play outside – because the answer’s no for a week.’
Joe forked up a mouthful of potato. It had been kept warm for so long that it was dry and the mince was crispy but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind either that he’d been punished. Nothing troubled him now that he knew Pa was going to be with them for Christmas.
Chapter Nine
Jonathan took a mouthful of tea in an attempt to moisten the cake in his mouth. He looked appreciatively across at Mabel sitting next to her mother on the sofa.
‘Delicious,’ he said when he finally managed to swallow the last piece.
Mrs Puttock, who was a stouter replica of her daughter, simpered. ‘Thank you, but you should be complimenting my darling Mabel. It was she who made the sponge.’
Mabel held up the silver teapot. ‘Can I pour you another, Captain Quinn?’
‘Please.’ Jonathan handed her his cup.
‘You have a lovely house, Mrs Puttock,’ he said, glancing around at the red flock wallpaper, tassel-fringed drapes and thick lace curtains. ‘And such an array of figurines in your display cabinets.’
‘Mama is a collector of fine porcelain, along with other novelties.’ Mabel indicated the dozen or so stuffed birds captured beneath a crystal dome on the sideboard.
Mrs Puttock gazed up at the framed photograph of her husband standing stiffly beside a potted aspidistra on the mantelshelf. ‘I see it as my God-given duty to provide my dear Ernest with a refuge from the cares of the business world. After all, he is our provider and head of the household.’
‘Your husband is a fortunate man,’ Jonathan said, as Mabel handed him his second cup of tea.
Mrs Puttock patted her daughter’s hand. ‘And I have taught my dear daughter to follow m
y example. Have I not, my dear?’
Mabel lowered her eyes and a pretty blush spread across her cheeks. ‘Yes, Mama.’ She gave him a shy look from under her lashes.
‘Well, it’s clear by her excellent cake that she is a most apt pupil,’ he said, thinking that the green of her gown would suit a fair-haired blonde better than Mabel’s darker colouring.
‘Would you like another slice?’ Mrs Puttock asked.
Jonathan shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I had a filling lunch.’
‘So do you feel settled?’ she then asked.
‘I think I have my bearings and the measure of the area,’ Jonathan replied.
‘And what of the school?’ asked Mabel.
‘I think I have the measure of that, too. Although I fear I have a great deal of work to do to bring its reputation up to the standard it once had,’ Jonathan replied.
‘I have no doubt you will as I hear nothing but praise about the changes you’ve put into place,’ said Mrs Puttock. ‘Although I understand you are now teaching the girls arithmetic. Forgive me for asking, but is that wise?’
‘Wise?’
‘Well, I understand the female brain isn’t designed to cope with such complexities,’ she said anxiously.
Jonathan suppressed a smile. ‘Let me assure you, Mrs Puttock, it is quite safe. After all, you use arithmetic every day for balancing your accounts, checking the tradesmen’s bills or to measure out ingredients.’
Mrs Puttock nodded slowly. ‘I do, but multiplication and—’
‘Mama, I’m sure Captain Quinn knows what he’s doing.’
Mrs Puttock glanced at her daughter then threw her hands in the air. ‘Forgive me. Such things are beyond my comprehension.’
Mabel sighed prettily. ‘It is such a dear little school and I’m very fond of it.’
Jonathan laughed. ‘I’m sure you are. I’m very fond of my old school, too.’
‘Oh, no, Captain,’ Mrs Puttock cut in. ‘Mabel went to Miss Cavendish’s School for Young Ladies in Mitre Square, a small, select establishment that caters for girls with Mabel’s sensitive nature. And we couldn’t risk our dearest child picking up one of those dreadful diseases that the local children seem to be so prone to.’
‘Of course,’ Jonathan said.
Mrs Puttock took her daughter’s hand to her lips. ‘God chose to bless us only once but what more could we want.’ She looked at him. ‘Don’t you agree?’
In truth, Mabel was a little slender for Jonathan’s taste as he’d always preferred women with curves, like Kate Ellis, but Mabel had been gently brought up, by parents who clearly could deny her nothing. Added to which her undisguised adoration had gone a long way in taking the sting out of Louise’s rejection.
Jonathan smiled. ‘Indeed, I do.’
The blush returned to Mabel’s cheeks.
Mrs Puttock placed her teacup in her saucer. ‘I have often thought that had I not needed her at home, my daughter might have made a very good schoolmistress, until she married, of course.’
‘I do so love children,’ Mabel chipped in.
‘I noticed and, if your mother can spare you, I would be most grateful if you could come to the school and help the girls with their samplers,’ Jonathan said, smiling warmly at her.
She gave him a shy smile. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
Jonathan glanced at the marble and gilt clock on the mantelpiece. ‘This has been a most enjoyable visit, Mrs Puttock, but I am afraid I must get back to my duties.’
Mrs Puttock beamed at him. ‘The pleasure has been all ours. Hasn’t it, Mabel?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I hope we will be able to entertain you again sometime.’
‘Well it should be for me to reciprocate so I wonder, as we’ve become such friends, if you would like to accompany me to the concert at All Hallows by the Tower next Wednesday the 19th? The choir will be performing Handel’s Messiah as part of their Christmas season. I hear they are very fine. And I include Mr Puttock in the invitation.’
‘I’m afraid my husband is at a Vintners Guild meeting that night, but Mabel and I would be delighted to attend.’ Mrs Puttock looked at her daughter, who nodded.
Jonathan stood up. ‘Wonderful. I shall collect you at seven.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m sure we’ll have a splendid time.’
Jonathan stared at the dead child lying on an old straw mattress against the wall and a lump formed in his throat. The youngster’s mother had combed the boy’s hair and dressed him in school clothes ready to receive those who wanted to pay their last respects. This was the third such visit Jonathan had made to a pupil’s house in the last two weeks. Three days ago it was Millie Carroll who was carried to an early grave by a winter chill, and then Peter Williams and two of his siblings who died of whooping cough the week before. And now Danny Barber, the tousled-haired seven-year-old who had just mastered long division, was dead after catching lockjaw from playing barefooted on the shoreline.
Beside him stood his parents: Billy, a thick-set man with hands like shovels, and Dolly, a work-worn woman with red-rimmed eyes.
‘Let me say again how very sorry I am,’ Jonathan said, thinking that sifting through the carnage after a battle was easier than gazing on a dead child.
‘Thank you. It was very good of you to come, Captain Quinn. Wasn’t it, Dolly?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Very good.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Billy replied. ‘Just a simple affair. My brother’s made a coffin and we shall carry him to the church ourselves.’
Dolly ran her finger down her son’s cold cheek. ‘It seems odd to see our Danny so still.’ She started crying again. ‘How many times did I tell him not to play in the mud at low tide?’
Billy put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Now, now, pet. Looking for the hows and whys of it won’t bring him back. It’s God’s will and we must suffer it.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose loudly.
The lump thickened in Jonathan’s throat. ‘I’ll leave you to tend to your family, Mr Barber.’
Jonathan stepped out to the third-floor landing. The overpowering smell of boiled cabbage and human waste wafted up from below. Number forty Cable Street had once been an elegant house but those days had long gone and now the sounds of the numerous families crowded into the rooms below echoed around him.
He put his hat on and was just about to leave when Kate Ellis appeared at the bottom of the stairwell. She was wearing the same green gown that he’d first seen her in, and a shawl around her shoulders. She was carrying a blackened pot in her apron.
She looked up. ‘Captain Quinn,’ she said as she stopped in front of him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to pay my respects to Mr and Mrs Barber. Danny was a pupil at the school.’
‘I know. It’s heartbreaking. He was Joe’s friend, too. I sat with poor Dolly yesterday while Bill made the arrangements.’
‘I’m sure she appreciated that.’
‘It’s the least I could do. When a child’s taken like that there’s not a mother in the area who doesn’t think it could have been hers.’ She shifted the weight of the pot into one arm and crossed herself.
‘Let me carry that for you,’ he said, taking it from her.
‘Be careful, it might be a little greasy, sir,’ Kate said, watching the lid brush dangerously close to his expensive jacket.
He smiled. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To deliver to the Webbs at the top of the house.’
‘Then lead the way.’
They climbed the flights of stairs and Kate knocked on the door. ‘May I come in?’
‘Of course you can, my dear,’ a faint voice called back.
Jonathan opened the door for her and they walked in.
The stark, bare room had once been part of the servants’ quarters. A small fireplace had been punched out of the main chimney stack and it was the only source of heat.
An
old man wearing scruffy trousers and a jacket with frayed cuffs was poking life back into the handful of coal in the grate while an old woman lay under a faded patchwork counterpane pile that could have been mistaken for rags. Mr Webb turned as they entered.
‘Kate, it’s grand to see you,’ he said, as a smile spread across his sunken lips. He looked over her head at Jonathan. ‘And who is this fine fella?’
‘This is Captain Quinn,’ she replied. ‘He’s St Katharine’s headmaster.’
Jonathan put the dish on the table.
Mr Webb pulled his worn jacket across his chest and limped towards her. ‘So this is the captain you were telling us about last week.’
Kate’s eyes flickered to Jonathan. ‘I mentioned the changes you’ve made at the school,’ she explained hastily.
Mr Webb looked him over. ‘So you fought at Alma?’
‘I did,’ Jonathan replied, oddly pleased that Kate had mentioned him at all.
‘And your father’s a colonel in the same regiment.’
Kate’s cheeks reddened. ‘Mrs Benson happened to mention it in church last week.’
‘And now you’re helping our lovely Kate by carrying our pot for her,’ the old man said, his dark eyes twinkling.
‘I was visiting the Barbers downstairs and we met on the landing,’ he explained.
Mr Webb shook his head dolefully. ‘That poor, poor woman.’ He wagged his finger at Kate. ‘Make sure your Ella and Joe don’t go larking around in the mud.’
Kate shook her head as she unpacked the basket. ‘How has Mrs Webb been today?’
‘No better. I had to put her to bed a few hours ago. I carried on as best I could but the cold makes the canes so stiff, I only managed a couple.’ He nodded towards the sheaves of willow and a small pile of latticed seats. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble, must we, Duch?’ he said, raising his voice and giving his wife a jolly smile. ‘Not when we have our pretty Kate to bring our supper.’
Mrs Webb struggled to match her husband’s smile. ‘Hello, my de—’ A fit of coughing wracked her body.
Kate sped over to the table and poured some small beer from the jug into a chipped mug. She perched on the bedside as she gently helped the old woman drink.
Hold On to Hope Page 10