Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Be-begging yo-your pardon,’ Mrs Webb said as her breathing steadied. ‘It’s the damp. It goes straight to me chest.’

  ‘Say nothing of it,’ Kate whispered.

  Cupping a bowl of stew in his hands, Mr Webb went to the other side of the bed. ‘There you go. This will set you right.’ He fed his wife a spoonful then pulled out a square of muslin from his sleeve and wiped away a smear of gravy. Kate slid off the bed. ‘I’ll leave you to your supper.’

  Mrs Webb reached out and scrabbled at the table beside her bed until she caught hold of a twist of paper. She offered it to Kate.

  ‘For your little ’uns. It’s only a couple of aniseed sticks,’ she said, pressing them into Kate’s hand.

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ Kate said.

  Mr Webb fumbled in his waistcoat. ‘I have a ha’pence somewhere.’

  Kate held up her hand. ‘And as I tell you each time, put it back in your pocket.’

  The old man’s face creased into a smile. ‘God bless you and keep you, Kate.’ He turned to Jonathan. ‘I tell you, Captain, she’s one in a million, so she is.’

  Kate blushed. ‘I’ll see myself out. Don’t let your supper get cold. Is there anything you want from the market tomorrow?’

  ‘A new pair of eyes so I can finish that lot.’ He nodded towards the wicker canes again. ‘Duch is partial to a lamb’s heart, so if you can get one for a ha’penny, I’ll have it.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Webb, and I hope your wife soon feels better,’ Jonathan said, walking to the door, which he opened for Kate.

  ‘Won’t the parish give them outside relief?’ he asked as they reached the second floor.

  ‘They would if Mr Webb asked. But he won’t. He’s a stubborn old goat.’ She smiled fondly. ‘But the truth is they’ll be lucky to avoid the workhouse for much longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Jonathan said, opening the door for her and following her down the front steps.

  He looked up at the darkening sky. ‘It’s getting late. Shall I walk you home?’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m sure you must have lots of things to do and the shop is just around the corner. I’ll see you in church on Sunday.’

  Jonathan tipped his hat to Kate and watched her walk away.

  Kate pressed her forehead to the window and looked at the clock on the wall outside the instrument maker’s down the street. Where was Sally? She always arrived at least half an hour before they opened at four and it wasn’t like her to be late.

  She gave a last glance along the street and then walked back behind the counter and stirred the stew. The pies were already heating in the oven and she’d set the potatoes to boil a little earlier, so other than heating the stew and stacking the bowls ready on the counter she could cope. She’d sent Ella to the market to fetch some sewing needles and thread from the haberdasher’s so she could help when she returned but, even so, without Sally it would be a push to manage the teatime rush.

  As she reached up to take the dishes down from the shelf the doorbell jingled. Kate glanced over her shoulder as Sally hurried in.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Mrs E,’ Sally said as she closed the door behind her.

  Kate turned and set the crockery down. ‘I was just wondering where you— What’s wrong?’ she asked as she saw Sally’s tear-stained face. ‘It’s not one of your boys, is it?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘It’s my sister . . .’

  She put her hands over her face and started sobbing. Kate came out from behind the counter and put her arms around Sally’s shaking shoulders. ‘Come, come,’ she said, leading her to the table in the corner. ‘Let me get you a cuppa and then you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘That’s kind of you but I’m already late and I don’t want to hold you up further.’

  ‘I’ve done the spuds and the pies are ready so you’re not,’ Kate replied, guiding her onto the chair. ‘And besides I can’t have you sobbing into my stew and making it salty, can I?’

  Sally forced a little smile and sank onto the chair. Kate went back to the counter and poured them both a mug of tea from the large enamelled teapot. She spooned in two heaped teaspoons of sugar and took it back to Sally then sat down opposite.

  ‘Now what’s the matter with Bette?’

  Sally cupped her hand around her drink. ‘It’s not really Bette, it’s that bloody worthless husband of hers. He hasn’t been home since Saturday but as he often disappears for a week or so she didn’t think anything of it until she heard that he’d been seen boarding a ship in Hermitage Wharf with two heavy carpet bags and a woman on his arm. My Will went down to see what was going on and found that he, and someone listed as his wife, had sailed for New York the day before yesterday. And if that weren’t bad enough the rent man came at dinner time and told her that the bastard hadn’t paid the rent for two weeks and if she didn’t have the money to pay him he was going to evict her and the kids. She didn’t so she had to bundle up what she could and get out. She and the three young ’uns pitched up at our house two hours ago.’ She pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘From the first moment I saw him I knew what he was like. I tried to warn her but would she listen? No, she bloody wouldn’t and now look where it’s landed her.’

  Kate felt a twinge of sympathy as she remembered Mattie trying to do the same for her.

  ‘What’s going to happen to her and the children?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a squash in two rooms, but me mother would come back and haunt me if I let my sister and her kids go to the poor house so she’s staying with us. Even though my Will’s the night-watchman at the brewery Bette will have to find some work as we can’t afford to feed four extra mouths.’ Sally covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly.

  Kate studied the top of her head for a moment then spoke. ‘I tell you what. I can’t offer her more than a shilling a day but why doesn’t your Bette come along and do a couple of hours for me?’

  Sally looked up. ‘That’s very kind and I know you mean well, but we couldn’t take charity,’ she said, pulling herself together.

  ‘And I’m not offering it,’ Kate said firmly. ‘I’ve been thinking for a while now I needed someone else in the shop to maybe clear the tables and wash up.’ Sally looked dubious. ‘Look, I don’t need to tell you how we’re rushed off our feet most days. See?’ She nodded over Sally’s head to the men already hanging about outside. ‘They’re already queuing.’

  Sally glanced behind her. ‘Well I suppose my Jenny could mind her kids for a couple of hours . . .’

  Kate slapped her hand on the table. ‘That’s settled then. And, as there’s no time like the present, bring her along with you tomorrow.’ She stood up. ‘And now we had better open up before they break the door down,’ she said as one of her regulars cupped his hand on the door window and peered in.

  Sally rose to her feet. ‘Right you are,’ she said, wiping her face with her palms.

  Kate started towards the counter but Sally caught her arm. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ellis,’ she said softly.

  Kate smiled.

  Sally’s dark eyes searched her face. ‘Why are some men such bastards?’ she asked, before going to turn the sign on the door around.

  Why indeed, thought Kate, having asked herself the same question at least a hundred times in the last six years. But she’d learnt the hard way and she should keep that in mind next time Captain Quinn smiled at her.

  Chapter Ten

  When the last strains of the choir faded up to the rafters of All Saints’ Church, Jonathan applauded as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience. He looked at Mabel sitting beside him.

  Even though her voluptuous frilly pink dress reminded him of his sister’s favourite doll, he couldn’t deny that she was really rather pretty. She turned and smiled.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ Mabel said. ‘Such fine singing and the choirboys at the front looked so adorabl
e in their robes.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Jonathan said, as they rose to their feet. ‘It’s a pity your mother wasn’t able to accompany you.’

  ‘She has an ear for music and will be sad to have missed such a fine performance.’

  ‘I hope she feels better soon,’ Jonathan said.

  A frown creased Mabel’s brow. ‘Poor Mama, she is a martyr to sick headaches but I gave her a double dose of her Gentlewomen’s Patent Elixir before I left so I expect her to be fully recovered in the morning.’

  They slowly made their way towards the door and bade the vicar goodnight. Stepping into the dark, Mabel pulled her fur collar around her ears as the chill December night nipped at them. Although it was nearly nine o’clock the gas lamps lining the street bathed the wintry scene in a mellow glow. Wisps of fog swirled about the legs of the people standing around the coffee and hot chestnut vendors.

  As they reached the road Jonathan caught her arm. Mabel turned.

  ‘Thank you for accompanying me this evening,’ he said warmly.

  ‘No, thank you for suggesting it,’ she replied, her warm breath escaping in little puffs.

  ‘I should call a cab before you get too chilled,’ Jonathan said, glancing up and down the road.

  Mabel put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m not at all cold,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we walk home, as it’s not far? We could stroll along the river.’

  ‘I’m happy to as it means I have the pleasure of your company for a little longer, but only if you are sure.’

  He held out his arm. She took it and they continued. Jonathan measured his step to keep pace with her. With the granite splendour of the Tower of London to their left they strolled towards the river.

  ‘It was good of your father to allow you to come to the concert without a chaperone,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose he would if it were anyone else,’ Mabel replied, lifting her skirts to avoid a pile of horse manure. ‘But he knows you’ll make certain I’ll come to no harm.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ Jonathan put his hand on his chest. ‘I swear as an officer and a gentleman I would fight off marauding pirates, defeat heathen tribesman and overpower the Zulu King himself to return you safely home,’ he said in a comically solemn tone.

  Mabel giggled and then suddenly pointed past him towards the river. ‘Oh, what’s that? And why are all those people milling around?’

  Jonathan looked at the huge three-masted ship illuminated by lamps hung from its rigging, and undulating in the swell of the incoming tide.

  ‘That’s the Agamemnon,’ he replied. ‘It the navy’s first steam-powered warship. It has just brought troops back from Sebastopol.’

  ‘Can we get closer?’ Mabel asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Jonathan took her elbow, guiding her through the onlookers towards the road that ran between the river and the fortress’s outer wall. He found her a space beside a cannon and then stood behind her.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a large ship,’ she said, leaning over the railings.

  ‘Three thousand tons,’ Jonathan said, staring across the oily darkness of the river. ‘I remember the first time I saw her, anchored midstream with all guns blazing at Sebastopol. And I was glad to see her too. My bandages had only been removed the day before. It had been cold there, too. Freezing, in fact. I remember how—’

  ‘There’s more space over there behind that tree,’ Mabel said, standing on tiptoes and craning her neck.

  ‘You might be better to stay here as the pavement looks uneven,’ Jonathan replied.

  Mabel gathered her skirts around her and started forward. Jonathan suppressed his irritation and guided her through the press of people to the new vantage point.

  Mabel stepped over a protruding root and beckoned him closer. ‘This is much better.’

  Jonathan followed her into the shadows.

  ‘Look, can you see—’

  Mabel screamed and pitched forward. Jonathan caught her and her arms flew around his neck. He set her on her feet and found himself holding her in an altogether too familiar a manner.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, trying to untangle himself.

  Mabel put her hand on her forehead. ‘Oh, Captain Quinn, I feel a little . . .’ she swayed and he caught her around the waist again. She rested her hands on his chest.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be quite well in a few moments,’ she said breathlessly, tilting her face up to his.

  A prickly sensation crept up his spine. Jonathan looked over Mabel’s head at Kate Ellis.

  ‘I’m sorry. I heard a scream. I didn’t mean to intrude,’ she said, an odd expression on her face.

  ‘Miss Puttock was just trying to find a better vantage point when she tripped,’ he said, releasing Mabel and straightening up.

  Kate smiled frostily. ‘Of course. It was lucky you happened by.’

  Mabel smoothed the fringing on her cape. ‘Captain Quinn invited me to a choral recital and we have just had a most agreeable few hours together, have we not?’ She looked up at him.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, feeling Kate’s eyes boring into him. ‘Mrs Puttock was supposed to come also, but she’s unwell. But what are you doing here, Mrs Ellis?’

  ‘I brought Joe to see the ship,’ she replied. ‘Since you told the class about how you’d seen it in the Crimea he’s been full of it, and seeing the excitement you stirred up in him I wanted to see the warship, too.’

  They stared at each other uncomfortably.

  Joe ran around the tree carrying a toffee apple. ‘Ma, I got the biggest one on the stall.’ He saw his headmaster and skidded to a stop. He stood to attention next to his mother.

  Kate took her son’s hand. ‘Well, good evening to you, Captain. Miss Puttock.’

  She led Joe away and Jonathan stared after her.

  Mabel’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘Jim is such a sweet boy.’

  ‘Joe,’ Jonathan corrected, feeling oddly uncomfortable.

  Mabel’s eyes narrowed a fraction and then she smiled. ‘Of course, and he looks so like his father.’

  Jonathan pushed Kate Ellis from his mind and offered Mabel his arm again.

  ‘If you’ve fully recovered, Miss Puttock, perhaps we should continue.’ Jonathan smiled at her. ‘After all, I wouldn’t want your father to think me unable to escort his daughter safely back and deny me your pleasant company on another occasion.’

  As the sun disappeared behind the row of shops opposite, Jonathan climbed the white steps to number 83 Cannon Street Road and knocked on the huge imposing black-painted door. He turned and looked around. Mrs Benson’s house seemed out of place among the busy shops. Its uncluttered whitewashed façade stood out in marked contrast to its neighbours, most of which had long since ceased to be homes and now had shops on the lower level with dwellings above. The painted placards advertising everything from soap to ship’s tack sat like brash newcomers alongside the genteel grey-painted shutters of the upper floors. The door was soon opened and Jonathan was greeted by an aged servant dressed in a dark suit hanging loosely from his narrow shoulders.

  ‘I’m Captain Quinn,’ Jonathan said, stepping in. ‘I believe Mrs Benson is expecting me.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the old man replied. He directed Jonathan to the side parlour door. ‘Madam will join you shortly,’ he wheezed, and left.

  Mrs Benson’s day room was well proportioned, with high ceilings and classical cornicing. It was decorated in sage-green striped wallpaper that had been the vogue some years before. An elaborate marble fireplace dominated the far wall. Unlike the current fashion of draping cloth over the surface, the crisp edge of the stone shelf was unadorned apart from a selection of china figurines of shepherdesses and dairymaids. Two large portraits hung on either side of the mirror above the fireplace. One was of a sea captain sitting with a small child on his lap and his wife behind him. The central figure, a buff-looking man in a double-breasted frock coat, sat proudly with a scene of tall-rigged merchant ships bobbi
ng on the river as a backdrop.

  The other painting was of a young man dressed in the same red jacket Jonathan had once put on each day for twelve years. The background this time was the purple-capped mountains of Kashmir, looking very much as Jonathan remembered them. The officer posed beside a hip-high Doric column with one hand resting lightly on the top and a torn Afghan tribal banner at his feet. He looked proudly out at the world with pale blue eyes similar to those of the child in the other portrait.

  The door opened and Mrs Benson walked in, leaning heavily on her ebony cane. She was dressed in a watered-silk lavender gown with lace trimmings and a finely crocheted shawl. Little wisps of white hair had escaped from the cap tied under her chin, clinging to the lace edging like cobwebs to a leaf.

  ‘Tell Jones to serve tea, Willamore,’ she instructed her manservant, who bowed and closed the door behind him.

  ‘You’ll forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ she said, holding out her hand to him. ‘I don’t move as fast as I used to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jonathan took her hand and the power of her grip again surprised him.

  ‘Please take a seat, Captain Quinn,’ she said, settling herself into the chair by the fire.

  Jonathan sank into a soft well-worn leather seat opposite and crossed his legs. There was a knock at the door and a woman who must have been as old as the manservant came in carrying a tray. Jonathan watched with trepidation as she tottered across the carpet. He was sure she would tumble over the fringes of the rug but she managed to set the tray on the low table between Jonathan and her mistress with only a small drop of milk escaping the jug.

  ‘Thank you, Jones,’ Mrs Benson said, pouring the tea. She handed a cup to Jonathan and picked up the cake knife. ‘May I offer you a slice?’

  ‘Please,’ Jonathan replied, stirring sugar into his tea.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ he said, after swallowing the first mouthful of the buttery cake.

  ‘Thank you. Jones always did have a light touch for such things. Now,’ she said, making herself comfortable, ‘tell me what you’ve been doing at St Katharine’s that wasn’t in the guardians’ report. And don’t worry’ – she gave him a one of her mischievous looks – ‘I won’t tell tales out of school.’