Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘I know,’ Freddie replied, with the same soppy expression.

  Aggie suppressed her annoyance and tried to pretend Lilly was holding the Messiah in her arms instead of a snotty infant in a whiffy bumrag.

  Freddie nudged Ollie playfully in the ribs. ‘There’s something special about having a chip off the old block to carry on the name. My Joe’s just li—’

  ‘And how are you, Lilly, dear?’ Aggie cut in. ‘We were all so worried you might get child-bed fever or something dreadful.’

  ‘I bet you were.’

  ‘No, straight up. Didn’t I ask every day, Mr Mac, how Lilly was faring?’ She looked at Ollie for confirmation but he was talking to Stefan and didn’t answer.

  ‘Oh, Aggie,’ Lilly replied. ‘I know all the girls think you’re a grasping bitch with no feeling but underneath I know you’ve got a heart of pure stone.’

  The baby started to grizzle.

  Ollie Mac’s bullet-shaped head shot around. ‘What’s wrong with ’im?’ he asked, tickling the child under the chin and fussing like an old spinster.

  Lilly knocked his hand away lightly and shifted the child onto her other arm. ‘He wants a bit of titty, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Ollie chuckled, and the men around him joined in.

  Lilly opened her blouse, heaved a pendulous breast sprinkled with flea bites out and pressed the fretting infant to it. Aggie suppressed a shudder.

  As Albert gurgled away contentedly, Ollie’s men started talking and Freddie turned to his boss. Aggie would have joined in the conversation but as Freddie would probably start on about his ‘boy Joe’, she thought better of it. Perhaps she’d leave them to it and take a stroll down Petticoat Lane. She might find a pair of gloves on a stall to match her new hat.

  ‘Freddie.’ He looked around. ‘Don’t forget I’ll be waiting for you later.’ Her eyes flickered onto his crotch and she blew a kiss.

  He grinned at her then turned back to Ollie.

  A crafty smile spread across Lilly’s face. ‘Ollie, ’as Aggie given you her ten bob this week yet?’ she asked, raising her voice above the noise.

  The men standing around them stopped talking.

  ‘Not this week, she hasn’t,’ Ollie replied.

  Aggie blinked. ‘But . . . but I’m Freddie’s gal. Tell ’er, Freddie, that you won’t have me turning tricks.’

  Freddie’s eyes darted from her to Ollie but he didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m not asking what Freddie wants,’ Lilly cut in. ‘I’m saying you ain’t paid my Ollie for his protection this week and it’s for him to say who pays what. Ain’t that so, Freddie?’

  Sweat glistened on Freddie’s brow. ‘Of course, everyone knows that,’ he answered, without glancing at Aggie.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. ‘Freddie!’

  He shook her off then gripped her upper arm painfully.

  ‘You know Mr Mac’s in charge, Aggie,’ he told her, his nose just inches from hers.

  His fingers tightened further as his eyes bore menacingly into her for a moment then he let her go and turned back to Ollie. The low hum of conversation started again. A couple of the whores lounging on the bar who’d heard the exchange started giggling as they looked across at her. Aggie clenched her fists in the folds of her skirt.

  ‘Oi, Lady Muck,’ Lilly said, her eyes flickering on Aggie’s low bodice. ‘Get your titties out and go and earn my Ollie his money.’

  Somehow Aggie managed to keep herself from snatching the bottle from the table, smashing the end and shoving it into Lilly’s smirking face. She gave her a venomous look then turned and pushed her way through the bar. As she reached the door she looked back and caught a glimpse of Lilly settling the baby on to the other breast. As the devil’s my witness, thought Aggie, I’ll not rest in my grave until I’ve ripped your poxy heart out, Lilly Bragg.

  Kate folded the white paper around the seed cake and tucked the ends in securely. She handed it to the man on the other side of the stall.

  ‘There you go, Mr Williams, and I hope your mother enjoys it with her tea,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Ellis. I’m sure she will.’ He handed her threepence and walked off towards the tombola. Kate put the coin with the rest in the small tin then rearranged the cakes to fill the space.

  It had rained at dawn but by the time the men of the parish had arrived to set up the stalls and booths the sun had dried up the puddles in the vicarage garden. Now there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Kate observed the crowds milling around between decorated trestle tables to where Miss Puttock stood bothering Miss Carter on the haberdashery stall. Would she run off in floods of tears as Miss Mosse on the pickle stall did after Miss Puttock’s inspection? Kate smiled to herself.

  The whole parish had turned out in their Sunday best for the annual festival and as the vicar wouldn’t allow beer in the church precincts, there hadn’t been any untoward incidents so far. Her gaze travelled over the tombola and bric-a-brac stall, over the coconut shy and finally onto the refreshment tent where Captain Quinn stood chatting to Mr Overton.

  As if he sensed her eyes on him he glanced over. His gaze found hers and the space between them seemed to shrink.

  He turned and ambled through the crowd towards her. Kate busied herself tidying stacks of wrapping paper.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ellis,’ he said, stopping in front of the stall.

  Kate looked up. ‘Good afternoon, Captain Quinn.’

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, with concern.

  He’d been in for coffee three times since Freddie’s attack the week before, and each time he’d asked her the same.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, revelling in his nearness.

  ‘He’s not been back?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘Not after the drubbing you gave him. Now my brother’s after him, too. I doubt he’ll show his face for a while.’

  She looked down and rearranged the cakes again. His hand closed over hers as she straightened the fruit loaf. ‘I meant what I said, you know, about sending Ella or Joe to fetch me.’

  She raised her head and found herself falling into his forceful gaze.

  ‘Ma! Ma! Look what I won,’ Joe shouted, running across the lawn, waving a Union flag above his head.

  Captain Quinn withdrew his hand as Joe came to a skidding halt in front of them.

  ‘And what was that for?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Second prize for my costume,’ he replied, shaking it at her.

  ‘Well, you certainly look as smart as any soldier I’ve ever commanded,’ Captain Quinn said.

  ‘Ma made it, Headmaster.’

  Joe puffed out his chest to show off the bit of gilt braid Kate had sewn on as epaulettes and his cousin Mickey’s spruced-up sailor’s hat with a fancy shoe buckle fixed above the peak as a regimental badge.

  ‘Ella’s supposed to be an Indian princess,’ Joe continued.

  ‘Yes, I know. I saw her in the parade.’ Captain Quinn smiled at Kate.

  ‘Can I have a couple of farthings for another go on the hoops and pegs?’ Joe asked.

  Kate rummaged in her pocket and fished out two ha’pennies. She handed them to him. ‘There’s one for you and one for your sister. She’s over by the trinket stall.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma,’ Joe said, taking the coins and then scooting off.

  Something pink flashed into the corner of her eye and Kate turned to see Miss Puttock homing in on them.

  ‘Captain Quinn,’ she said, as she reached them. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you how wonderfully eloquent your opening speech was.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Puttock,’ he replied. ‘I was just admiring the delicious display of cakes.’

  ‘Has anything particular taken your fancy?’ she asked, coyly.

  He glanced over the half a dozen remaining cakes then his gaze flickered over Kate’s face. ‘Possibly.’

  Kate’s pulse raced off.

  Miss Puttock perused the table and h
er mouth pulled together. ‘I see your three cakes have been sold, Mrs Ellis.’

  Kate smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Puttock, any latecomers will still buy yours.’ She nodded at the four dense-looking fruit slabs with a sprinkling of burnt currants on the top.

  ‘Miss Puttock, your cakes are certainly delicious – but there aren’t many who could compete with Mrs Ellis when it comes to cake baking!’ Captain Quinn said.

  Kate cheeks grow warm. ‘Go away with you.’

  ‘It’s true. Weren’t you telling me on Tuesday that the grocer in Watney Street has asked you to supply him with a couple each week?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’ Kate replied, enjoying his warm expression.

  ‘Tuesday?’ said Miss Puttock.

  Captain Quinn glanced at her. ‘I popped in for a coffee.’ His gaze returned to Kate. ‘And what about the potato seller?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘How did you—’

  He laughed. ‘Ella was cleaning the board when I came out of my office the other day and she mentioned the pies.’

  ‘I thought you took tea at Mrs Benson’s on Tuesday,’ Miss Puttock chipped in.

  ‘She was indisposed,’ Captain Quinn told her. He tapped the table with his fingers. ‘It seems to me, Mrs Ellis, that as people want your cakes and pies perhaps you should sell them with your name on them. Like the army-ration tins. They are labelled so the men know who’s made them.’

  Miss Puttock laughed. ‘Miss Ellis may make the odd cake or two but she runs a chop house for dockers, not Fortnum and Mason, Captain Quinn.’

  He shot her an irritated look. ‘They started in a small way, just like Mrs Ellis. All I was suggesting was something to make sure that people know that the pie or cake they are buying is a genuine Kate’s Kitchen product.’

  Kate’s brain whirled with several possibilities. ‘I suppose the simplest way would be to get a ream of greaseproof paper printed up with my name across it. I could wrap the pies and cakes in that.’

  He rapped the table lightly with his knuckles ‘That is exactly what I mean! And you could seal them with a blob of wax after you wrap them.’

  ‘What a good idea.’ Kate laughed again. ‘I’ve never known a man take such an interest in baking.’

  Captain Quinn’s good eye twinkled. ‘Well, you know what they say, don’t you, Mrs Ellis? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

  They laughed, then Miss Puttock’s voice cut between them. ‘Now, Captain Quinn, perhaps you’d like to chance your luck at the coconut shy.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ he said, smiling pleasantly at her. He looked at Kate over Miss Puttock’s shoulder. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Ellis.’

  Kate inclined her head and Miss Puttock led him away. Someone bought a jam sponge and the last four scones and Kate took the money, all the while keeping Captain Quinn in the corner of her vision. Miss Puttock fluttered around him as he sent half a dozen coconuts crashing to the ground and the man in charge handed him his prize, but then she noticed something that needed her attention on the second-hand clothes stall next door and walked on.

  As Captain Quinn stood joking with the stallholder he noticed Ella standing by the side of the booth. He spoke to her and she shook her head. He dropped something into her hand and strolled after Miss Puttock.

  Ella came trotting over. ‘Did you see how the headmaster hit six coconuts in a row, Ma?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I was tidying the stall.’

  ‘Well, he smashed the lot!’ Ella said with relish. ‘He asked me if I’d bought you anything at the fair. I said I wanted to get you a blue ribbon but it had all been sold.’ She put a small pink papier-mâché heart slung on a slender ribbon into the palm of Kate’s hand. ‘He said I could give you this instead.’

  Hidden in the shadows of the bottling factory’s main door, Freddie watched the back gate to Kate’s shop.

  For gawd’s sake ’ow much longer? he thought, as a milk cart rolled slowly along the Highway at the far end of the passage.

  He yawned and pulled his jacket collar up a little higher. He’d been up all night pinching gear out of the back door of Moses Brothers’ warehouse in Shoreditch with Stefan and Ginger, so by rights he should be tucked up alongside Aggie. But needs must, and as Sunday morning was the only time he was sure Kate and the children would be out of the house for at least an hour, his bed, and Aggie, would have to wait.

  St George’s bell for the morning service sounded out across the rooftops and echoed around the peaceful streets. The yard gate creaked open a little. Freddie flattened himself against the solid door behind and held his breath.

  Kate stepped out and Freddie’s eyes narrowed as his gaze ran over her trim, dark blue skirt and jacket and matching bonnet. Bloody jumped-up Paddy.

  She slipped her bag over her arm. ‘Ella. Joe. We’re late,’ she called.

  The girl appeared almost immediately and Kate fussed at her collar then stuck her head around the gate. ‘For the love of mercy, will you come on, Joe?’

  Joe scooted out and slammed the door behind him. Kate licked her hand and flattened a wayward tuft of hair before setting his cap straight. Holding Ella with her right hand and Joe with her left, she walked towards the main road.

  Freddie’s gaze rested on his son for a second or two, then he remembered why he was there. Glancing quickly up and down the alleyway to ensure the coast was clear, he darted through the back gate, closing it quietly behind him.

  Freddie crossed the yard to the house, pulled the length of twine hanging from the small hole at the top of the door and the latch lifted. He shoved the door open, went through the house and straight to the till, but this time, instead of just filching coins, he grabbed the heavy iron key from the back of the drawer – just where Joe said it would be. He took the key and an old oil lamp, which he lit using one of the tapers in the jar by the oven. Quickly, he went back outside to the stable, wrenched the lock and opened the door to the cavernous, empty space as deep and wide as the chop house. The lintel over the double gates leading out to the street was high enough to let a good-sized carriage through.

  He paced around to investigate. The walls were dry, if a bit crumbly, and the beams weren’t completely riddled with worm holes, and despite a couple of missing slates the roof looked sound enough.

  He pulled back a sheet of crumpled tarpaulin that covered some rotting tack, which he kicked aside to study the beaten-earth floor. It too was dry and more or less even. He found that an iron bar secured with a thick padlock fastened the gates. Freddie held the lamp to peer at the rusty bolts. Rusty but still strong. He straightened up and turned around. Perfect.

  He walked out, locked the door, and slipped the key in his breast pocket. He extinguished the lamp and made his way back through Kate’s tidy yard to the house. As he passed the chicken coop tucked into the lee of the house and the small vegetable patch with the first few shoots poking through the soil, an odd, low-spirited feeling that he couldn’t name seemed to settle around him. He whistled a tune to shrug it off.

  For some reason, instead of going straight into the shop, Freddie stopped in the parlour. The polished floor was offset by a brightly coloured rag rug in front of the hearth, the armchairs each had a clean antimacassar. The painted figurines on the mantelshelf may have come from a fairground but there wasn’t a speck of dust on them.

  An image of his and Aggie’s room with the cracked window, unmade bug-infested bed and discarded plates and bottles flashed through his mind.

  Freddie cursed under his breath and kicked the footstool aside. He marched into the kitchen to replace the lamp where he’d found it.

  The range was still warm and the aroma escaping from it told Freddie that the Sunday joint was roasting in the oven.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, images of a younger Kate smiling at him and the sweetness of her first responses flickered through his mind. He remembered the damp room in Salter Street that she’d scrubbed and furnished with second-hand bits to make a home.
He thought about the hot meal each night and clean shirt every morning. Perhaps if he’d . . . for one frightening moment a gnawing hole opened deep in Freddie’s chest.

  He punched the marble counter. Pain shot up his arm, driving out all other thoughts. Flexing his hand to ease the pain, Freddie lifted the lid of the pot on the back burner. He shook it and watched the meat and vegetables that would be on tomorrow’s menu bob around for a moment, then hawked a mouthful of phlegm from the back of his throat and spat into the pan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ella picked up a length of orange thread and returned to her place. Because it was a fine day Miss Wainwright had moved the older girls into the playground for their afternoon’s sewing lesson and they all sat in a circle in the sun. They were only just outside the classroom door so the teacher could keep an eye on them while she supervised the younger ones as they learnt their letters.

  ‘Ella, could you unpick my stitches again?’ asked Rose Spencer, who was sitting next to her.

  ‘Give it here.’ Ella took her friend’s square of fabric and whipped her needle through the tangle. She handed it back. ‘There you go. If you keep the cotton shorter, it won’t catch in itself.’

  ‘Ta.’ Rose sighed. ‘I wish I could sew as good as you.’

  Ella smiled and smoothed her sampler over her knees. She completed the three small border rows of cross stitch in red, blue and green and now she was going to start the final one. She planned to stitch the alphabet and numbers one to ten as Miss Wainwright had told them to, but would leave enough space to embroider a special message in the centre.

  She licked the end of the cotton and, holding the needle aloft, threaded it through. She was just about to start the next row when the schoolmistress stepped out of the door. She clapped her hands. The girls stopped their sewing and looked at her.

  ‘I have a lovely surprise for you all,’ she said, her sallow face flushed with excitement.

  There was a flurry of activity as Miss Puttock and Miss Crompton squeezed their bell-shaped skirts through the doorway. Miss Puttock, in her flouncy grass-green gown and Miss Crompton, in her lacy blue one, looked like a couple of parrots from Jamrach’s beside Miss Wainwright in her modest grey.