Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  That would be his second tonight and it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, but it suited her plans because he’d be in no position to interfere when the gang gathered an hour later and she allocated the night’s work. The few members of the crew who didn’t have sawdust for brains realised that it was she and not Freddie who set up the jobs with the greatest haul. They continued to string Freddie along, calling him ‘boss’, but they now looked to her for leadership.

  ‘Are you going to take a look at that bed Tubby Barrel is offering you or not?’ Aggie asked.

  He turned his bleary eyes on her. ‘I said I’d go tomorrow.’

  ‘You said that yesterday.’

  ‘Stop yakking, woman.’ He shoved the table away. ‘Ain’t it good enough for you that you’ve got half the fucking furniture in London crammed upstairs?’ he shouted, jabbing his finger at the ceiling and swaying precariously. ‘Why do you want another bed?’

  Aggie grabbed his arm and put on her sugary smile. ‘This one’s got cherubs and stuff carved on it, nicked from some duke’s house up west.’ She slid her free hand over his crotch. ‘Just think, Freddie, when we’re having a bit of how’s-your-father, I could be on me back with me arse in the exact same spot as a duchess. And we could move into the front room.’

  Freddie’s face clouded. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘For gawd’s sake, Freddie, they’ve been dead for months,’ she cried.

  Freddie shook his head. ‘It don’t seem respectful, somehow, sleeping in a room where poor little Albert died. When I think about that little lad . . .’

  Here we go. Aggie signalled for another bottle. Joe’s a chip off the old block.

  ‘Did I tell you my Joe’s a right chip off the old block?’ Freddie said, refilling his glass.

  ‘I remember you saying.’

  When I look at him, it’s like looking in a mirror, Aggie chanted in her head.

  ‘When I look at my little lad, it’s like looking in a mirror,’ Freddie continued.

  ‘I think you mentioned it yesterday.’

  And the day before and the one before that, too, thought Aggie, clenching her jaw to stifle a yawn.

  The bar door swung open and Ginger loped in.

  ‘Mr Ellis! Mr Ellis!’ he shouted as he pushed through the drinkers towards them.

  Freddie looked up.

  ‘What is it?’ Aggie asked.

  ‘It’s Inchy Pete. He’s been took.’

  Freddie looked confused. ‘Took?’

  Ginger nodded. ‘He was caught robbing a baker in the high street.’

  ‘Bloody nabbers!’ Freddie shouted. ‘Nick a lad cos he fancied a mouthful of bun.’

  ‘It were the weekly takings he was caught with, Mr Ellis,’ Ginger replied. ‘What are we going to do? We’ll never get into that big house in Hackney without him.’

  Aggie slipped her arm in to Freddie’s. ‘Don’t you fret, Mr E’s already got a lad. Ain’t you, Freddie?’

  Freddie looked puzzled. ‘Have I?’

  ‘Don’t lark around.’ She nudged him playfully in the ribs. ‘You’ve got your little lad Joe, of course.’

  Jonathan strolled into the officers’ lounge in the newly built Victoria Barracks. With its enormous paintings of long-dead officers and regimental silverware behind glass cases, it could have been any one of the dozens of army salons he’d been in. Clustered around low tables were leather button-backed chairs cradling an old field marshal or general, snoozing within their sheltered wings.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a young footman.

  ‘I’m here to see Colonel Quinn,’ Jonathan replied, looking through the haze of cigar smoke.

  ‘It he expecting you?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Well, I’ll have to enquire if he is at liberty to—’

  Jonathan handed his hat and cane to him. ‘I’m his son, Captain Quinn.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The servant saluted and stepped aside.

  Jonathan marched down the long room and spotted his father reading a copy of The Times. The colonel looked surprised but quickly recovered. He put aside his paper and looked him over.

  ‘You’re a long way from your scraggy-arse school, aren’t you?’

  ‘And good day to you, too,’ Jonathan replied. ‘I have come to tell you something.’

  His father slapped his thigh. ‘I knew you’d come to your senses and take up your commission again. I was putting out enquires – discreetly, mind you – just in case—’

  ‘I am not taking up my commission,’ Jonathan cut in. ‘It’s something much more important.’

  His father picked up the paper and shook it out. ‘There’s nothing more important than family honour.’

  Jonathan stared down at him. He had lost count of the number of times he’d vowed never to see his pig-headed father again. But when he’d visited his sister Barbara yesterday to tell her his plans, she reminded him that no matter what, his father was his father and he had a duty to him. It was for that reason, after booking the tickets for Australia in Lower Thames Street that morning, he’d crossed the river and walked the two miles to Waterloo station to catch the ten forty-five to Windsor.

  His father sighed. ‘I suppose as you’re here you had better get whatever it is off your chest.’ He signalled to the waiter. ‘Two whiskies.’

  Jonathan settled in the chair opposite as the drinks arrived.

  ‘The Queen’s health,’ the colonel said, raising his glass.

  ‘The Queen,’ Jonathan echoed. They both took a mouthful of spirit. ‘Barbara sends her regards.’

  His father raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘It must be important if you’ve been to see your sister.’

  ‘It is.’ Jonathan took another mouthful and told his father about Kate. ‘We sail in two weeks.’

  His father sat motionless for a second or two as his face grew florid. ‘Damn you. It wasn’t enough to make me a laughing stock in Horse Guard’s. You’re now going to drag our name through the mud by setting up home with a married Irish woman who runs a chop house!’

  Jonathan threw back the last of his whisky and stood up. ‘I knew it was a mistake to come.’

  ‘Indeed, why did you?’

  Jonathan bent forward until his face was inches from his father’s. ‘Because when that ship casts off there is a very real chance we will never meet again in this life. Stupidly, I had the odd idea I should see you before I leave. I can see now I was mistaken.’

  He straightened up and started walking away.

  ‘I read the account of your stand on the hill at Alma in the despatches,’ his father called after him.

  Jonathan turned.

  His father studied his face. ‘If you’d listened to me and ripped up that damned letter you’d have been Major Quinn by now. Still, at least in Australia no one will know you’re my son.’ He jammed his monocle back in place, picked up the newspaper again and shook it out.

  Jonathan clenched his fists and stared down at his father for a moment then turned again and marched out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lifting her skirts to avoid a particularly pungent swirl of dog dirt, Mabel stepped off the pavement and crossed the Highway. In her tartan crinoline and maroon velvet jacket she was probably a little grand for strolling around the docks, but no matter. Ducking to avoid coils of rope hanging from an awning, she turned into Cartwright Street. It wasn’t the most direct way home from the church and she preferred it.

  She spotted the schoolhouse at the far end and longing welled up in her as she imagined herself welcoming Jonathan home after school each day. She adjusted the bow at the side of her bonnet and walked on.

  Lessons had finished half an hour ago so the boys’ gate was open. Nonchalantly, but with her heart beating furiously in her chest, Mabel glanced into the playground. Jonathan wasn’t there. She bit her lip. Was he still in his office or had he already returned to the schoolhouse?

  She not
iced a handful of girls still hanging around their playground entrance. Thankfully, that impertinent Ella Ellis wasn’t among them.

  Adjusting the basket on her arm, Mabel strolled over. Mindful that Jonathan could come upon her at any moment, she smiled kindly at them.

  ‘Good afternoon, children,’ she said, making sure they didn’t come too close to her with their grubby hands.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss,’ they muttered, standing up straight and looking nervously at her.

  ‘And what have you been doing today?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Wainwright asked us to . . .’ One of the bigger girls began.

  There was a movement in one of the school windows and Mabel’s stomach fluttered. She tried to make out who it was but couldn’t. She noticed the girl had stopped speaking.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said, automatically.

  The children looked puzzled.

  ‘Scuse me, miss. Dolly asked if you’ve been on a steam boat?’ one of the taller girls said.

  ‘What? A ship? Yes I—’

  The schoolhouse door started opening.

  ‘Run along home now,’ Mabel said, practically knocking them aside with her skirts. She hurried towards the schoolhouse as fast as she decently could but slowed to her normal pace as she reached the end of the playground wall. She hoped the exertion had left her with a pleasing blush rather than red in the face. The schoolhouse front door opened a little further.

  Mabel slowly strolled past until she heard footsteps coming down the steps behind her and then with a look of complete surprise on her face, she turned.

  ‘Oh, Captain Quinn, I didn’t . . .’

  Her face fell as instead of Jonathan’s tall figure gracing the top step her eyes rested on the scruffy old caretaker Delaney who had just dragged a hefty trunk out of the front door. He took his cap off and wiped his forehead.

  ‘Af’renoon, miss,’ he said, as he spotted her.

  ‘And to you, Delaney,’ Mabel replied. ‘I thought you were Captain Quinn.’

  ‘Naw, you’ll not see of ’imself today. He’s gone off somewhere.’ He spat on his hands, heaved the trunk on his back and lumbered down the steps.

  ‘Is that for Captain Quinn’s holiday?’ Mabel asked, as the caretaker set the well-travelled piece of luggage upright on the pavement.

  ‘That it is, miss. Although the Lord only knows what he’s got in there.’

  ‘A gentleman has to pack for all eventualities,’ Mabel replied.

  ‘If you say so, miss.’

  ‘I suppose you’re taking it to King’s Cross to store it in the left luggage.’

  Mr Delaney shook his head. ‘He ain’t going by train. He’s catching a paddle steamer to Edinburgh from Brunswick Docks, which is where I’m taking this.’ He thumped the trunk.

  Mabel’s jaw dropped. ‘But he told me he was catching the train. Why would he do that when he was going by boat?’

  ‘That I can’t say. All I know is I’ve been left instructions to take ’is chest to the British and Colonial Shipping Company. Now if you’d excuse me, I had better get on before her indoors gets on at me.’ Mr Delaney heaved the trunk off the floor and onto his shoulders.

  The luggage label tied to the handle fluttered in the breeze. Mabel sprang forward.

  ‘Let me help you get your balance,’ she said, steadying the case with one hand while with the other she turned the label and read it. ‘God bless you, miss,’ Mr Delaney said as he shrugged the weight into a comfortable position on his shoulder. Mabel let go of the ticket.

  He touched his forehead. ‘Good day.’

  Mabel stared after the school caretaker as he staggered off. An image of Jonathan sitting on the sofa next to her as he told her about his trip to Scotland floated into her mind.

  No, she wasn’t mistaken. He had said he was taking the train.

  A mixture of pain and anger twisted together in Mabel’s chest. Slowly her hands clenched into two tight fists and then, with a fearsome expression on her face, she turned and marched home.

  Having spent a sleepless night fretting over the matter, Mabel still walked past the front door of the British and Colonial Shipping Company three times before she finally plucked up the courage to push it open and walk in.

  The booking office was a sectioned-off corner of the warehouse and there was already a handful of customers talking to the clerk. Mabel ambled over to the far wall and studied the notices plastered on the wall. She scanned the list of ships, their cargo and destination but couldn’t find the Charlotte Anne name among them. She let out a long breath, feeling very foolish indeed. If dear Jonathan said he was catching the train then he was; the luggage label was probably from a previous trip and had been left on by mistake. And if that daft old fool Delaney had had to make a double trip then it served him right for getting it all about-face.

  Mabel turned to leave

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ the fresh-faced clerk asked as the last of the scruffy individuals he’d been attending to left the office.

  ‘No, it’s quite all right, you’ve not got the ship I’m interested in listed.’

  ‘And which one would that be?’

  ‘The Charlotte Anne,’ Mabel replied.

  The clerk’s face lifted into a knowing smile. ‘That’s because the Charlotte Anne doesn’t set sail for Australia until the twenty-seventh.’

  Australia!

  ‘We never post the full itinerary and notice until a week before,’ the clerk continued. ‘Is there a reason for your enquiry?’

  ‘Yes, my husband, Captain Quinn, has booked passage on the Charlotte Anne and is concerned that our servant didn’t deliver his trunk as instructed. As I’m catching the ten-thirty ferry to Westminster I said I would call in to make sure it had arrived,’ she replied, astonished at her inventiveness.

  The clerk turned and peered over his spectacles at the ledgers on the shelf behind him then pulled down a leather-bound volume and opened it on the counter.

  He ran his finger down the column of names. ‘I can see no Captain Quinn on the passenger list.’

  Mabel’s heart gave a little happy tremble as hysterical laughter rose up in her chest.

  ‘But there’s a Mr and Mrs Quinn. Could that be your booking?’

  Something akin to iced water washed over Mabel. ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘He doesn’t always use his army title.’

  The clerk beamed at her. ‘Well then I can assure you that your husband’s luggage has arrived and is safe and sound.’ He glanced down at the entry again. ‘And I see that you will be bringing the remainder on the day of departure.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mabel forced a brittle smile. ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’

  With the sound of her blood pounding in her ears, Mabel turned and headed towards the door.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Quinn?’ She looked around. ‘Will your children have any luggage of their own?’

  Mabel shook her head and hurried out of the door. She stumbled blindly through the throng of people queuing for the river ferries. On reaching the dock wall Mabel collapsed on it and stared blindly out at the grey river.

  So when he stood there and told her that he was going away to ‘set his mind aright and bring him back renewed’, he had already set in motion his plans to sneak away to the other side of the world with Kate Ellis.

  Tears of anguish sprang into Mabel’s eyes but she blinked them away and concentrated on her rage. She’d warned him but it seemed he was willing to throw away everything, even her, for Kate Ellis’s base-born charms.

  Mabel’s hands clenched until her nails bit into the palms. A tear escaped but she rubbed it away before it reached her cheek.

  She would stop them by telling her father. But tell him what? That she had read Jonathan’s luggage label when she had no right to and then lied that she was his wife? No. She could write another letter to the guardians. But saying what? That Jonathan was running off with Kate Ellis? They would probably just screw it up and throw it in the bin. And even if
they didn’t, by the time they had the evidence to expose Jonathan he and Kate would be halfway around the world and then it would be too late.

  A sly smile crept across her face. She knew someone who would make certain they never got on board the ship.

  Mabel could hardly hear the carts and wagons rolling past the Aldgate Pump for the blood pounding in her ears. Something brushed her skirts and she jumped. It was only a flea-bitten dog dashing along but it was enough to set fear coursing through her again.

  As it was midday the street was bustling with people so she should be safe enough, but although she was dressed in her old gown and jacket, she could feel the dozens of pairs of eyes watching from the dank alleyways running between the shops, waiting for the chance to steal the clothes from her back.

  If her parents ever found out she’d ventured along Whitechapel High Street alone there would be hell to pay. Her father would stop her allowance for a year and lock her in her bedroom for a month, and poor Mama would need the smelling salts, but it didn’t matter.

  In fact, since the awful moment in the ticket office the day before, nothing mattered except destroying Jonathan’s dreams of happiness the way he’d destroyed hers.

  There was a low laugh from a man propped up in an empty doorway drinking gin from a broken-necked bottle.

  ‘Lost your way, missis?’ he said, eyeing her up and down.

  Mabel stepped away from him, taking a deep breath to control her terror. Ignoring the curious glances of the rogued-cheeked women loitering outside the public house, Mabel set her sights on the square tower of St Botolph’s church and hurried on.

  She stopped on the corner of Jewry Street and looked across at the barefooted lad leaning on an old birch broom on the other side the road.

  She’d seen him a couple of times as she and Mama trotted by in a hansom cab on their way to their dressmakers. Although he was dressed in filthy rags like the rest of the urchins who hung around outside the churches, he had a lively look about him so he might just be her salvation. He spotted her and dashed into the road.

  ‘My lady!’ he shouted as he swerved out of the path of a meat wagon, coming to a halt in front of her. ‘Clear for you?’