Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  He knew their lives would be a struggle at first but he was sure that once he found work they’d soon find their feet. He’d given a great deal of thought to starting a school, especially as the new regional government was keen to encourage families rather than just prospectors. Kate wanted to set up a chop house but Jonathan was determined that she shouldn’t have to.

  He shut the account book and opened the school-attendance register to double-check his figures but was interrupted by a light knock on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ he called.

  The door opened and the girls’ mistress slid through the gap.

  ‘Good morning, Headmaster,’ she said, two splashes of crimson colouring her pale cheeks as she smiled at him.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Wainwright. Is that today’s roll call?’ he asked, glancing at the long slate she clutched in front of her.

  She nodded and offered him the board. ‘Just nine missing today. Three girls and six boys but two of those are the Potter twins who have measles.’

  Jonathan looked impressed, glanced down the list of pupils and then returned to a name near to the top.

  ‘I see Master Ellis isn’t in school today?’

  ‘No, Headmaster, but Ella brought a letter explaining his absence.’ Miss Wainwright handed him the note.

  He took it, laid it on the blotting paper and placed his hands over it. ‘Thank you, Miss Wainwright. Would you tell Mr Rudd I will be out presently to conduct the history lesson.’

  She inclined her head and left.

  Jonathan unfolded Kate’s note and read it. Dear God! He jumped up and ran into the boys’ classroom.

  ‘I would be obliged, Mr Rudd, if you could please cover Hannibal’s traverse of the Alps. I’m afraid I must go out unexpectedly urgently,’ Jonathan said, marching past the back of the class and not waiting for a reply.

  Kate shut the door to the shop, collapsed on to the chair and closed her eyes to ease her throbbing temples. Mattie had come to sit with her earlier but had to leave when Nathaniel came to fetch her at ten. He, Patrick and dozens of men from Knockfergus had been to every pub and dive from Limehouse to Whitechapel searching for Freddie but with no luck. She was now beside herself with worry.

  The latch on the back door clicked and her eyes flew open. She jumped up.

  It was Jonathan, who strode into the parlour with his hair blown back from his face and mud splashed on his trousers. He crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said, holding her tightly and kissing her hair. ‘We’ll find him. What happened?’

  Kate told him.

  ‘I know we are being careful but why didn’t you come to—’

  ‘I did. But I realised when you didn’t come last night that Mrs Delaney hadn’t told you. That’s why I sent the note with Ella.’

  ‘I’ll be having a word with Mrs Delaney.’

  A tear rolled down Kate’s cheek.

  Jonathan hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her head. ‘I promise I’ll find Joe and bring him home. Even if we have to delay our plans.’

  She began to protest but then he kissed her.

  There was a noise behind them. They turned to see Patrick standing in the doorway.

  ‘So, Kate? What’s going on here?’

  Jonathan released her. ‘Good morning, Mr Nolan.’

  ‘Let’s forget the niceties, shall we?’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to find out about us like this, Nolan,’ Jonathan said, stepping closer to Kate.

  Patrick sent him a caustic look then turned to Kate. ‘What plans?’

  ‘We’re sailing to Melbourne in two weeks.’

  ‘Australia!’

  The hurt in his voice cut deep into Kate’s heart. ‘I was going to tell you and Mattie a few days before but we had to keep it secret in case Freddie found out.’

  Patrick looked at her starkly. ‘And Ma?’

  ‘She gave her blessing.’

  Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. But —’

  ‘Sorry, are you?’ Patrick spun around to face him. ‘You bloody will be when I’ve done with you, thinking you can take our Kate away.’

  He swung at Jonathan who dodged the blow.

  Kate squeezed between them. ‘For the love of God, Patrick!’

  ‘Get out of my way, Kate,’ he yelled back. ‘While I give your schoolmaster a lesson he won’t forget.’

  Patrick punched out but Jonathan sidestepped and grabbed him by the lapels. He shoved him backwards and pinned him to the wall. ‘Perhaps we can discuss this after we’ve found Joe —’

  There was a knock on the parlour door. They looked around to find a policeman staring at them. His eyes flickered from Jonathan to Patrick and back again.

  ‘You’ll forgive me for interrupting a family moment,’ he said, taking off his hat and walking into the middle of the room. ‘I’m Sergeant Groves, from Arbour Square Police Station, and I would like to speak with the parents of Joe Ellis.’

  Kate’s legs buckled and she fell back into the chair. ‘What’s happened to Joe? Where is he?’

  Jonathan let go of Patrick and the two men placed themselves protectively on either side of her.

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question, Mrs Ellis,’ the officer replied. ‘I take it you don’t know where your lad is?’ Kate shook her head. The officer pulled a cap from his pocket. He held it out. ‘Is this your son’s?’

  The floor seemed to tilt as Kate reached out for Joe’s school hat. ‘Yes. Where did you get it?’

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Could you tell me when you last saw your son?’

  Kate nodded but couldn’t speak.

  ‘Before you distress Mrs Ellis further, Sergeant,’ Jonathan said, ‘perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell her why you have her son’s cap?’

  ‘There was a burglary in Mare Street, Hackney, last night,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Two men gained entrance to the premises by getting a boy to climb into an upstairs window and open the front door. Unfortunately, the householder awoke and surprised the criminals. One escaped but Mr Cohen cornered the other. There was a tussle and he was killed with a blow to the head, after which the second murderer and the young boy with him escaped. The whole thing was witnessed by Mrs Cohen and this,’ he indicated the cap Kate clutched in her hand, ‘was found at the scene.’

  Kate’s looked at Joe’s cap. ‘You don’t think . . .’

  Sergeant Groves fixed her with a hard stare. ‘I certainly do. The description of the man who bludgeoned the jeweller to death fits that of your husband Freddie Ellis. He and his gang are wanted for a dozen similar burglaries. I have reason to believe that your husband was the second robber and that the young lad seen running away after him was your son. So I ask again: when did you last see him?’

  ‘When I sent him off to school yesterday morning,’ Kate said. ‘His father stopped him – and my daughter Ella – on the way home and took him away. We’ve been desperately looking for him since. Joe’s a good boy, Sergeant. He’s never been in trouble before.’

  Groves pulled a sour face. ‘Well, he’s in trouble now, all right.’

  ‘Well, if Joe was the boy who broke into the house then it was only because his father forced him to,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘That’s for the magistrate to decide.’

  Kate jumped up. ‘The magistrate! My son’s only six.’

  ‘The magistrate at Worship Street sends nippers of that age to reformatory schools each day. Your son is complicit in a murder.’

  Black spots danced at the corner of Kate’s vision then started to merge together. She felt Jonathan’s arm around her.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Ellis,’ he said, quietly.

  Kate allowed him to guide her back to the chair.

  ‘I must tell you, Sergeant, that if you persist in bullying Mrs Ellis, I will be seeking an interview with your superior to complain about your conduct.’

  Sergeant Groves�
�s moustache twitched and his gaze flickered. ‘I am gathering information.’

  ‘What, by browbeating innocent women? If this is the way the Metropolitan Police go about things, I’m surprised you bring anyone before the law.’

  Patrick rested his hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Apart from sending my sister out of her mind with worry, what do you intend to do to find her missing son?’

  Sergeant Groves picked up his hat. ‘We are making enquiries and will inform you of any developments in due course. Good day to you, Mrs Ellis. Should you hear of the whereabouts of your husband, do tell the police immediately.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kate replied. ‘But my son is innocent.’

  ‘Be that as it may, I don’t need to remind you that aiding a felon is also a criminal offence.’ He nodded to Jonathan and Patrick. ‘Gentlemen.’ He flipped his hat on his head and showed himself out.

  Kate clutched Jonathan’s arm. ‘We have to find Joe before the police do.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Joe wedged himself behind the chair in the far corner of the Blue Coat Boy’s bar and wrapped his arms around his knees. The images of the night before played over and over in his mind.

  He crossed himself three times and then clasped his hands tightly together. Please, Jesus, if you let me go home I promise I’ll be good, he mouthed wordlessly.

  Heels clipped across the floor and Joe started to shake.

  ‘So that’s where you’re hiding,’ Aggie said, pushing the chair away.

  ‘I’m waiting for Pa,’ Joe said, crawling out from his hiding place.

  ‘Well, he ain’t back yet and until he shows his face, you can come downstairs with me so I can keep an eye on you.’ She grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the cellar door.

  The Blue Coat Boy’s basement was only just high enough for a man to stand upright and the roughly plastered walls were blistered with damp and thick with cobwebs. A battered oil lamp hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh light over the two dozen or so scruffy men crammed into the suffocating space. In the centre of the room was a pit, dug from the bare earth and lined with planks of wood, and on the far side a fat man wearing a tight suit, flowery waistcoat and a tall top hat was chalking numbers on a blackboard.

  Aggie brushed past Joe and swept across the room, picking up dirt and mouse droppings on her skirt. She settled herself onto the bench and clicked her fingers at him.

  ‘Drink.’

  She turned to talk to someone and Joe gave her a hateful look as he weaved his way between the men to the improvised bar. He picked up a bottle and a dull pewter tankard and turned to see his father standing at the bottom of the stairs swaying.

  ‘Pa!’ Joe shouted.

  His father glanced at him briefly out of red-rimmed eyes then, shoving him aside, made his way to Aggie. Joe grabbed onto his coat tails.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, Pa.’

  Freddie belched, releasing a wave of sour breath. ‘Wotcha, son,’ he said, tousling Joe’s hair roughly before sprawling in the chair next to Aggie.

  She snatched the bottle from Joe. ‘Give it here before you drop it.’

  Splashing half of it in the mug for herself, she handed the bottle to Freddie, who put it to his lips and gulped it down.

  ‘Any word?’ she asked.

  Freddie shook his head. ‘Nabbers ain’t got nuffink except the dead geezer’s old bird but it were so dark and I doubt she’d recognise me if I went up and kissed her. If I keep my head down for a week or two, I’ll be in the clear.’

  ‘Well good gawd, but,’ Aggie swiped Joe across the top of the head, ‘no thanks to this snotty little bugger.’

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards her until her nose was just an inch from his. ‘If you ask me, your pa should have bashed your brains out for being so fucking stupid.’ Joe started to shake. ‘Maybe ’e’s dim-witted cos his ma dropped him on his bonce when he was a baby.’

  Joe balled his fists. ‘Don’t you talk about my ma.’

  ‘Leave ’im alone, Aggie,’ Freddie said, half-heartedly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Oi! Jolly. When you going to get this fucking show going?’ he shouted, waving the bottle in the air.

  The bookmaker tipped his hat. ‘Right you are, Mr Ellis.’

  He stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a two-tone whistle. The stairs creaked as men dressed in garish checked suits and holding barrel-chested dogs with chewed leads came down the stairs.

  Freddie thumped on the table with his fist. ‘Let’s have a look at them then, before old Jolly starts calling the odds.’

  The crowd pressed back as the owners paraded their dogs and then unleashed a couple into the pit. The dogs ran around snarling and snapping at each other as the men above placed their bets.

  ‘D’you want a flutter, sweetheart?’ he asked Aggie.

  She shook her head. ‘I ain’t wasting my money on counting rats.’

  Rats! Joe’s pulse raced off.

  The bookmaker whistled again and Joe’s eyes opened wide with terror as two men trudged down the stairs carrying a wicker basket between them. They tipped the contents into the pit.

  Rats of all colours and sizes tumbled out, shrieking and twisting. The dogs were on them immediately, grabbing their squirming bodies between their powerful jaws. Some of the rats tried to claw their way up the side but were kicked back to the dogs, who had blood smeared across their noses and flanks from tearing the rodents apart.

  ‘D’you want a better look, boy?’ Aggie said, grinning. She pushed him forward.

  Joe sprang back and tucked himself behind the upright beam. Aggie laughed.

  Harry Watson burst in, thumped down the stairs and dashed over.

  ‘You’d better scarper, boss, and quick,’ he said, gasping to catch his breath in the smoky atmosphere. ‘The peelers are on their way.’

  Freddie rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘What, here? Why . . .?’

  Aggie grabbed Harry’s arm. ‘If someone’s grassed, I’ll—’

  Harry shook his head. ‘The rozzers found ’is cap.’ He pointed at Joe.

  Aggie’s hand shot out and she grabbed a clump of Joe’s hair. ‘You left your fucking cap!’ she screamed as she dragged him towards the pit.

  Joe wedged his toes against the wooden edge. ‘Please, Miss Aggie,’ he whimpered, trying to prise her fingers open. ‘I didn’t mean to – it just dropped out of my pocket.’ His eyes fixed on the squirming rats desperately trying to claw their way out over the other bloody, half-chewed bodies. ‘No!’

  She twisted her hand and sharp needles of pain pricked his scalp. ‘You know what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Only put a noose around your pa’s neck, that’s all.’ She thrust him over the pit edge.

  Joe flailed his arms, trying to grasp hold of something. His right foot slipped and he closed his eyes as he tried to remember what Captain Quinn had said about how soldiers faced death.

  A police rattle sounded in the room above their heads.

  ‘It’s the filth!’ someone shouted.

  Bottles smashed on the floor as the audience upturned tables to shove their way to the stairs with dogs snarling and snapping at their heels.

  Freddie grabbed Joe’s free arm and yanked him back.

  ‘Aggie, sort the girls. Harry, do the same for the fellas. I’ll be in the usual place.’

  ‘What about ’im?’ Aggie asked, jabbing her finger at Joe.

  ‘He’s coming with me.’

  Freddie shoved him towards a corner of the cellar then kicked open one of the panels to reveal a narrow passageway.

  ‘Get in,’ he shouted, throwing Joe to his knees. His father’s boot connected with his rear. ‘Move!’

  Joe crawled blindly over sharp stones and puddles and just when he felt he could go no further a light cut through the darkness and the stench of stagnating sewage clogged his nose. He climbed out and found himself behind an overflowing privy in someone’s
yard.

  Freddie heaved himself up from the escape tunnel and dusted his coat down.

  Joe gripped his father’s trousers and looked up. ‘I thought you were gonna leave me behind, Pa.’

  His father plonked a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t do that, would I? Not to my boy. Besides, you’re the only other person who saw me whack the bugger over the head.’

  With his cane firmly in his hand, Jonathan turned into Neptune Close. His boots squelched through the slurry trickling down the central channel as he made his way towards the collection of hovels at the far end. Stepping over the drunk sprawled in the gutter, Jonathan pushed open the bare wood door and strolled into the Two Feathers.

  Like the last four public houses he’d visited, the bar was little more than the bare bones of a building with distempered walls. The counter, if you could call it that, was a rough plank of wood resting on two barrels above which, hanging from a low beam, were a collection of battered tankards. Behind the bar was a keg turned on its side and supported by an X-shaped rest. Beer dripped from the tap.

  The colourless drinkers slouched over the bar looked up as he walked in then quickly returned to their drinks. One person stood out: a dark-haired man in a tailored, broad russet-striped suit. Jonathan took in the angle of his hat and the knife handle just visible beneath his jacket. He let the door close and walked to the bar. The landlord broke off from talking to a scruffy trollop and sidled over. He planted his hairy hands on the bar.

  ‘We don’t know nuffink about no boy.’

  Jonathan stowed his cane under his arm. ‘I thought it traditional to ask a customer what he wanted to drink.’

  ‘Don’t try that old shit with me, Nelson. You ain’t no poxy customer, you’re that headmaster that’s been nosing around.’

  A couple of the men close to them threw back their drinks and shuffled towards the door. The rest of the drinkers tucked themselves further into the shadows.

  ‘Then there’s no need for introduction,’ Jonathan replied, keeping the flashily dressed man in his sight.

  ‘Mr Ellis don’t like people poking about his business,’ the landlord said, polishing a pewter tankard with a grubby cloth.

  ‘Ah. Mr Ellis – just the man I’m looking for. Where is he?’