Hold On to Hope

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘I ’spect he’s left the area.’

  Although he seemed to be chatting to the girl in his arms, the flashily dressed man at the end of the bar cocked his head.

  ‘The police don’t think so, do they?’ Jonathan said, raising his voice. ‘There’s a poster plastered outside the station offering a reward and they’ve got patrols out looking for him.’

  ‘And even if ’e is hereabouts, and I ain’t saying he is, mind, if the rozzers can’t find Mr Ellis, then you and that fucking bogtrotter Nolan won’t either.’

  The landlord continued. ‘You might want to be a bit careful, you do. Asking questions about Mr Ellis might be dangerous to your ’ealf.’

  Jonathan leant forward. ‘I’m not interested in Freddie Ellis, he can go hang for all I care, and probably will when the police catch him. It’s his boy I want to find. No questions asked,’ he said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Several pairs of eyes met his gaze briefly. The chap at the end of the bar banged his empty glass down.

  ‘That’s me done,’ he said. ‘If anyone comes looking for me tell them to catch me later by St Mary’s.’ He stared at Jonathan for a moment then shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered out.

  Jonathan watched him go and turned back to the landlord. ‘So, you don’t know anything about Joe Ellis.’

  ‘Not a thing,’ replied the landlord coolly.

  Jonathan left the pub and as casually as possible glanced down the road, quickly spotting the nattily dressed drinker lounging outside a tobacconist. When he saw Jonathan he stood away from the wall and strolled off. Jonathan waited for a couple of seconds then followed at a discreet distance.

  Harry Watson greeted a couple of the stallholders with his customary jaunty smile and a nod as he sauntered along Brick Lane towards Whitechapel High Street. The black-faced clock high on St Mary’s tower struck three as he dodged between the empty hay wagons heading east and turned down Church Lane. Casually, he stopped in the granite arch of the church entrance, pulled out his pipe and made a play of refilling it. He waited until a couple of women carrying sacks on their backs passed him and then slipped into the churchyard. Shoving the unlit pipe back into his pocket, Harry tucked himself behind the solid stonework and peered behind him down the road.

  Where was the one-eyed bugger? he thought, looking through the afternoon crowd at the end of the road. He couldn’t have been more than twenty steps behind me.

  He wiped his moist hands on his trousers and scanned the street again. Surely he couldn’t have got hi–

  Harry froze as ice-cold metal slid across his windpipe. He swallowed, hearing his bristles scrape across the blade as his Adam’s apple rose and fell.

  ‘That’s not very friendly, mister,’ he said, in his broad Essex accent.

  ‘After the landlord’s warning you can’t blame me for being cautious,’ came the reply. ‘Now drop the knife you’ve got tucked in your belt and I’ll take my blade from your throat. Slowly. Any sudden movements and my hand might slip.’

  For a second or two Harry toyed with the idea of whipping out his blade and sinking it in the other man’s chest but the hand holding the blade was too sure and the voice too calm. He reached into his jacket, fished out his weapon and let it clatter to the flagstones.

  Quinn removed the razor-sharp steel from his throat and Harry turned to face him.

  He dusted down his lapels. ‘You were dead lucky to get the drop on me like that.’

  A mocking expression crept across the other man’s face. ‘I’ve stolen up on Bedouin tribesmen without them hearing a peep. Creeping up behind you crunching over the gravel wasn’t much of a challenge, chum.’

  Chum! Resentment flared in Harry’s chest but he held it in check. There was still a blade between them and he wasn’t the one holding it.

  ‘Now, about Joe Ellis?’

  ‘Is he a little lad about this tall?’ Harry held his hand out at hip height. ‘With blond hair, sort of cut short? A bright kid with blue eyes?’

  Quinn nodded.

  Harry lifted his hat and scratched his head. ‘Well, now, I may have seen him.’

  The tip of Quinn’s blade flickered. ‘Don’t try to be clever with me.’

  ‘You said something about a reward?’ Harry said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  ‘Where is Joe Ellis?’

  ‘With his pa somewhere.’

  Quinn’s inflexible stare sent a chill down Harry’s spine. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘B-b-but I know how you can find him, and the boy. There’s this woman, see. Red Aggie. She’s Freddie’s bit of knock-knock. She knows where he is.’

  Although the blade remained poised, Quinn’s stance relaxed a little.

  ‘I suppose you know this because you’re one of Ellis’s gang,’ Quinn said, studying him closely.

  ‘What, me?’ he asked, with a hollow laugh. ‘No, you have me wrong. I only come to the Smoke twice a week to deliver hay.’

  Amusement flickered briefly across Quinn’s face. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’ He eyed Harry’s tailored suit, the ivory-and-jet pin anchoring his silk cravat and his beaver-skin top hat. ‘I won’t detain you further as I’m sure you’ll be wanting to hitch up your wagon and head off back to the farm.’

  Kate pulled her nightdress down from the rack over the fire and placed it on the top of the pile of clean washing on the table.

  Despite not having slept properly for a week, she’d somehow managed to drag herself out of bed that morning at five o’clock, cook breakfast for forty and complete the tradesmen’s orders for the following week. Sally and Bette, who had been saints since Joe’s disappearance, arrived together just before seven and had brought their other sister, Lynnie, along to help. With the kitchen packed to the rafters all day, she could afford to increase Sally’s wages and have Bette in for an extra two hours each day. They had gone home now for an hour or two while the shop closed for a mid-morning break but they would be back at eleven to prepare for the lunchtime onslaught.

  The back door clicked open and Kate spun around. Her heart thumped uncomfortably for a couple of beats then Patrick trudged into the room. His expression said everything.

  ‘Is there no word at all?’ she said, leaning on the table to steady herself.

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I’ve been in every beer shop north of Flower and Dean Street and got the same response.’

  Kate collapsed in a chair at the table. ‘So no one knows where he is.’

  ‘A lot of people know where he is but none of them are saying,’ Patrick replied, taking the seat next to her.

  ‘I know at first we didn’t want the police to find Joe but now I wish they had,’ Kate said. ‘He must be scared out of his wits by now. I just pray he’s all right.’

  Patrick slipped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. ‘Now, come on, sis. We’ll find him. I promise.’

  ‘Perhaps Jonathan has had better luck.’

  Patrick straightened up and looked away. ‘Maybe,’ he replied in a tight voice.

  Kate closed her hand over her brother’s forearm. ‘I wish you’d try to understand, Patrick.’

  He turned back. ‘I’m trying, Kate, but I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you or the children again.’

  ‘Oh, Patrick, you know from the moment I wed Freddie my life’s been nothing but a living hell. I thought I’d squandered my chance of love but then Jonathan came and everything changed.’ Her brows pulled tightly together. ‘Don’t I deserve a chance at happiness, too?’

  ‘Couldn’t you wait a bit longer and—’

  ‘Wait for what? I’ve waited long enough already, Patrick.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘But you won’t be his wife, will you?’ He sat back and folded his arms. ‘I don’t understand how Quinn can say he cares for you in one breath and then shame you in the next.’

  ‘That’s fine coming from you,’ Kate replied, matching his unyielding expression. ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you didn’
t know you were a free man until after you and Josie set up home together and she was six months in the family way.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ Patrick pulled down his waistcoat. ‘At least wait until the police catch Freddie.’

  ‘And what if they don’t?’

  Patrick raised an eybrow. ‘Perhaps I should do what I should have done long ago and dropped Freddie overboard at Barking Creek.’

  ‘Patrick!’

  ‘Yes, well.’ His gaze flickered briefly across her face. ‘It would be no more than the bastard deserves. But I tell you, Kate, as much as I’d like to see you settled happily, as head of the family I can’t agree to you running off with Quinn to some godforsaken land.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Patrick – enough. Can’t you see I’m near mad with worry? Will you have some mercy and let the matter rest until Joe’s home safe?’

  Patrick expression softened. ‘Very well, but—’

  The back door clicked and they looked around. It was Jonathan.

  ‘I think I’ve found Joe.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Joe lay staring up at the blackened ceiling of the attic and listening to the early morning sounds outside. The eye-watering smell of turpentine from the paint factory next door was already seeping into the eaves of the lodging house where he and his father were hiding. Soon the fires would be lit and the steam pump would chug into life, adding the smell of rotten eggs and ammonia to the stench as the dye in the vats heated up.

  It had been over a week since he’d proudly trotted behind his father into the Blue Coat Boy, and now his life was full of drunken foul-mouthed men and half-dressed, red-lipped women.

  Instead of a bed with clean sheets and a patchwork cover he slept on a damp and stained straw mattress under a ragged, bug-infested blanket. That was when he could block out the grunts and squeals from below and the hunger in his belly and get to sleep. He’d washed around his neck each morning at the back yard pump but his clothes and person were now as dirty as everyone else’s.

  Something nipped his arm. He thrust it out from under the cover and scratched furiously. A drop of blood smeared across his skin and the itch settled. He studied his dozen or so flea bites for a moment then turned his head to look across the room at his father. Freddie lay sprawled on another mattress on the far side of the room, fully clothed and with an empty bottle in his right hand. Thankfully, he slept alone.

  Joe watched his father’s chest rise and fall a couple more times then rolled off the damp mattress. He crept across the floor and collected his shirt and jacket from the back of the chair, which scraped on the bare boards. Joe froze but Freddie only grunted.

  Joe slipped on his shirt. He’d lost the button from the collar but fastened it as best he could, then picked up his boots and tiptoed out to the landing.

  Watching where he placed his feet to avoid the squeaky boards, Joe inched his way towards the stairs. Someone in one of the rooms below hacked out a chest-ripping cough. As he expected, the communal room on the ground floor was empty as the superintendent was asleep and the doors were still locked. Joe slipped his boots on and placed a stool under the tiny window that overlooked the backyard.

  He clambered up then carefully lifted the latch and swung it open. Stretching as tall as he could, Joe hooked his hands over the sill and pulled himself up. Kicking his legs for momentum he heaved himself through the narrow frame and then on to the outside ledge before lowering himself to the cobbles.

  Joe ignored the cold morning air and fixed his eyes on the gate. He dashed across, slipped the top and bottom bolt clear before turning his attentions to the one in the middle. He gripped the rusty bolt and tried to waggle it free. It wouldn’t budge. Sweat broke out on his brow. He curled his finger tighter and tried again. It moved a little then jammed. Taking a deep breath, he tugged at it once more and it slowly slid out of its housing but when he lifted the latch a hand clamped on his shoulder.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Joe turned and looked up at his father.

  ‘Home,’ he replied flatly.

  A look of disappointment spread across his father’s unshaven face. ‘I thought you were my boy, Joe?’

  A lead weight settled across Joe’s chest. ‘I am, Pa, but . . .’

  Freddie’s sorrowful expression deepened. ‘When I was away at sea I used say “when I get back my boy will be so glad to see his old pa he’d do anything just to make him ’appy”. Ain’t I right, Joe?’

  Joe’s chin started to wobble. ‘I . . . I . . . want my ma. I want to go home.’

  His father tightened his grip and pulled Joe back from the gate. ‘Stop snivelling, you jessie. The nabbers are after us so you can’t go home.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No,’ Freddie replied, shooting the bolts back in place. ‘We’ll have to scarper for a bit. Leave town. I ain’t decided where yet but we’ll go together, eh!’ He nudged Joe in the ribs. ‘You and me. What’d yer say?’

  ‘I want to go home, Pa. Let me go home,’ Joe cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Please. I won’t tell anyone where you are. Promise.’ He grabbed his father’s arm. ‘Please, Pa, please.’

  Freddie shook him off. ‘You’re a right fucking mammy’s boy, ain’t yer?’

  He grabbed Joe by the scruff of the neck and marched him towards the back door. ‘Get back to the room before everyone wakes up,’ he said, as he shoved Joe up the stairs. ‘And think yourself lucky I don’t take my belt to you for cheeking me like that.’

  With leaden feet Joe tramped up the wooden steps, to his prison at the top of the house.

  ‘Stay put until Aggie arrives with breakfast. And you better take that look off your face before I wipe it off.’

  Joe glared at his father and Freddie’s hand smacked across his cheek. Joe flew backwards and landed with a thump on the floor. His ears were ringing and strange white lights popped at the edge of his vision. He shook his head to clear them.

  ‘I’ll give you worse than that if you lip me again,’ Freddie told him as Joe cradled his throbbing cheek. He jabbed a finger at Joe. ‘You stay put while I find meself something to take the dust from me throat. Do you hear?’

  He nodded then wished he hadn’t as it set his head pounding.

  Freddie looked him over again and left the room. Joe curled up in the corner and quietly sobbed as he realised he’d never see his mother or sister again.

  Kate stepped back further to avoid a drip from a broken gutter and tugged the knitted shawl tighter around her head. She blew on her hands to ward off the chill of the autumnal morning. Although Kate’s first instinct was to dash to the dosshouse and tear it apart brick by brick until she found Joe, she knew they wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting within a mile of Freddie except at first light when he, and the rest of the low-lifes living in the area, would be sleeping off the excesses of the night.

  As the dosshouses along Dorset Street were clearing out their customers she guessed it must be nearly eight-thirty, halfway through the working morning for the coffee vendors, road sweepers and porters who’d been awake since first light or earlier. It was still the middle of the night for the Spitalfields public houses, gambling dens and knocking shops.

  The early morning damp was seeping through her old gown but Kate barely noticed it as her whole focus was on the Blue Coat Boy’s front door across the street. Huddled alongside her in the dank doorway were Jonathan and Patrick. Concealed in a shop entrance on the other side of the road were Patrick’s son Mickey and Mattie’s husband Nathaniel.

  Something flickered in one of the pub windows and Kate’s heart raced. An image of Joe trotting into the school gate flashed into her mind and she started to tremble.

  Sweet Mary, let me find him alive and well.

  The thick, muzzy fog clogging her mind threatened to close in again but she blinked her dry, sleepless eyes a couple of times and forced them to refocus. She looked up at Jonathan, who was leaning against the door frame wearing an old military great
coat. A battered homburg half covered his face. On the other side of him stood Patrick dressed in a scruffy mariner’s smock. They were both unshaven and had rubbed dirt on to their faces to blend in with the early morning crowds.

  Sensing her eyes on him, Jonathan turned and looked over his upturned collar at her. ‘We’ll get him back,’ he said, giving her a reassuring glance.

  Kate prayed that the saints above would hear his words.

  ‘I wish you’d stayed at home, Kate,’ Patrick said. ‘Or at least do as I ask and fetch the police with Mickey.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I’m staying right here. While you’re dealing with Freddie, I’ll be finding Joe.’ She pointed across the road.

  ‘There,’ she said, as the door opened a couple of inches.

  They held their breath. A woman slipped out with a basket hooked over her arm. She too wore a ragged shawl but everything else – from her crimson jacket to her purple button boots – were distinctive, if grimy.

  ‘That’s Red Aggie,’ said Kate.

  Aggie crossed the road, popped into the baker’s for a couple of moments and then walked towards Commercial Street. She turned left into Commercial Street and Kate and the four men raced after her.

  As they reached the busy thoroughfare, Nathaniel dodged behind a dustcart while Patrick and Mickey crossed through Christ Church graveyard. Jonathan took hold of Kate’s elbow. ‘This way,’ he said, guiding her behind the costermongers’ stall.

  Aggie disappeared from Kate’s view. ‘I can’t see her,’ she said, craning her neck and frantically searching the throng.

  ‘I have her,’ Jonathan replied, pushing a shop awning aside. ‘Quick, she’s going down Ten Bells Path.’

  Kate dodged through the carts and wagons and into a filthy alleyway with Jonathan just half a step behind her. They joined the others who were already at the corner. Jonathan peered around it then dodged back.

  ‘Blast! It’s empty,’ he said. ‘If we go marching down there, she’ll spot us.’

  ‘Let me go and have a shufti,’ Mickey said.

  Patrick gave a sharp nod. ‘Watch yourself.’