Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  Nathaniel strolled towards them.

  The two bruisers stood and blocked his way.

  ‘Wot’s yer game?’ asked one, shoving his face close to Nathaniel’s.

  ‘Getting ’is face cut, that’s wot,’ the other replied, flecks of spit escaping from his mouth.

  ‘A word,’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘I’ll give you a word. Feck off.’

  ‘That’s two,’ Nathaniel replied conversationally.

  The first brute snatched at his knife. Nathaniel’s hand shot out and grabbed the dirty scarf hanging around the man’s neck and yanked his bullet-shaped head down. He whipped his own knife from the back of his belt and jabbed it upwards, nicking the surface of the thug’s throat. The man struggled but Nathaniel held him firm. He glared at the other heavy, and said, ‘One move and your chum’s finished.’

  The other man looked at the man still eating his dinner. ‘Guv?’

  The man wiped the grease from his mouth and threw down his napkin. ‘Get out of the way you fecking pair of apes and let me old mate Nat through.’

  Nathaniel let go of the scarf and the bully boy collided with his fellow. There were a few sniggers as the two danced backwards as they regained their footing. They shot Nathaniel another furious look and then made themselves scarce.

  Nathaniel slid his knife back under his jacket. ‘Hello, Boyce.’

  Two bluebottles settled on the greasy smears left on the surface of Boyce’s empty plate. ‘You ain’t forgot what I taught you, then?’

  ‘How could I?’ Nathaniel grinned.

  ‘Did I ever tell you what a lily-livered sight you were when the lobster-backs marched you up the gangplank?

  ‘Once or twice,’ Nathaniel replied, as his first few brutal days in the penal colony flashed through his mind.

  ‘You were lucky you were sent to number six hut. If it had been another con on the bunk above you they would have left you to take your chances, but being the soft ’arted sod I am I took pity on you.’

  ‘And thank God you did or I doubt I’d be standing here now.’

  Boyce looked him up and down. ‘I did wonder ’ow you’d fair after I was shipped back, but you look well enough.’

  Nathaniel glanced around. ‘Are you back at your old game?’

  ‘Among other things, but I do like to keep my hand in by picking the odd lock or two. Just for old times’ sake,’ Boyce replied, as he worked something out from between his front teeth with his knife.

  Nathaniel’s grin widened. ‘So you’re still an old cracksman, then?’

  ‘The same as you’re still a fecking ploughboy.’

  Nathaniel took the seat opposite.

  ‘Sally! Get us a drink,’ bellowed Boyce.

  The dusky barmaid lolling at the end of the bar collected a bottle and two glasses then sauntered over. As she stopped at the table her full lips spread into a broad smile showing a set of spectacularly white teeth.

  ‘Watch yer, cock,’ she said, with a London twang quite at odds with her African ancestry.

  Boyce smacked her rear. ‘Be a good girl and ’op it.’

  She gave Nathaniel another luscious look before swaying back to the bar.

  Boyce poured two generous measures of brandy. He shoved one glass across the table towards Nathaniel and raised the other. ‘To us! The ploughboy and the cracksman.’

  Nathaniel raised his smudgy glass. ‘The ploughboy and the cracks-man.’ He threw his drink back, enjoying the burn of the spirit as it washed down his throat.

  ‘You skipped off then?’ Boyce asked as he poured them another.

  ‘Aye, after I got a letter from my old parson telling me that my family were dead.’

  Boyce raised his eyebrows. ‘Now I am right sad to be told that, mate.’ He leant across the table. ‘You’re going to snuff the bastard, then.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Not as such. He destroyed everything I had so I thought I’d return the compliment. He’s quite the gentleman now. He owns a controlling share in the Grey Friars warehouse in St Katherine’s dock. He lives in a quality house on Mile End Road and he’s married with a stepdaughter. He’s also a member of St George’s in the East’s Parish Council, governor of the St Katherine’s School, and is tipped to become a city alderman. But not everyone is fooled.’ Nathaniel reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the sheet of newspaper he’d peeled off the doss house wall.

  ‘This reporter for one seems to understand Stebbins’s true nature,’ he said, and read the editorial to Boyce.

  Boyce whistled through his teeth. ‘Sharp stuff. You’re not thinking of blowing your cover and talking to this Smyth wotnot are you? Just ’cos he spouts on a bit about Stebbins don’t mean he won’t shop you to the peelers if you turn up on his doorstep.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Nathaniel replied, carefully refolding the sheet of paper. ‘But he could be an ally. I’ll check him out – and his newspaper – before I decide if it’s worth the risk. In the meantime I need to find out everything I can about Stebbins, especially anything he doesn’t tell his wife or the vicar about.’

  Boyce rubbed his none-too-clean hands together. ‘Just leave it to me, Nat, me boy. I’ll find out what you want to know right down to how often he wipes his arse!’

  Amos rolled his head sideward and studied the profile of his sleeping wife. She lay on her back with her mouth open and the frothy lace of her nightcap encircling her face. With each breath her expansive bosom rose and fell under the crocheted coverlet, while a faint whistle cut through the silence of the bedroom. Her leg had sprawled against his and he pushed it away with his foot. He shuffled sideways to increase the space between them. She muttered at his touch but didn’t wake.

  He sighed and stared up at the canopy. The clock in the hallway below struck two and Amos wondered if he would still be wide awake when it struck four. The image of Nathaniel Tate outside Maguire’s yard floated into his mind and a cold hand clutched at his innards. Even a full bottle of brandy hadn’t settled his churning stomach, nor had his favourite dish of roast pork with bubbled crackling, which remained untouched on his plate. How could he eat, think or sleep when his very life was in peril?

  It wasn’t his fault that Tate’s family had died. It happened all the time – it was the way of things. As the prayer book so rightly said, ‘in the midst of life we are in death’.

  Of course, Marjorie could have stayed in her little home had Tate not been transported to the other side of the world, but then why didn’t her father take her in? If Tate wanted to reckon with anyone he ought to be seeking out her father for his unchristian neglect.

  He simply had to fabricate the evidence that convicted Nathaniel. If I’d been caught with the quarterly takings I wouldn’t be the successful business man I am now. And where would St George’s church be without my generous donations?

  When it was announced from the pulpit that the lead from the church roof had been stolen did he count the cost? No. He had risen to his feet and, before the whole congregation, and selflessly pledged to replace it. And there wouldn’t be a Sunday school tea each year without his munificent provision. There had been a whisper that the parish council were considering putting up a plaque of appreciation. Not that he was concerned with the praise of men, of course. Goodness was it’s own reward.

  Amos took a deep breath and tried to calm the almost paralysing fear that had gripped him since the police had visited his office that afternoon.

  Cecily turned away from him and farted; the clock in the hall chimed out the half hour. Amos threw off the covers and swung his legs out of bed. He put on his slippers and padded across the room to use the commode behind the screen in the corner. As he stood relieving his aching bladder he glanced through the window at the shadowy doorways and murky passageways. What if Tate already knew where he lived and was just biding his time before striking? Even with his new percussion pistol Amos knew he’d be dead before he could cock it. The claw grasping his gut tightened and panic
rose up in his chest again. He slammed the commode lid down.

  Before he climbed back into bed he sank on his knees and looked up at the Cross above the headboard. He put his elbows on the coverlet and clasped his hands together. God knew he wasn’t a bad man. And of course he should have kept the eight and ninth commandments, but everyone knew that those whom God had chosen for a special purpose were tested the most. The Bible was full of such examples. Abraham who lied to secure land; Jacob who deceived his father and cheated his brother Esau out of his inheritance; Gideon, who’d strayed off the path with his love of gold. And what about King David? He was forever falling off the straight and narrow.

  It was unfortunate that he’d been forced to frame Tate, but he was convinced that the harshness of the penal colonies was much exaggerated. Besides, Tate was of yeoman stock and used to a more basic existence.

  Cecily rolled over onto one elbow. ‘Husband, are you unwell?’

  ‘No, my dear, just the spirit of God stirring me from my slumber.’

  ‘Would you like me to pray with you?’

  ‘I think I must commune with God in solitude. You go back to sleep.’

  Cecily lay down again and within a few moments her regular breathing told Amos she had nodded off.

  Amos repositioned his elbows and fixed his eyes on the Cross.

  It was clear that God was testing his resolve by sending Nathaniel Tate just as he was grappling with the problem of the Maguire woman. But he, Amos Stebbins, was one chosen for greater things. As the old hymn said, ‘God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform,’ and who was he to question the Almighty’s plan . . .

  Chapter Seven

  Mattie held the inventory in one hand and shoved a pencil behind her ear as she opened the door to the office. A large wagon from Morris & Co was undertaking the tricky manoeuvre of backing into the yard. Bill stood behind the rig and signalled to the driver, whose mate, Bert, held the reins of the lead horse to coax it backwards, all the while blocking the street. The pedestrians waited impatiently, occasionally shouting at the driver to get a move on. Freddie was nowhere to be seen, as usual, and Mattie’s heart sank when she saw that Jock was today’s driver. The bull-headed Scotsman was one of Morris’s top men and, to give him his due, he could turn a team of horses and a five-tonne coal wagon on a sixpence but he was better known for his capacity to start a fight in an empty field.

  Mattie already had a fuzzy headache and thirty minutes with Jock Murray would be guaranteed to double it. Brian had fidgeted most of the night and kept her awake, and when she’d finally managed to drift off, Katie got up and dropped her enamel chamber pot, which clattered loudly down the stairs. On top of all this, Queenie was having one of her musical days – singing off key and non-stop all morning.

  Squaring her shoulders, Mattie rested her free hand on the banister and made her way downstairs. As she reached the bottom step, Jock spotted her from his platform on the top of the rig. ‘Oi, oi! Here comes my little darling. Would you mind telling your men to get a fecking move on, ducks. I ain’t got all day.’

  Mattie fixed him with an steady stare. ‘If you want it done faster, why don’t you get down and give them a hand.’

  Jock hawked and spat on the ground, just missing her feet. ‘Got to keep the horses in check,’ he said, showing her the limp reins. ‘Where’s that old windbag who works here?’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Jock. Eli’s not well.’

  She’d visited Eli the day before and taken him some soup. He looked well enough sitting by the fireside in his daughter’s kitchen but, although all his other functions had returned, his left arm still hung lifeless by his side. She was relieved to see Eli on the road to recovery and silently wished him back at work. Number one cart had been idle for two weeks now and she was losing customers to Huggins.

  Jock rolled his eyes. ‘Ach, pity, ’cause he seems to be the only one around here who knows what ’e’s fecking doing.’

  He jumped down from the rig and ambled over. He couldn’t have been more than a few inches taller than Mattie, but he was brawny so he looked shorter and gave the impression of being as wide as he was tall. He stopped much too close to her, as he always did, but Mattie forced herself to stay put. He grinned, showing a set of even, but heavily tobacco-stained teeth. Like all the men who worked with coal Jock had a fine dusting all over his face, clothes and hair. An indolent look crept into his eyes as they ran slowly over her breasts before coming to rest on the bare flesh above her neckline.

  ‘Where do you want me to put it?’ he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  Ignoring her heart crashing in her chest, Mattie gave him her iciest look. ‘As close to the old stock as possible. As you always do.’

  Jock smirked. ‘You don’t mind me asking, like, because, as many a pretty girl hereabouts will tell you, I’m eager to please.’ He flapped the front of his corduroy trousers, sending coal dust fluttered down.

  Mattie suppressed a shudder. ‘Why don’t you just unload?’ she said wearily.

  His eyes ran boldly over her again. ‘I’d love to.’ He looked down at her chest again. ‘Any time.’

  Mattie turned her back on Jock, who gave a low laugh. Trying to ignore the fact that his eyes were probably glued to her rear, Mattie walked around to the back of the rig where Billy was helping offload the coal.

  She tilted her head to one side and studied the delivery. Lifting her skirt clear of the sooty dust beneath her feet she stepped onto the newly formed mountain. It skidded a little. She got her balance and then picked up a lump. She turned it over in her hand, scratched the surface and then sniffed it.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouted. The two men ceased shovelling. ‘This is subbit and I ordered black-bit.’

  Bert took the nugget of coal and scratched and sniffed it as she had. ‘You’re right, Missis,’ he said. ‘Hey, Jock!’

  Jock had climbed back on the rig and was lounging across his seat with his feet up on the side. He glanced around. ‘I’m having a smoke,’ he shouted holding up a tatty roll of paper.

  Bert waved the piece of coal. ‘It’s the wrong sort.’

  Jock drew theatrically on the twisted butt then flicked it in a large arc away from him. He jumped down and snatched the coal from his mate’s hand. ‘What’s the poxy problem?’

  ‘This is sub-bit,’ Mattie said. ‘I ordered black.’

  Jock tossed the chunk in his hand back on the pile. ‘Well, I’ve unloaded it now.’

  Mattie set her mouth into a firm line. ‘Well now, so you have. But I ordered black-bit and that’s what I expect to be delivered.’

  Jock’s eyes narrowed and any trace of congeniality vanished. ‘Listen, dearie. I ain’t fecking shovelling it up again ’cause you fecking say so.’ He waved at the hillock of shiny rocks. ‘Just mix it with the black you’ve got left and no one will be any the wiser.’

  ‘I’m not going to ruin my reputation because of your mistake. Start loading it back on.’

  Jock stepped in front of her. ‘Leave it be,’ he growled at the men behind her without taking his eyes from her face.

  They did.

  He loomed over her and despite her resolve, Mattie took a step back.

  ‘Now you listen to me, sweet’art,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You ordered fecking coal and coal is what you’ve got. If you want the same next week and the week after you had better get out of my way, sign my chit and fecking shut up.’

  Rage and impotency twisted together in Mattie’s stomach as she stared up into Jock’s hard-bitten expression. She didn’t have to look at the order sheet to know that she would be billed for the higher-grade coal. With one wagon idle and the seasonal demand for the sub-bit heating coal dropping away, the yard was barely making enough to pay the wages and put food on the table. If she was bullied into paying for coal she couldn’t sell, the business wouldn’t last the month.

  A sense of huge unfairness at her situation threatened to bring tears to her eyes. She pushed the thought asid
e. Things were as they were and crying about them wouldn’t change that.

  She clenched her fists and took a step forward. ‘Now you listen to me, Jock Mur—’

  A shadow fell between them.

  Mattie turned and saw a powerfully built man, who she judged to be all of six feet tall and with the breadth to match. His black hair had been tightly cut to frame his broad forehead and strong cheekbones. He had a beard, like almost every other man but, whereas the fashion was for untrimmed and bushy, his was scraped clean on his cheeks and throat and then followed the blunt lines of his jaw. His wide, authoritative stance had the quality of a coiled spring.

  His eyes flicked over her face and then looked at Jock.

  ‘I don’t like hearing a woman spoken to in that fashion,’ he said, in a mellow voice with a hint of a country accent. ‘I’d advise you to apologise.’

  A belligerent expression screwed up Jock’s unshaven face. ‘Who the feck are you?’

  ‘Someone you don’t want to cross,’ replied the newcomer.

  Bert threw down the sack he was holding and rolling up his sleeves, started towards them. Billy turned the peak of his cap to the back and did the same.

  ‘See ’im here?’ Jock said to his mate as he came to stand alongside. ‘’E thinks he can order me around.’

  Bert laughed nervously as he eyed the man challenging his mate. Billy stopped next to Mattie and stood with his feet apart and his arms folded across his chest.

  Jock stepped forward. ‘It appears this fella has a problem with me. So what are you going to do about it?’

  Nathaniel Tate’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward also. ‘Knock you all around this yard so even your mother wouldn’t recognise you. Now, apologise,’ he barked, as the men in the yard crowded around.