Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Sweet Mary, what’s happened to her?’ Mattie asked. ‘Has she rolled and twisted her gut?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘Pete, run and fetch the vet.’ Pete dashed out, and Mattie looked up at Nathaniel. ‘Maybe she hurt herself on a nail or something. If we can get her back into her stall it will settle her until Mr Harris arrives. The old girl knows me.’ She spread her arms and inched towards the horse. ‘I’ll see if I can catch her halter and coax her back. Aroon, me darling,’ she soothed.

  The horse tottered to the left but somehow kept herself upright. She snorted and drew her lips back in an agonising grimace. Nathaniel stepped forward and hooked his arm around Mattie’s waist. He pulled her back just seconds before Flossy reared up and lashed out with an iron-shod hoof.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Maguire,’ he said releasing her. ‘But Flossy’s in too much pain to know anyone or anything.’

  Suddenly the horse threw her head back and shrieked, then crumpled on her front knees. Her head crashed to the floor as her nostrils flared unnaturally. A quiver ran over her sweaty flanks then her back legs gave way. She lurched sideways and crashed to the ground sending dust and hay flying into the air.

  ‘No!’ Mattie cried, pushing past him and throwing herself down beside the dying horse. She gently picked up Flossy’s head and cradled it on her lap. Nathaniel hunkered down quietly beside her. The horse’s hooves twitched and scraped on the ground. Nathaniel could see that the horse’s eyes were beyond pain now. A thick lump lodged in his throat and the corners of his eyes tightened. Silent tears streamed down Mattie’s cheek as she stroked the soft muzzle of the old horse. The only sound in the stable was Flossie’s laboured breath. Then it ceased.

  Mattie bent forward, laid her head on Flossy’s cheek and wept.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Nathaniel whispered.

  After a moment Mattie sat up. ‘Thank you.’ She wiped her face. ‘Flossy was my late husband’s horse ever since he was a lad of fifteen. She was the young horse of the stable then and I remember how she used to fling her head and whinny at him each morning. Just like she does . . .’ She gave him a brave smile, ‘ . . . did, when you walk in each day.’ She looked down at the horse again and a tear escaped and fell onto the whiskery muzzle lying in her lap. Nathaniel, feeling utterly helpless, watched her shaking shoulders.

  After a few moments, Mattie slid Flossy’s head onto the floor and started to rise. Nathaniel held out his hand to help her. She took it and stood up, then dusted down her skirt.

  ‘Will you go around to the knacker’s yard and—’

  Pete crashed through the door. ‘The vet said he’d—’ He stopped as he saw the dead horse.

  ‘I’ll see to things,’ Nathaniel cut in. ‘You go in and make yourself a cup of tea.’

  Mattie gave him a tight-lipped nod. Standing so close and feeling her palpable grief, Nathanial struggled not to reach for her. Mattie bent down and patted Flossy’s neck then stood up, blew her nose again and left the stable.

  ‘Shall I call in at Wren’s on my rounds to tell them to collect her?’ Pete asked.

  Nathaniel nodded. ‘But tell them to come as late as possible to save Mrs Maguire having to see her go.’

  Pete left. Nathaniel turned and looked into Flossy’s empty stall. The rope-tether hung in shreds from the metal ring at the far end of the stall and the water bucket had been kicked over.

  God, the poor old girl must have been in agony, he thought, looking at the deep gouges in the flagstones. And I’d put a pound to a farthing that it wasn’t by chance that Stebbins called just an hour before she took ill. But how?

  Nathaniel kicked over the straw bedding and spotted something. It was a square of greaseproof paper. He sniffed then pulled away sharply. It smelt of something he couldn’t identify, but it certainly wasn’t cox’s pippin.

  Stebbins! Nathaniel’s fist clenched together. It was clear that Amos would stop at nothing to acquire Mattie’s yard. But if he could stroll in and poison a dumb beast in broad daylight, what else was he capable of?

  Josie slid the china pot under the bed and climbed back under the covers. Patrick stirred, wrapped around her, and she snuggled against him. There was just the faintest hint of light under the curtains and she guessed it was probably a little after four. She rolled her head and looked at the profile of her sleeping husband and thought again of Mattie’s last visit.

  When Kate, who was a hopeless romantic, had told her last week about the handsome new coalman who couldn’t take his eyes off Mattie, Josie hadn’t given it much mind, had dismissed the notion – until she opened the door and saw them sitting together on number one wagon. They looked just right together, a couple, and she herself would have put such a fanciful idea down to her condition had she not seen for herself the way Mattie looked up at Archer – with such palpable emotion that Josie had to look away.

  ‘Patrick, are you awake?’ she whispered.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Pity.’ He smoothed his hand over her swollen stomach. ‘Is the baby keeping you awake?’

  ‘It’s Mattie,’ she said.

  Patrick groaned.

  ‘Well . . . it’s her new coalman.’

  Patrick rolled on his back and placed his palm on his forehead. ‘Josie, sweetheart, I have to be at the mooring at five,’ he said, wearily. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘It’s Mattie’s new coalman, Jack Archer.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, he’s very handsome,’ Josie replied. ‘And I think he might be interested in her.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first to cast his eyes in her direction these last three years but Mattie told me he was sweet on Kate.’

  After seeing the look in Jack’s eyes as they rested on Mattie Josie didn’t believe that for one moment.

  ‘Perhaps, but that’s not what’s unsettled me.’ She sat up and turned towards her husband. ‘I know this sounds silly but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  Josie took a deep breath. ‘There’s a wanted poster outside every police station in the area offering a reward for an escaped convict from Botany Bay. He was seen in the area.’

  ‘And you . . . you . . . think Mattie’s new coalman is the man?’ he said, barely able to get his words out for chuckling.

  ‘But what if he is?’

  ‘Oh Josie,’ he said, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, but he’s new in the area and we don’t know anything about him. He could be anyone. Shouldn’t you make sure he’s ok for Mattie’s sake?’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll pop down if I have time this week’

  ‘Go tomorrow,’ Josie answered looking up at him in the half light from the window.

  He sighed. ‘If I can, Josie. I’ve got—’

  ‘Patrick!’

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll let Iggy see to the afternoon shipment.’

  Josie stretched up and kissed him. ‘Thank you.’

  Patrick rolled his eyes. ‘Women!’ he snuggled her into him. ‘Now will you go back to sleep and leave me to worry about Mattie’s new coalman?’

  ‘Yes, Patrick,’ Josie replied, smiling to herself in the dark.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Patrick strolled along the narrow pavement of Wapping High Street towards the police station. He wasn’t alone. The tide was in and there were sailors and dockers spilling out of every public house where they were taking their first mouthful of beer after a backbreaking day’s work. Parched though his throat was after hauling a full barge of coal to Vauxhall, his end-of-day pint would have to wait an hour or two yet.

  The notice board outside the red brick police station was full but in the middle of the wooden panel was the poster that had caused Josie’s imagination to gallop away with her. Patrick scanned the placard.

  The Receiver of the Metropolitan Police. July 1847

  £20 REWARD

  will
be paid for the apprehension of

  Nathaniel Tate.

  Twenty pounds might be tempting but Patrick doubted anyone would try to collect it. The unwritten street law demanded that you avoided the police if you could or acknowledged them respectfully if you couldn’t. If you didn’t want to find yourself sinking to the bottom of the river with a ship’s weight tied around your ankles, you told them nothing.

  A convicted thief and fugitive from

  Her Majesty’s penal colony in New South Wales.

  A thief! Well as far as that goes it depended on your understanding of the word.

  The tradition of spillage dockers putting a bit of the cargo in their pocket was called theft by the ship owners, but sometimes the bob or two the docker got for selling his scrap of illicit goods saved their family from starvation. No one called the dock owners thieves for cutting their labourers wages to preserve profits.

  Patrick moved on to the description of the wanted man:

  Tate is approximately six foot tall and square shouldered; powerfully built. Hair dark & curly; eyes brown; complexion tanned. Usually clean shaven. Cheek bones rather prominent; chin blunt; forehead broad. Lips firm set. Quick and active nature. Distinguishing mark; heart shaped tattoo on right upper arm with the letters M, L & R within it.

  Last seen in his home town of Romford wearing rough clothing.

  Believed to be in the Wapping and Shadwell area.

  Enquires to Superintendent Jackson,

  Arbour Square police station.

  The description of this Nathaniel Tate could fit any number of men in the street where he stood, including himself. Even the lettering of the tattoo wouldn’t necessarily single Tate out. Most men had at least one crudely inked mark on their arms and often many more. If this Tate had visited one of the local trollops they might see the mark but, again, they wouldn’t be trotting off to tell the police, not even for twenty pounds.

  Patrick re-read the poster. Then, adjusting his knapsack on his back, he continued on his journey. If he were honest, he reckoned he had more chance of being crowned king of Ireland than Mattie’s coalman turning out to be this Tate fellow, but he had promised Josie to find out about Jack Archer and that was exactly what he was going to do.

  Nathaniel leant back on the chair and turned slightly so he could study Mattie as she bent over the ledger.

  Mattie scratched the pen across the bottom of the page and smiled up at him. ‘That’s four weeks in a row that our profit’s topped five pounds. At this rate the bank manager will be inviting me in for a cup of tea!’

  The wind had tugged a few wisps free from under her scarf and Nathaniel envied them their ability to caress her cheeks.

  ‘It’s your idea of the bonus that’s increased the yard’s takings.’

  ‘And you signed up almost all the new houses in Beaumont Square,’ she replied. ‘By the way I’ve been thinking about bringing Eli back.’

  A chasm opened at his feet. ‘That’s for you to say, Mrs Maguire,’ he said, in an even tone. ‘I knew the job was only temp—’

  ‘No, no!’ Mattie said quickly. ‘Not to drive number one cart – he couldn’t manage it. It’s just that he’s been with Maguire’s for twenty years and I want to ask him to do a bit of light work around the yard.’ She gave him a shy look from under her lashes. ‘I know I only offered you the job on a temporary basis but I would like you to stay on permanently. If you want to.’

  He had stayed too long already and should really say no, but with her beautiful face looking earnestly up at him, all sense and caution evaporated.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Maguire. With Eli in the yard it might save you from forever dashing in and out of the house. You might even have a chance to put your feet up in the afternoon.’

  ‘What, with Brian around?’ she laughed.

  Buster, who’d been snoozing in the corner, lifted his head. Nathaniel turned to find Mattie’s brother, Patrick, standing in the doorway. Nathaniel rose slowly to his feet. He’d heard the tales about Patrick’s fight with Ma Tugman: how he’d laid out Charlie, her youngest, and wrestled a gun from Harry, the older brother. Patrick Nolan might be a respectable barge owner but he was considered to be a hard man in the streets of Knockfergus and beyond.

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Oh, Patrick,’ Mattie said, standing up and patting her hair back into place. ‘We . . . I was doing the accounts,’ she said, in a light, too breezy voice. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Jack Archer.’

  Nathaniel extended his hand. ‘Mr Nolan.’

  Patrick’s expression remained stony for a brief moment then he took Nathaniel’s hand and an open smile creased his face. ‘So you’re my sister’s new driver. My wife mentioned that she’d met you and I hear you’ve already found a horse to replace Flossy.’

  ‘I have, which reminds me I should be getting on with the afternoon deliveries, if that’s all right with you, Mrs Maguire.’

  Patrick reached down and stroked Buster, blocking Nathaniel’s route to the door. ‘So where’re you from?’

  ‘The south coast.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ Patrick asked, as he made a fuss of the dog. ‘I only ask because when I sail the Smiling Girl up to Folkestone I always bring a fresh Dover sole for my wife. She loves them, doesn’t she, Mattie?’

  Mattie didn’t answer.

  Nathaniel picked up his cap, hooked on the back of the chair. ‘I’m from Hastings.’

  A jolly smile creased Patrick face but didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I know the place. Whereabouts?’

  ‘In the old town in All Saint’s Road, across from the church. If you know the net huts it’s the road running up from there.’

  The fisherman turned smuggler who had occupied the bunk beneath Nathaniel in Botany Bay had come from the old cinque port. After two years of listening to him talking about his home town day and night, Nathaniel felt he knew it as well as he did Romford.

  ‘So what brought you to London?’ Buster rolled on his back to have his belly tickled.

  ‘Work.’

  Patrick stood up and Buster scrambled to his feet and shook himself. ‘And you’re lodging locally.’

  ‘With my sister and her husband in Hope Alley.’

  ‘You’ve been working abroad I hear? India? Or perhaps—’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Nolan.’ Nathaniel clicked his fingers to bring the dog to heel. ‘It’s good meeting you, but I have the afternoon delivery to take out.’

  Patrick straightened up and for one moment, Nathaniel thought he was going to block his way again but then he stood aside.

  Nathaniel turned to Mattie. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Maguire.’

  Ruth lay with the bed covers up around her chin and stared at the brass handle of her bedroom door. The heavy drapes were closed and the only light in the room came from the oil lamp on her bedside table. She’d been in bed for an hour, but although her eyelids were heavy she dared not allow herself to drift off to sleep just yet. A floorboard creaked outside her room. Ruth drew in a sharp breath and squeezed her eyes tight closed.

  Please let it be one of those nights when he don’t come,’ she prayed silently, as she pressed herself into the soft mattress.

  The footsteps drew nearer then stopped outside her door. Ruth’s eyes flew open and fixed again on the polished knob as it slowly turned.

  ‘You go to bed, my love,’ her stepfather called down the hallway. ‘I’ll make sure Ruth is tucked in for the night.’

  ‘Give her a kiss from me.’

  Ice replaced the blood in Ruth’s veins as Amos Stebbins stepped into the room.

  *

  Nathaniel turned into Hope Alley where he was greeted by the sight of Buttony Cox, the local cats-meat man, weighing out pounds of bloody flesh. The trader had set up his hand cart in the usual position and on the walls and windowsill cats paced and meowed as they waited for their suppers. The flesh was ground horse meat from old, winded nags sold by their owners to the knackers yard for a couple of sh
illings. Often families could barely afford to feed themselves but needed at least one cat to keep the mice at bay.

  ‘Ca’ me-e-et-me-yet-me-e-yet!’ Buttony shouted, the mother-of-pearl buttons sewn around the edge of his collar twinkling in the faint gaslight. He spotted Nathaniel. ‘Oi, Archer. You better tell your skin ’an blister to get out ’ere before it’s all gone,’ he called, handing a chunk of meat wrapped in newspaper to a customer.

  Nathaniel was surprised that Dolly Roscoe hadn’t already bought her two days’ supply. With a dozen dogs to feed she was usually first in the queue.

  ‘Sure,’ he shouted back, treading carefully over the meandering trickle of slurry that ran down the central channel.

  Whistling Buster to heel, Nathaniel walked the last few yards to the door of his lodgings and pushed it open. He had just set his foot on the bottom stair when the door to the parlour flew open and Dolly stepped out.

  ‘Oh, Jack, sweetheart, you’re home,’ she said, her eyes wide and glaring at him. ‘I was just telling Mr Nolan here ’ow much we did miss you and how grand it is to have you back after your wandering.’ She leant back to reveal Mattie’s brother standing uncomfortably in the middle of her shabby front room.

  Nathaniel calmly turned and walked passed Dolly into the room.

  ‘Mr Nolan.’ He offered his hand. After just a second’s hesitation Patrick took it. ‘This is unexpected,’ Nathaniel said, locking it in a fierce grip.

  ‘I was just passing.’

  ‘Have you offered Mr Nolan a cuppa?’ Nathaniel asked Dolly, who was standing nervously beside him.

  Patrick’s eyes darted onto the collection of dirty cups and plate on the table with the flies buzzing around them. ‘No, it’s quite alright. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Dolly replied shuffling over to the fire and moving kettle over the flames. ‘I was just telling Mr Dolan—’

  ‘Nolan,’ Patrick cut in.

  ‘Pardon me,’ Dolly said, ‘—about our little cottage in Hastings and how I came to London while you stayed with Gran.’