Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  Shifty bugger.

  He patted Mr Dunn’s arm. ‘I understand your qualms, Dunn. You’re a man of good conscience, as am I, but may I remind you of Proverbs twenty-eight verse twenty-five: “. . . but he that putteth his trust in the Lord shall be made fat” – and I’m sure a yearly dividend of twelve per cent will help settle your mind. But if you’d rather I looked for other investors . . .’

  The choirmaster shook his head. ‘No, no. I am content to leave the matter in your hands.’

  I have to tell Brian, thought Queenie. The blackness in her mind swirled a little.

  ‘Good, good. As soon as I hear that you have deposited the sum we agreed into my account I’ll set the date for flotation, probably in a few weeks.’ He held out his hand again and Mr Dunn shook it vigorously.

  ‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Stebbins.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  Mr Dunn gave a small bow then turned and marched down the nave towards the main door. Stebbins slipped into the front pew and knelt with his head bowed for a short while before following him out.

  Queenie held her breath. Once the Fatman was gone she would run home and tell Brian. He would know what to do. He would stop him from taking their yard.

  As Amos reached the church doors, Queenie tried to stand but found she was kneeling on her skirt. She tugged it out but the tin of wax slipped from her hand and clattered down the pulpit steps. The metallic ring as it bounced off the stone echoed around the church.

  Amos turned and retraced his steps. His eyes darted back and forth then alighted on the tin of polish. His eyes narrowed as they cast upwards and fixed upon her. Queenie’s legs felt suddenly weak and she grabbed the handrail to steady herself.

  Amos drew in a deep breath and the button of his waistcoat took the strain. He pointed at Queenie. ‘How dare you lurk in the shadows and spy on your betters, old woman.’

  Queenie started to tremble. ‘I he . . . he . . . heard . . .’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘That you’re after my Brian’s yard because of your railway,’ she shouted at him, her high voice screeching upwards into the rafters. ‘And I’m going to tell everyone.’

  Amos gave a hollow laugh but the sharpness in his eyes sent a chill through her. ‘And who would believe you, the parish mad woman? You ought to be locked up. In fact, I’ll call for the workhouse superintendent myself and have you taken away.’

  Queenie shook her fist at him. ‘I’m not mad and when I tell my Brian he’ll stop you.’

  ‘And how are you going to “tell your Brian”, you mad old woman? He’s dead.’

  Queenie shoved his words away. ‘Don’t be daft, he’s out on his rounds.’

  ‘Is he?’

  She nodded. The black horror flared up. La la la, Queenie sang in her head.

  Amos put his face close to hers. ‘I know that somewhere in that addled brain of yours you remember the night they carried your son, your only son, home from the Town of Ramsgate with his throat cut. Remember how white he looked, dressed in his best suit, his new wedding suit, lying in his coffin.’

  The hellish blackness roared up, pushing against her thoughts as it yelled ugly, lying things at her. An image of her son’s neck with the deep gash – all the way from his ear to his collarbone – burst into her mind. She saw the bloodless lips and unseeing eyes; the white collar turned red and his shock of auburn hair flopped back and forth as his head rolled. She crumpled like a rag doll onto the flagstones. A sob rent through her chest and tore her heart open, allowing all the pain and hopelessness locked away deep inside to pour out.

  ‘He’s dead! My Brian’s dead!’

  Sweat sprang out on Amos’ forehead and he glanced over his shoulder at the vestry door.

  ‘Shut up!’ he ordered, gripping her thin upper arms and dragging her to her feet.

  Queenie let out a piercing scream as her hand flopped forward at an unnatural angle. Amos felt rather than heard the bone snap. He threw her from him. Queenie sobbed as her injured arm thumped on the floor.

  Amos grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head towards him. ‘I told you to shut up, you old crone.’ Then he pulled out his neckerchief, screwed it in a ball and jammed it in her mouth. Twisting her hair in his hand, Amos dragged her across the tiles and behind the back row of pews.

  Queenie’s eyes bulged and her face went a motley red as she struggled against his grip. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone anything where you’re going,’ he snarled.

  Without loosening his grip, he smashed her to the floor. The back of her head cracked onto the flagstones as he rammed the gag further down her throat.

  Queenie’s eyes rolled up and her hands began to lose their strength. The police would investigate her death of course, but at her age they’d probably conclude that she’d slipped, broken arm her and then suffered some sort of seizure. And there was no one to say otherwise.

  The door to the vestry clicked opened suddenly.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Mr Garrett’s cultured voice asked.

  Amos tucked himself behind the high back of the pew, dragged his handkerchief out of Queenie’s mouth and let go of her. She crumpled to the floor and her booted foot kicked the wood.

  ‘Who’s there I say!’ demanded the vicar.

  Amos straightened up. ‘It’s only me,’ he answered, slipping his handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Mr Garrett screwed up his eyes and peered down the length of the church. ‘Is that you, Mr Stebbins?’

  ‘Yes, I was just having a few moments of quiet prayer.’ Amos glanced around. ‘I find the solitude of an empty church very conducive to commune with the Almighty.’

  The vicar’s face brightened. ‘Indeed, and I’m glad you’re still here as there is a small matter I need to discuss with you. It’s about the Sunday school outing.’

  He came down the chancery steps and started down the aisle towards Amos.

  Amos walked down the centre of the church to meet the vicar. ‘Let’s go into the vestry,’ he said catching the other man’s upper arm and guiding him back towards the altar.

  Suddenly one of the main doors at the far end crashed back. Amos spun around and to his utter astonishment, saw Queenie, hunched over and holding her broken arm across her, stumbling out of the door.

  ‘Who now?’ Mr Garrett asked, craning his neck and screwing up his eyes. ‘Tell me, Stebbins. I can’t see a thing without my infernal glasses.’

  ‘It’s probably one of the scruffy kids I saw hanging about in the church yard earlier,’ Amos replied. ‘I’ll send them on their way. I’ll join you in the vestry.’

  He sprinted down the church and out into the graveyard just in time to see Queenie disappear through the gates and into the street.

  Damn! Damn!

  His first instinct was to dash after her but he held back. She was half mad and certainly delusional; everyone knew that, so if the batty old woman did start blabbering about him breaking her arm and trying to murder her, a flat denial on his part should quash such a ridiculous suggestion. But what if she started on about Maguire’s yard and the railway? That might not be so easily brushed aside.

  The sexton, climbing out from the grave he’d just dug, tipped his hat as Amos stood pondering in the church door. Amos nodded a greeting then went back into the church, which he found empty once again. He started down the centre of the church but stopped beside his pew and sat down. Clasping his hands tightly together Amos prayed that poor Queenie Maguire would find eternal rest, and soon.

  With her breath burning her lungs, Mattie dashed the last fifty yards towards Maguire’s double gates praying with every step that Queenie would be home. As she stopped in the centre of the yard to catch her breath, Jack came out of the stable.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, taking his jacket from the peg and shrugging it on.

  ‘Queenie went to the church three hours ago and hasn’t come back,’ Mattie said, putting her hand on her chest to slow her
breathing. ‘I left Brian with Kate then went to the church but she wasn’t there, so I ran along to Watney Street. She’s not been there either.’

  ‘That’s not like her.’

  ‘I know. I’ve asked a couple of the stall holders to keep an eye out for her but I’m hoping that she’s come back. Have you been in the house?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve only just finished up.’

  They walked across the yard and through the small garden, setting the chicken clucking as they made their way to the back door. Mattie kept praying they’d find Queenie but her chair by the hearth was empty. Where on earth is she?

  Kate was there instead. ‘Thank goodness you’re back, Mattie,’ she said, as she stood up. ‘Did Freddie tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘The butcher’s boy from around the corner saw Queenie down by Trinidad Wharf an hour ago. I thought he’d let you know?’

  ‘He sloped out when I arrived,’ Nathaniel replied coldly. ‘He’s probably sinking his second pint by now.’

  Mattie pressed her lips together and retied her bonnet ribbon. ‘Wapping High Street is no more than fifteen minutes away. I’ll have to find her.’

  ‘You can’t go there alone, it’s too dangerous. I’ll come with you,’ said Jack.

  Mattie didn’t argue. In fact, knowing that he would say just that was the one thing holding her together. They left the yard with Buster trotting at their heels and made their way down Cannon Street Road towards the Highway. The working day had only just finished but already the local prostitutes and gamblers spilled out into the pavements. Nathaniel guided her through the crowds with a gentle pressure on her elbow and shielded her with his body. A hansom cab rolled towards her and Nathaniel caught her arm and brought her close to him as it splashed through a pungent puddle of stale water. They crossed into the relative quiet of Gravel Lane.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let her go,’ she said, running over the afternoon’s events yet again.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ he said calmly. ‘Mrs Maguire goes to the church and back at least three times a week without any trouble. How could you know that today would be different?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mattie said, trying to ease her conscience. ‘That’s why I wasn’t too worried when she wasn’t there when I got back. Even when I found the church empty I thought she might have wandered down to Watney Street. She does that sometimes.’ She looked up at Nathaniel. ‘She’s been so good of late that I’d started to hope her mind was sorting itself out but now I can’t help thinking something awful must have happened to set her off like this again.’

  ‘We’ll find her.’

  When they reached the cobbled road that ran alongside the river, the evening crowd of trollops were already milling around trying to attract the attention of newly discharged sailors.

  ‘How far to where she was spotted?’ Jack asked, as he sidestepped a broken bottle.

  ‘No more than a half a mile down there.’ Mattie imagined Queenie wandering along the riverside. ‘Perhaps we should go to the police.’

  ‘Maybe we should check down where the butcher’s boy saw her,’ Nathaniel said, trying not to show his alarm and ease his guilt at not agreeing with her.

  She gave a little nod and a brave smile, which made him feel twice as bad. ‘We’re passing the Town pub and if Patrick’s there, he can help.’ She covered her eyes with her hand. ‘Sweet Mary, there’s miles of waterfront, Jack. We’ll never be able to search all of it. She could be lying injured somewhere, in pain and not able to move. And the tide will be turning in an hour or two. What if . . .’

  Nathaniel took hold of her upper arm. ‘I promise we’ll find her.’

  ‘Please, let it be so,’ Mattie whispered crossing herself.

  They hurried on and within a few moments they were outside the public house.

  ‘I’ll see if your brother’s inside,’ Nathaniel said shoving the door open.

  Mattie nodded. ‘I’ll go to the end and look along the quay side.’

  Nathaniel sent Buster with her then had a quick look around the bar and left a message with the barman before dashing out again. He ran down to the river and caught sight of Mattie talking to a ferryman tying up his craft on the quayside. She had pulled her bonnet back from her face and the pale straw arc now sat like a halo around her head. As she heard his footsteps she turned.

  ‘He said he saw something lying at the end of the jetty as he brought his boat in,’ she said leaning over the flimsy railing and peering at the mud below. The barrier creaked as it took her weight.

  She cupped her hand around her mouth. ‘Queenie! Queenie!’ she yelled, her voice echoing back from the space below the dock. She looked up at Nathaniel with near panic in her eyes. ‘Sweet Mother. What if she’s unconscious and can’t hear?’ Nathaniel glanced at the water swirling around the round oak uprights. If Queenie had thrown herself into the river her body would be halfway to Barking Creek by now.

  ‘Let’s search further along,’ he said.

  The wooden causeway creaked and dipped under foot as they rushed along. Buster scampered back and forth sniffing intently for a moment, then shot off along the narrow jetty barking furiously. Mattie gathered up her skirts and half ran, half stumbled after him. She gripped the rope strung between the mooring posts and looked over.

  ‘Jack, there,’ she sobbed, jabbing her finger at the river below.

  Nathaniel scanned the muddy gloom. In the pale light he caught sight of a small figure crumpled in the mud.

  ‘Queenie!’ Mattie screamed. ‘Don’t worry, darling, we’ll come and get you. Don’t you fret none.’

  The figure lying in the mud didn’t move.

  Mattie turned. ‘Do you think she could have survived the fall?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Nathaniel replied, in a tone that said otherwise.

  The river bed lay at least thirty feet below and even if she’d landed in the mud, the impact would break the bones of a woman half Queenie’s age so he wasn’t hopeful.

  ‘You stay here.’ He swung onto the ladder leading down to the river.

  He jumped the last few feet, the stinking mud sucking at his boots, and slopped his way towards where Queenie lay on the stone foundations of the jetty. Her eyes were closed and her fine white hair feathered around her face like a lacy nightcap. There was a fresh bruise on her cheek and throat along with streaks of blood along her forearms. One leg was twisted under her at an awkwardly and the angle of her right arm told him at a glance that the bones had been snapped through.

  He bent over her. ‘Mrs Maguire,’ he said softly, praying that she was still breathing.

  She didn’t move. Nathaniel stretched out his hand and gently moved a damp strand of hair away from her face.

  Her eyelids flickered opened and her pale blue eyes looked up at him. ‘Is that you, Brian?’

  The light had almost gone by the time they turned into Cannon Street Road. Queenie’s head had rested lightly on his chest as Nathaniel carried her the mile or so home. Once in the warm kitchen he set her down gently in her chair and lifted her feet onto the stool. Mattie placed a shawl over Queenie’s legs while Buster rested his muzzle on her lap, looking up at her with sorrowful eyes. Nathaniel moved a step aside but the old woman clutched at his hand. He hunkered down next to her and Mattie did the same. She moved a strand of hair from her mother-in-law’s eyes. ‘Poor lamb.’ A tear slowly rolled down her cheek.

  Queenie’s pulse in her neck was thumping at twice the natural rate and as she took each rasping breath there was a faint but distinct sound of fluid bubbling in her chest. She was leaning to her left with her arms curled around her ribs as if guarding them from further injury.

  Kate knelt beside her. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘Below Trinidad jetty,’ Mattie replied, another tear joining the first on her cheek.

  ‘Poor Queenie.’

  Mattie stood up. ‘I’ll have to get Doctor Corbett.’

  Nathaniel ros
e to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch him,’ he said, letting go of Queenie’s hand.

  ‘No! No!,’ she screamed, gripping his sleeve, her nails almost tearing through the fabric. ‘Don’t leave me, Brian!’

  He and Mattie exchanged a worried glance and then he tried to uncurl her fingers.

  ‘There, Ma,’ he said a trifle awkwardly, ‘I’ll not be a minute. Mattie’s here.’

  Queenie clung on tighter and started to sob. Mattie patted Queenie’s free hand then tucked her shawl closer around her face.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Kate can come with me. It’s only five minutes’ walk to Chapmen Street.’

  ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the thought of you wandering around alone.’

  ‘It’s better that you’re here,’ she said, then hooked her arm in Kate’s. They left hurriedly together.

  Without letting go of Queenie’s hand, Nathaniel pulled a chair from the table and sat down. ‘You’re a good boy, Brian.’ She reached up and stroked his hair. ‘I used to brush those golden curls just to see them spring back.’ Her cold, bony fingers twirled a lock of his hair. ‘Do you remember how you used to come home with scuffs on your knees and I used to dab them clean?’

  A lump formed in Nathaniel’s throat. He could barely remember his own mother but Queenie’s palpable pain had summoned up vague memories of a secure embrace and the faint smell of rose water.

  ‘And you used to mend the rips in my trousers and scold me for fighting,’ he said, sure that she had.

  Queenie laughed softly then winced. ‘But it never stopped you.’ She kissed his hand then held it to her cheek. ‘I told you not to go with Patrick Nolan. He was always scrapping with someone but you hung around with him anyhow. I know boys fight but I was scared I’d lose you like the others.’ Her watery eyes ran over his face. ‘You’re my only joy, Brian.’ The lump in Nathaniel’s throat thickened. Queenie’s blue eyes searched his face. ‘Promise me you won’t let the Fatman take our yard for his railway.’

  Unease crept up Nathaniel’s spine. ‘Who’s the Fatman, Ma,’ he asked, gently.

  ‘Him who’s always at the church and came around here poking his nose into the books,’ Queenie replied, wrinkling her nose as if she smelt something foul. ‘Said he was trying to help but I know better ’cos I heard him and the singing man talking by the pulpit.’