‘I can see your eyes, Miss Josie,’ Mrs Woodall said, a small smile lightening her face. ‘I suppose I had better let you make sure they’re all right before I send them up with the afternoon tea.’
Josie grinned, then went over and scooped up a tart. She blew on it for a second and then popped it in her mouth, licking her fingers.
Mrs Woodall’s gaze ran over Josie and her eyes grew soft. ‘With your sweet tooth, I’m surprised you stay so slim. It must be all that dashing about you do.’
Large windows let light into the kitchen but, since the kitchen was below street level they remained firmly shut to keep out the dirt that would blow down from above. To keep the temperature of the room down, Mrs Woodall worked with the back door ajar.
‘And where is the grocery boy?’ she asked herself now, glaring around the room as if the pots and pans might know.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Mr Grey is very reliable,’ Josie assured her.
‘He is, but that boy of his, Jaco, is a bit flash for my taste. I caught him chatting with Daisy outside the back door last week,’ Mrs Woodall replied. ‘How am I supposed to make Dish of Orange without oranges, I ask you?’
At that, there was a double-tone whistle and the young man in question stepped through the back door.
‘Morning, Mrs W,’ he said, swinging his basket up onto the work surface beside the deep sink.
Mrs Woodall pointed at Jaco with her knife. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours and I’ll have something to say to your master when I see him.’
‘Now then, hold your horses there, it ain’t my fault I’m late.’ Jaco repositioned his cap at a preferred jaunty angle. ‘The missus’ brother been away at sea for nigh on two years and he come back last night. They’re all a bit foggy, you might say, this morning after the celebration.’
‘Where has he been?’ Josie asked, thankful to talk about something other than Mrs Munroe’s imminent arrival.
‘According to him, everywhere - India, China and other savage lands,’ Jaco replied, squaring up the bottom of his colourful waistcoat. ‘Brought back all sorts of things, he did. Some strange cups with no handles from Japan, a bolt of silk from Bombay and some carved masks that scared the nippers.’
‘It’s a pity he didn’t bring some oranges with a bit of juice in them,’ commented Mrs Woodall, squeezing one of the fruits with a work-worn hand.
Jaco turned to Josie. ‘As I said, all around the world and sailed back on the Jupiter on the evening tide.’
Josie’s mind whirled.
The Jupiter!
Why did that name ring bells in her head?
‘Anyhow, Mrs W, Mr Grey says to tell you he’ll be by in the morning for the rest of the week’s order,’ Jaco said. He winked at Mrs Woodall. ‘Oh, and tell Daisy I was asking after her,’ he said, dashing up the steps two at a time.
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Mrs Woodall called after him.
Turning back to the table, she seized a large potato and jabbed her knife into it. ‘The cheek of him,’ she muttered, scraping off the skin in short strokes.
The kitchen door opened and Bobby, Josie’s twelve-year-old-sister, appeared around it. Nurse had worked a miracle on Bobby’s straight hair and her young face was now framed with reddish-blond ringlets.
‘Mother’s asking for you,’ Bobby said.
Giving Mrs Woodall a brief smile, Josie followed Bobby up the stairs.
Shoving the niggling issue of the Jupiter aside, she reached the ground floor of the house and stepped back onto the hall carpet, the smell of lavender and beeswax tickling her nose. The door to the parlour, the main family room to her right, was open wide and Josie glanced in.
The sofa and chairs sat at right angles to each other with their cushions plumped and the whatnots standing ready to receive books and drinks as required. Josie’s embroidery hoop lay across her needlework box on the table by the window. Ma had wanted to tidy it away but Josie had argued that it would show Mrs Munroe that they spent their leisure time in industrious pursuits.
Mounting the stairs to the first floor, her eye caught the print of the steamship her stepfather had bought shares in. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. That’s it! The Jupiter.
She peered at the name underneath the picture. It wasn’t the Jupiter, it was the Juno.
For goodness’ sake, she thought. The Jupiter was threatening to turn into one of those questions that tap at your brain for hours until you remember the answer.
‘Josie!’ her mother’s voice called from above her.
‘Just coming, Mam.’ Josie hoisted her skirts and made her way up to the next floor.
When Robert Munroe had left New York ahead of them to take up his post as Chief Medical Officer of the nearby London Hospital, and to find his family a suitable house, he had asked Josie what she would like in her bedroom. She had said two words: pink and lace, and now her bedroom incorporated both with pink candy-striped wallpaper, darker toned curtains and lace bed hangings. The room also had a rosewood wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a marble-topped washstand. As Josie had spent the first half of her life in a one up, one down cottage by the Thames she hadn’t yet grown tired of the pleasure of her own room. It was a far cry from the creaky wooden bed with the straw-stuffed mattress that she, her mother and her gran used to share all those years ago.
Josie stared around her bedroom as images of her old house, its cracked glass in the windows and its ragged curtains, drifted into her mind. Instead of the Turkey rug on the wooden floorboards she saw the old rag rug covering the beaten earth and shabby furniture.
Ellen’s voice cut through her musing.
‘For goodness’ sake, Josie, where have you been?’ she asked, laying the skirt of Josie’s best dress on her bed alongside four petticoats. ‘You need to get ready. They could be here any moment.’
Josie shut the door. ‘There’s hours yet. Pa has to get to the Black Swan to collect her and then get a cab back.’ She began to unbutton the bodice of her workaday brown dress. ‘Mam, stop worrying or you’ll get a headache and then Pa’ll have something to say.’
Robert Munroe wasn’t actually her father. Michael O’Casey had died before she could walk, let alone remember him, so Robert was the only man she’d ever called Pa. She’d first met him when she was twelve and he had just set up his medical practice around the corner from where they lived in Anthony Street. Her gran had called Dr Munroe to their old ramshackle home one night after Josie had returned home from school with her throat feeling as if she’d swallowed broken glass. From that very moment, he became one of her favourite people, and had remained so ever since.
A soft look crossed Ellen’s face and she ran her hands over her swollen stomach.
‘Why don’t you sit down while I freshen up, then you can help me with my laces,’ Josie said soothingly.
Ellen duly sat down and patted the dark auburn bun at the nape of her neck. She glanced out of the window again and her fingers drummed on the armrest.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Mrs Munroe isn’t as fierce as all that,’ Josie said, as she sponged herself down.
‘Maybe so, but I’m sure she still regards me as a godless papist who nearly ruined her son and forced him to live in America for the last twelve years,’ her mother replied, fiddling with her hair again.
‘I’m sure she thinks no such thing.’
Ellen raised an eyebrow.
Before they married, Josie’s mother and stepfather had been at the centre of an infamous, trial. Danny Donavan, who had the look of a bulldog chewing gristle, had ruled the dockside area for years with a fist and a blade of iron until Robert Munroe exposed his corrupt practices. Donavan was sent to trial at the Old Bailey, and it was Ellen, who used to earn a few coppers singing in Danny’s pubs, who supplied the vital piece of evidence against her boss. The trial was reported widely; so too was Ellen’s relationship with the reforming young doctor. They had married, but because of the scandal, Robert had been forced to practise in America for th
e past twelve years.
Although Robert’s father, the Reverend George Munroe, had gone to his grave refusing to acknowledge his son’s marriage to an Irish Catholic, his mother was more pragmatic. After Ellen and Robert had been married for eight years and produced five children, Robert’s mother had graciously condescended to acknowledge Ellen.
Josie put on a bright smile. ‘Besides, I’m sure that once she sets eyes on her grandchildren she won’t mind if you’re the Pope’s sister.’
‘It’s been hard on your father being apart from his family. He has longed for his mother to meet us all and I am determined that nothing should mar his joy.’
Josie reached for the towel. ‘Mam, what was the name of the ship we sailed to America on?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘I can’t remember.’ She stood up slowly and then, going to the bed, picked up the new, finely worked corset she had bought for her daughter in Regent Street.
Ellen shook it at Josie and grinned. ‘Now then, Josie Bridget O’Casey, turn around and prepare yourself.’
She slid the corset on Josie, who fastened the hooks at the front. Josie held her breath and her mother pulled the laces at the back. Pulling each side together she worked her way down and tied it off temporarily. Josie let out her breath.
‘We’re not done yet, my girl,’ her mother told her.
‘You know Pa said it can be dangerous to lace too tight,’ Josie said, hoping her mother gauged her waist to be slender enough.
‘Just a pinch more,’ Ellen said. She repeated the process.
After five more minutes of being pulled back and forth, Ellen drew the two sides of the corset together at the back and finally tied the laces. She tipped her head to one side and admired her daughter. ‘That’s not too tight, surely,’ she said. ‘I read in the paper that there are young women of your age with waists of eighteen inches.’
‘What, fainting in the street?’ Josie replied, twisting back and forth. ‘It’s all right for you. You don’t have to wear one.’
Ellen laughed ‘You look grand, so quit your fussing and get dressed. You can’t greet Robert’s mother in your underwear.’
Josie stepped into her fine petticoat and then the other three padded ones and Ellen tied them at the back. She held Josie’s dress aloft so she could slip into it.
‘The turquoise and green in that fabric really suits you,’ Ellen told her as she snapped the last metal clip in place.
‘I loved the colours when we saw it in the warehouse.’
‘It brings out the colour of your hair and eyes,’ Ellen said. ‘And I’m not the only one to think so. That young doctor, Mr Arnold, your father invited to dinner last week could barely find his food on his plate for looking at you.’
‘We were talking about his work, that’s all,’ Josie replied, lowering her head. She was acutely aware that her cheeks were turning red.
‘It doesn’t matter what you were talking about,’ Ellen said, straightening the pleats around the neckline of the dress. ‘He is from a good family and his grandmother left him well provided for.’
Josie had noticed William Arnold’s interest but hoped that her mother hadn’t. He was pleasant enough but when he shook her hand there was no strength in it. She pulled a face.
‘And if not him, what about Mr Vaughan? I could see he was very taken with you and his father owns most of the High Street.’
‘Mother! We have only been home a month and already you’re wanting to marry me off. Will you just stop throwing young men at me?’
‘Only when you decide to catch one. You want to marry, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, but you didn’t marry Pa to be provided for,’ she said, and her mother’s eyes flew open. ‘You married Pa because you loved him.’
‘That is entirely a diff—’ she caught Josie’s amused expression. ‘I just want the best for you, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to have to wash other people’s dirty clothes to put food on the table or—’
‘Sing in a public house to keep my daughter from the workhouse, ’ Josie said.
The iron-rimmed wheels of a coach sounded below. Josie and Ellen dashed to the window. A carriage had slowed and the driver halted the horse. He stowed his whip, then hopped down from the top box. The door opened and Josie’s stepfather jumped down. He straightened his coat and held out his hand. The coach lurched and a woman stepped out. She was dressed completely in black and her hat had a modest brim by fashionable standards, with only a Petersham band around the crown by way of adornment. The half-veil of the hat hid all but the tightly drawn lips of the woman. She straightened up stiffly and stared up at the house.
Taking her son’s arm with one hand and leaning on her cane with the other, Mrs Munroe mounted the seven whitened steps to the front door.
Ellen rushed from Josie’s room. ‘Judy! Daisy! Quick, quick! Mrs Munroe has arrived and we should already be downstairs. Bring the children down at once.’
As Josie joined her mother, Bobby, and ten-year-old Lottie, were already making their way down to the parlour below. Both wore their new clothes, and their tight ringlets bobbed either side of their faces.
Following them was Nurse in her navy uniform and starched white apron, carrying baby Jack while guiding six-year-old Joe down the stairs. Nine-year-old George followed in his new sailor suit, complete with a hat.
Josie just stood, caught in the moment, hardly able to breathe.
Patrick! The Jupiter was the first ship he had sailed on.
Her head spun for a second as memories of her first love, Patrick Nolan, danced in her mind. The ache of a loss that had dulled but never disappeared rose up in her.
Josie continued to stand unseeing, as her mind took her back twelve years to when she and her mother had lived in the tiny cottage by the river. She was thirteen then and her head had barely reached Patrick’s chin. He had been her ‘fella’ and she had been his ‘gal’. He had signed articles on the Jupiter just before she and her mother had sailed for America and he had visited them each time his ship brought him to New York.
It was seven years since she had waved goodbye to him from the quayside in New York. She remembered thinking that, with a strong wind behind him and a swift turn around in London, he would be back to her within the year. As he kissed her goodbye he’d told her that when he came back he would ask Dr Munroe’s permission to court her.
He had never returned.
Chapter Two
As the sun dipped behind the wharves that lined the Thames waterfront at Wapping, Patrick Nolan leapt nimbly onto the quayside, looped the rope in his hand around the squat iron mooring then pressed the coil firmly with his studded boot. From Ratcliffe Cross to the Regent Canal Basin the sail barges, like the one Patrick captained, were being tied up and made trim for the next day.
Running his hands through his unruly black curls, Patrick stretched his body to relieve the knot in his back. The soft breeze ruffled his open shirt as he untied his red kingsman - the handkerchief around his neck - and shook the coal dust out before retying it, setting the knot at a jaunty angle. The brightly coloured squares were almost a symbol of the bargemen and were as important to their safety as the tarred keels of their boats, especially when they carried the highly prized and lucrative coal up river. Although the job turned a good profit, coal dust seeped into lungs day after day and rotted them unless the men were careful to keep it out as they worked.
Adjusting his knot again and with a last glance over the boat, Patrick snatched up his jacket and slung it across his shoulder, leaving his shirt sleeves rolled up.
He’d had a good day. He’d loaded a full hold of coal from a Newcastle collier before the sun was up and, helped by the strong spring tide, had landed it by mid-morning at Pimlico Pier. He’d trimmed the sails and made it back to the Regent Canal Basin just after two, when he’d picked up another half hold of coal that he then ferried to Blackfriars.
Now, turning his back on the jagged black mountains of coal heaped in the
yards, Patrick Nolan fell in step with the other men tramping home over the cobbles. He passed many people who greeted him with a cheery wave and a smile, their teeth flashing white in their coal-blackened faces. He had known most of them since they were children, and when he’d arrived back in Wapping five years ago he’d been surprised by the ease with which he had slipped back in to old friendships. He’d even secured a lucrative captaincy on one of Watkins & Sons new barges, but then the fact that he’d worked his way up from deck hand to able seaman had helped to establish his credentials.
Although it was not yet six o’clock, some of the local trollops were already milling around between the warehouses. They eyed Patrick boldly and one blew him a kiss, but though he grinned and winked in response, he didn’t pause. He had more sense than to risk his health by accepting an invitation from one of the riverside doxies.
A Glimpse at Happiness Page 2
