A Glimpse at Happiness

by Jean Fullerton

  Putting his hand to the polished doorplate of the saloon bar door of the Town of Ramsgate, Patrick shoved it open.

  Inside, the narrow bar was packed. The Town did a brisk trade with all those who worked on the river. As it was Saturday, those men who had been paid at the end of the week would stop in at any one of the dozens of public houses in the area for a swift pint before the more reliable of them headed home to give their wives the weekly housekeeping. The first customers in that evening had found themselves seats on the benches against the wall, but most stood elbow to elbow while they sank their foaming pints.

  Patrick elbowed his way through the throng. He was a regular customer in the Town of Ramsgate, most of whose patrons were his neighbours, living in two-up, two-down houses like his own in the streets surrounding the London Docks. And, like Patrick, although most of these men had been born in the overcrowded slums of London’s East End their names - Docherty, Murphy, Riley, Sheehan - told of their ‘Old Country’ origins. Many of them greeted him with a slap on the back and a ‘Good man yerself, Pat’, while others pressed him to have a drink.

  By local standards, the Town was a respectable house. When, a few years back, it was still common practice for riverside ale houses to act as recruitment agencies for casual labourers, Arthur Kemp, the landlord, hadn’t expected a man to spend half his earnings on drink at the bar before giving him work. For that reason alone Patrick gave the Town his custom. Although the Town looked as if it had been hammered in between the warehouses, it had been there forever, long before the warehouses were built. Arthur was fond of telling people that Nelson had stopped at the bar before Trafalgar, a tale which some wag always greeted by asking if he’d had to wait as long as the rest of them to get served.

  The smell of newly laid sawdust drifted up and mingled with the bitter aroma of fresh beer and stale sweat, and men vied for space, shouting and laughing under the grey haze of tobacco smoke. Shouldering his way to the bar, Patrick caught sight of his boyhood friend Brian Maguire, who could almost match Patrick’s height but was of slighter build. He was to marry Mattie, Patrick’s eldest sister, in three months’ time.

  Brian grinned at his future brother-in-law. ‘I thought you’d be in,’ he said, flicking back a wedge of unruly red-gold hair. ‘Where have you been today then?’

  Patrick smiled. It was common knowledge that he’d sailed around the globe twice, and the men around the port never tired of asking if he’d seen any elephants or sea monsters. It was good-hearted banter and Patrick took it as such, but it was a constant reminder that he now had to be content with the Thames when once he had sailed the oceans.

  ‘Pimlico and Blackfriars,’ he replied. ‘And no, I didn’t see any whales, just a couple of mermaids.’

  Brian laughed and Patrick caught Arthur’s eye. The landlord wiped his hands on his apron and swaggered over.

  ‘Evening, Pat. Good to see you,’ he said, reaching up and taking a battered pewter tankard down from the ironwork above the bar. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Pint of your brown,’ Patrick replied.

  Arthur hooked the tankard under the brass spout, pulled on the pump handle and the ale spurted out. He placed the drink on the wooden counter.

  Patrick handed him thruppence and then sipped the frothy head off in a noisy slurp before gulping down a couple of refreshing mouthfuls of the ale beneath.

  Arthur Kemp rested his hands on the bar and leant forward. ‘I was down by the river earlier and saw your top sail full up and cutting upstream,’ he said. ‘How’d you get that new boat straight off the blocks?’

  A grin spread across Brian’s face. ‘I’ll tell you, Arthur, it’s because he’s got such a pretty face.’

  Arthur laughed, and then glanced down to the other end of the bar. ‘My new barmaid seems to think so.’

  Patrick followed his gaze to where a young woman at the other end of the bar was studying him. When she caught his eye, a blush spread across her cheeks and she looked away.

  ‘New girl?’ Patrick asked. She was curvy enough and her rear swayed pleasingly as she moved.

  ‘Started yesterday. She’s a bit slow with the orders but the customers like her.’ Arthur winked at him. ‘Your brother Gus seemed to think so when he was in here earlier.’

  Patrick studied the girl again and a smile creased his face. ‘I’m sure he did.’

  Brian called for another drink. Patrick put his hand over his tankard. ‘I’m heading off after this one. Annie and Mickey will be waiting for me.’

  ‘You know, Pat, those nippers are a credit to you,’ said Brian. ‘That young Annie is as bright as a button and pretty as a flower in the sun, and Mickey’s got the same quick cheek about him as his old man, so he has.’ He used the back of his hand to wipe the beer froth from the fair bristles of his top lip. ‘After Rosa left not many men would have done what you did. After all, you with only six months from sitting the captain’s exams and getting your own ship, yet you gave it up over night to look after your kids and see them right.’

  ‘They are my children,’ Patrick replied, remembering coming home three years ago to find Mickey in a filthy bum-cloth, two-year-old Annie trying to feed him a crust of bread, and his wife nowhere in sight.

  ‘Even so, you could have left them with yer mam and gone back to sea. That’s what most men would have done,’ Brian replied.

  ‘I’m not most men.’

  ‘No . . . no you’re not,’ Brian agreed, picking up his tankard only for someone to shove him from behind. His mouth slipped from the tankard’s rim and beer splashed down his front.

  ‘What the fec—’ Brian stopped as he saw who had jostled him.

  Patrick eyed the newcomer coolly. Harry Tugman was about five years older than Patrick but his baldness made him look even older. The top of his head just reached Patrick’s chin, which meant he had to crane his short neck to look into Patrick’s face. He wore tight corduroy trousers that sagged at the knees, a grubby grey shirt and a shapeless, oversized checked jacket, but there was no way on God’s earth that any of its remaining buttons could ever now be fastened into their corresponding buttonholes.

  Harry Tugman was tough, but not as tough as Patrick Nolan, who had learned to handle himself in some of the roughest ports on the globe.

  Harry smiled, revealing a set of uneven brown teeth. ‘Ma wants to know when you’ll be calling.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Aye. She’s asked you twice before and is a bit surprised you haven’t been by, considering she wants to put a bit of business your way.’ Harry leant on the bar between Patrick and Brian. ‘For a few easy hours’ work you could earn yourself double what you’ll earn in a day hauling coal.’

  The buzz of voices stopped, and out of the corner of his eye Patrick noticed Arthur grabbing two bottles from the counter, hiding them underneath and locking the money drawer. Brian left his beer and stood at Patrick’s right shoulder.

  Patrick drained the last of his drink and turned to face Harry. ‘I’m sure that Dan Riley thought the same until the police caught him. Now he’s in the clink and his wife and kids are on the parish.’ He drew himself up and stared down at Harry. ‘I know your ma’s business and I want no part in it,’ he said in a clear voice.

  Harry poked a black-nailed finger into Patrick’s chest. ‘Now, you listen here, you thick Paddy. Ma don’t have the likes of you saying no. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll not get ’er riled.’ Spit sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.

  ‘You might still wet yourself when your ma looks at you, Harry, but I don’t.’

  There was a low rumble of laughter from the back of the room and Harry’s face flushed crimson. ‘Why you—’

  A hard smile spread across Patrick’s angular face. ‘Now you listen to me, Tugman. Tell that old mother of yours that if she wants to move her pilfered stuff upstream she can look somewhere other than at my barge.’ He paused and cast his gaze around the pub. ‘Now, I’m just having a quiet drink so I suggest y
ou hurry home like a good boy, and give your ma my message.’

  Harry’s knuckles cracked. A number of the men around the bar stood up.

  For one moment, Patrick thought the man’s temper would get the better of him and a part of him hoped it would - but then Harry’s toothy smile returned.

  ‘That’s right, lads, you have a quiet drink before you head home to your old ladies,’ he said with a forced laugh.

  The men sat down again but their eyes remained fixed on Patrick, and on Harry, who thrust his face up close to Patrick’s. ‘You and your bog trotters had better think again, Nolan, or be careful where you walk at night.’

  Patrick held his gaze until Harry turned and shoved his way back towards the door.

  When he’d gone, Brian whistled through his front teeth. ‘Jesus, I thought there’d be blood.’

  Patrick downed the last mouthful of his ale. ‘I didn’t. The Tugmans don’t fight you face to face; they slit your throat in the dark. I judged we were safe enough.’

  Brian signalled for the barmaid and she hurried over, all blue eyes and eagerness. Patrick guessed she wouldn’t be behind the bar for long; some eager fellow was bound to persuade her to marry him. She smiled and a dimple showed itself on her right cheek.

  ‘Same again?’ she asked, running her gaze slowly over Patrick.

  He held up his hand. ‘Not for me. I have to get home.’

  ‘You married then?’ she asked, looking disappointed.

  Patrick gave her the smile that had served him well in every port he’d ever been in. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said, sliding his empty tankard towards her and turning to leave.

  ‘Tell Mattie I’ll be around later,’ Brian said, searching in his pocket for the price of his next drink.

  The barmaid pulled hard on the pump. As she leant over the bar her cap caught in the ironwork above her head. Her hair tumbled out and Patrick stopped in his tracks as he watched the rich auburn curls sliding over her shoulders.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t in the crowded bar of the Town but at the May fair at Bow Bridge by the river Lea, with a laughing girl on his arm. He could almost smell the lavender she had used for rinsing her dark, auburn hair. It transported him back almost thirteen years, to a past before their lives had changed completely.

  Although he’d tried not to think about Josie O’Casey, over the years and in different places the memory of her dark green eyes and inviting smile had stolen back to him in dreams. He pushed the thoughts away. There was no point. He could never go back, and remembering the future he’d planned with her on that bright May morning would only add to his other regrets.

  Tapping her foot lightly on the carpet in time to the music, Josie watched her two younger sisters at the piano. Lottie was turning the pages for Bobby, who had been practising for weeks in anticipation of her grandmama’s visit. Now her playing was perfect.

  Josie’s gaze moved on to the person her sisters were so eager to please: Mrs Munroe, in widow’s black, sitting straight-backed on the sofa beside her son. Josie hadn’t realised how much her stepfather resembled his mother. They had the same broad forehead and strong jaw. He’d also inherited his commanding height from her and his strongly defined nose, although on her it had a beak-like quality, especially when she tilted her head back.

  Bobby came to the end of the piece and everyone applauded. She jumped down from the bench and went over to stand in front of her grandmother. ‘I hope you enjoyed that piece, Grandmama.’

  The severe lines of Mrs Munroe’s face softened as she took Bobby’s hand in her bony one. ‘It was beautiful, Robina,’ she said. ‘I think the pianoforte is an excellent instrument for girls.’

  Robert’s face registered surprise. ‘I don’t recall your having a musical ear, Mother.’

  Mrs Munroe shook her head. ‘I do not commend it for its musical merit but because it forces a girl to sit up straight, and reading music helps her to develop an eye for detail, which is so necessary for checking tradesmen’s bills.’

  Next, Lottie bounced off the piano stool, hopped across the floor and collided with Bobby. ‘I turned the pages, Grandmama.’

  Mrs Munroe regarded Lottie for a long moment and the little girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘So I noticed, Charlotte. Now, I’m sure your governess will be coming to take you upstairs.’

  ‘No, the children stay down until bedtime and then Mam takes them up,’ Josie put in. ‘I help her, of course, and it’s great fun isn’t it, Mam?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Ellen agreed.

  ‘How quaint,’ Mrs Munroe said coolly, ‘but one must always beware of spoiling children. I was most diligent in that regard myself, was I not, Robert?’

  Josie had always thought that her stepfather’s Scottish childhood sounded bleak. Since meeting Mrs Munroe, she understood why.

  ‘No one could ever accuse you of spoiling your children, Mama, but Sir Robert told me that the Royal family themselves favour a more informal family life,’ said Robert.

  Mrs Munroe’s substantial eyebrows rose up. ‘Sir Robert? You mean Sir Robert Peel?’

  ‘I met him last week in the House of Commons to discuss the defeat of Graham’s Factory Act. The care of children in general came up.’

  Mrs Munroe looked suitably impressed. Josie knew that as part of his work on the Government Health Improvement Board her stepfather met members of the Cabinet regularly but it was a rare day when he mentioned it.

  ‘Now children, play nicely until supper time,’ Ellen told them. ‘And no, Lottie, you and George can not go out and play in the garden. It’s too late and - will you look at the sky? - before the clock strikes the hour the rain will be falling.’

  Mrs Munroe’s expression chilled as Ellen’s Irish lilt, always more pronounced when she was agitated or worried, crept into her speech.

  The children did as they were bid. Lottie delved into a large pine chest in the corner of the room and handed Joe his wooden soldiers. George pulled out a stagecoach with a brightly painted horse pivoting between the shafts and trotted it across the rug in front of the fire.

  ‘Do they have toys in the parlour in America, too?’ Mrs Munroe asked, as George started making clip-clop sounds.

  ‘Certainly,’ Robert replied. ‘They spend all day with Miss Byrd, their governess, so when I am home Ellen and I like to enjoy our children together.’

  ‘Well, they are utterly delightful, and so clever. You have done well, Ellen. Five children in twelve years and three of them boys.’

  ‘We were blessed with seven but . . .’ Ellen said quietly.

  ‘You must expect to lose an infant or two,’ Mrs Munroe replied briskly. ‘One must not question God’s will.’

  ‘That does not lessen the grief,’ Robert replied. His mother made as if to speak but he continued. ‘But now we are to be blessed again.’

  Jack, who had been sitting contentedly, playing with his rattle on the rug between his parents’ feet, started to fret.

  Josie jumped up immediately. ‘Let me, Mam,’ she said, scooping the infant off the floor and placing him on her lap.

  Mrs Munroe turned to Josie. ‘And what do you intend to do now you have returned to London, Josie?

  ‘I am going to visit the British Museum and, of course, I can’t wait to visit the Tower of London and see the Queen’s jewels. Mrs Martin, who lives two doors down, told us how she visited the Tower of London when she was a young girl. The animals have gone to the Zoological Gardens now but Pa said he will try to get us a visitors’ pass.’

  Mrs Munroe’s expressive eyebrows travelled upwards. ‘I am disappointed that you do not have plans to spend some of your time in charitable works.’ She placed her hand theatrically on her bosom. ‘Our Lord himself went amongst the poor and sick. Can we, Josie, do less?’

  Josie smiled sweetly. ‘I have renewed my acquaintance with Miss Cooper, whose father runs a mission in Wellclose Square. She has a number of young ladies who visit the poor and I plan to join t
hem.’ She omitted to add that she and Sophie also planned a trip to Regent Street.

  The lines around Mrs Munroe’s lips slackened a fraction and she inclined her head at Ellen. ‘I have always said that the most effective way of protecting a young woman’s reputation is for her to have acquaintances with a serious turn of mind. I have insisted on such with my own daughters and I am glad to hear you do the same, my dear Ellen.’

  Lottie left her toys and came over to where the adults were sitting. ‘Grandmama,’ she said standing in front of Mrs Munroe with her hands behind her back. ‘If you are staying with us for eight weeks that is fifty-six days.’

  Mrs Munroe smiled. ‘That’s very clever, Charlotte, but a young lady shouldn’t do multiplication too often as it can upset the female humours.’