A Glimpse at Happiness

by Jean Fullerton

  Fifty-six days! thought Josie, I’m sure I’ll be crossing them off in my journal.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Honestly, Sam,’ Josie said to the young man beside her. ‘You will only be gone for a few moments and I will be perfectly safe here until you return.’

  Sam, the young lad who helped around the house, didn’t seem convinced. ‘I don’t know, Miss Josie. This is a very rough area,’ he said, looking anxiously along the cobbled street. ‘And your father insisted that I stay close by you at all times.’

  Josie gave him the warm smile that always made him blush. Sam was only a few years older than Bobby and Josie wouldn’t normally have taken advantage of his crush on her. However, after walking the two miles to Miss Cooper’s house, her new shoes had raised painful blisters at almost every point they touched.

  ‘The London dock offices are just there,’ she said pointing down Wapping High Street to where the tall warehouses surrounding the docks blocked out the late afternoon sunlight. ‘There is always a hansom cab or two waiting there for business. It’s no more than a two-minute walk.’

  Sam eyed a couple of dark-skinned Lascars, slouching against the wall in their loose-fitting tunics, with clay pipes hanging from the sides of their mouths.

  ‘Dr Munroe wouldn’t like it if—’

  ‘Sam! I think you forget that I was raised in these streets and I will be perfectly safe for the five minutes or so it takes you to fetch a hansom,’ Josie said firmly.

  He gave her a dubious look but then turned and sped off, dodging the wagons passing in both directions.

  As Josie looked down the bustling thoroughfare that followed the bend of the Thames from St Katherine’s Dock through to New Crane Stairs, childhood memories flooded back into her mind. As a child she had thought the main road busy when she’d passed along it on her way to school but she couldn’t remember seeing the volume of traffic that now rolled by. Matching cart-horses, wearing blinkers and nosebags, hauled laden drays from the wharves towards the city and a driver, his cart piled high with hay just unloaded from a barge from Essex or beyond, called out a warning and Josie stepped back against the wall. She bumped into an old woman with a shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other - the ‘pure’ collector, harvesting the dog shit to sell in the Southwark tanneries - who gave her a grumbling look, but shuffled off to search for newly laid whorls to harvest.

  Josie, using her rolled umbrella for support, picked up one foot and then the other in an attempt to alleviate the pain in her heels and toes, then glanced towards where she had seen Sam going on his way. Where is he? she thought, moving along to the end of the wall.

  The corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile as she spotted a group of children throwing stones into squares scored in the dirt, then bobbing and hopping up and back in turn. How many times had she done the same? She couldn’t remember being as ragged as the barefooted children on the other side of the road, but she must have been just as grimy; even now, the hem of her skirt was covered in dirt after walking only two miles. And the smell! She had completely forgotten the cloying stench at low tide that made you breathe through your mouth, and she hadn’t remembered the two-ups, two-downs in the narrow side streets being quite so dilapidated. And although, as Josie knew, there were now street cleaners with carts and stiff brushes, the roads were still filled with all manner of filth.

  The rattle of iron wheels over cobbles jarred her from her reminiscence. She stepped back to let the carriage pass, but it stopped in front of her, and a gloved hand lowered the carriage window. A man in a black silk hat looked out, ran his index finger along his moustache and smiled at Josie.

  ‘Looking for a little company, my dear?’ He looked her up and down appraisingly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Josie said, glaring at him, not quite believing what she’d heard.

  The man gave a low chuckle. ‘You look like a sparky little minx,’ he said, ‘and I can be very generous. Ask any of the other girls.’ His eyes drifted past her to where two gaudily dressed women, with rouged lips and cheeks, loitered against the buildings.

  Alarm shot through Josie. Where on earth was Sam? It was only five minutes to the dock offices and he must have been gone a full ten by now. Ignoring the man, she turned sharply away and, unseeingly, studied the bobbing top sails of the river barges until the carriage moved on. Josie let out her breath, but then heard another carriage approaching. Gathering her wits, she started off towards the police office a few hundred yards away. At least she would be safe there until Sam found his way back.

  ‘Oi! Miss Hoity-Toity,’ called one of the whores. ‘Sling your hook.’

  Josie glanced across at the two young women in their low cut gowns and painted faces.

  The other girl stuck two fingers up at Josie. ‘You, go find your own pitch.’

  Driven by humiliation, and anxiety about Sam, Josie ignored the harsh pain of her blisters and headed towards the police station, hearing the girls sniggering behind her.

  As she passed the Prospect of Whitby and New Crane Dock someone shouted from above. ‘Watch yer!’ Josie looked up and saw a massive wrought-iron crane fixed to the side of the warehouse, its hook dangling from the rope looping around in mid air, and at that moment two empty wagons rolled out from Red Lion Street and blocked her path completely.

  Josie tried to squeeze between the wooden side of the cart and the wall but the man steadying the sacks raised his hand. ‘Sorry, ducks, you can’t go that way.’

  ‘But I need to get to the police station,’ Josie protested, increasingly conscious that in her ruby silk gown and tailored jacket she made a strange spectacle beside the other women in their knitted shawls.

  She must have taken leave of her senses to send Sam off like that. If she’d been thinking half straight she would have recognised the utter foolishness of wandering alone on the waterfront. She had to get to the station and fast, before anything else happened.

  ‘If you goes down there,’ he pointed along Wapping Wall, ‘there’s a cut through to Coleman Street and that’ll take you to the High Street.’

  Damping down her annoyance and holding her skirt high to avoid the muck, Josie stepped off the pavement, over the slime congealing in the gutter, and in to the dark alleyway.

  Ma Tugman pushed open the front door of the Boatman and stepped out into Coleman Street. Squinting into the bright, late afternoon sunlight, she glanced down the narrow bare earth walkway. Down the centre of the alley a sludgy stream of waste trickled slowly towards the river. It had rained heavily earlier in the day but, even so, the faintly acidic smell of human waste wafted through.

  Coleman Street ran between Wapping Wall and New Gravel Lane and was a convenient cut through from the docks to the river. Now, late in the afternoon, those river men who’d sailed up the Thames on the morning tide trudged up the alley on their way home. Ma liked to sit outside at this time to keep an eye on the comings and goings. With Snapper at her heels, she shuffled along a couple of yards and then stopped. Harry, who had followed her with one of the Boatman’s wooden chairs, set it down against the wall.

  ‘There you go, Ma.’

  Ma pulled a sour face. ‘You’ve put it in the sun.’

  ‘I thought you’d like the warmth,’ he said, moving the chair into the shade. ‘Loosen up your bones.’

  She gave him a sour look. ‘You know I have tender skin.’ She rubbed her hand over her bare forearm, creasing the flesh. ‘Charlie wouldn’t have put me in the sun.’

  Harry shot her a sullen look.

  Ma called to Snapper, who had wandered off down the alley. The dog cocked his leg, then trotted back and settled himself beside her chair. Removing her pipe from behind her ear she tapped out the cinders then thrust it at her son. ‘Well, get me a rub of baccy, then.’

  Harry pulled out a leather pouch and offered it to her.

  ‘Haven’t I told you twice already today that me knuckles are bad,’ she said, flexing her hands and grimacing. ‘I’m sure y
ou’ll be glad when I’m dead and you won’t have to bother yourself any more.’

  ‘You know I don’t like to hear you talk like that,’ he replied.

  She thrust the pale clay pipe at him. ‘You load it for me . . . there’s a good boy.’

  His pleased expression returned and he pulled out a couple of strings of tobacco.

  Ma studied him as he poked it in the smoke blackened cup and thought just how closely he resembled his dad.

  She’d fallen under Harry Tugman’s spell almost as soon as he turned his lively grey eyes on her. As she’d known men and their bastard ways since her tenth birthday, it was surprising that she’d been so easily taken in by Harry’s sweet words.

  He’d told her she was his only love, but it wasn’t more than a month or two after they moved in together that he had her working the streets alongside his other doxies. When she found she’d been caught with Harry, she considered slipping the baby into the Thames. It wouldn’t have been the first unwanted infant washed up on the shore at low tide, and it wouldn’t have been the last, but when she’d found out about Harry’s other women she decided to stay and make his life as near to a living hell as she could manage. And she’d had seven good years of goading, nagging and robbing him blind before the drinking finally caught him and he curled up his toes.

  ‘Here you go, Ma,’ Harry said, handing her the pipe, his face begging for her approval.

  Ma clamped the stem of the pipe between her thin lips. ‘Give us a light then,’ she growled out of the corner of her mouth, ‘and tell that slut of Charlie’s, Judy—’

  ‘Lucy,’ Harry corrected.

  ‘Whatever her fecking name is, to fetch us a drink,’ she called after him as he disappeared into the gloom of the pub.

  People passing down the alley touched their hats to Ma Tugman as they went by, but despite their friendly greetings she could see the wary look in their eyes - just the way she wanted to keep it. There had been too many of the local bargemen not giving her the respect she was due, especially the Irish scum working with that bastard, Patrick Nolan. The Micks used to know their place before he showed up.

  Ma stood up, dragged the chair out of the shade. She settled back down and, closing her eyes, tilted her face to the warmth of the sun.

  Harry reappeared with another chair slung over his arm, followed by Charlie’s current bit of fancy carrying a bottle and two glasses.

  Charlie’s a one for the ladies all right, a bit like his father in that way.

  She didn’t mind that he brought them back to the Boatman as long as they showed proper respect. This one with her downcast eyes seemed to know her place.

  The last one Charlie used to warm his bed had thought she was something special, swanning around the bar like the queen of England and giving Ma a mouthful of cheek. But Charlie had put her in her place, smacked her black and blue he had, then sent her to China Rose’s knocking shop.

  A little smile crossed Ma’s face. I’m sure she’s special there.

  ‘You’ve moved back into the sun,’ Harry said, looking confused.

  Ma drew on her pipe. ‘You didn’t think to bring my shawl, so I had to,’ she replied.

  Lucy nodded and poured out the brandy. The bottle rattled against the glass as she did.

  ‘Don’t spill it, girl,’ Ma said, taking the glass from her.

  Charlie had been fighting drunk when he stumbled home two nights ago and the bruise he’d given Lucy still showed mauve around her eye.

  Lucy poured Harry a drink and passed it to him. He grabbed her wrist and drew her to him and his other hand grabbed her rear.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely arse, girl, let me have a piece of it,’ he said grinning at her and showing his uneven teeth. ‘I’ll give you better than Charlie ever gives you.’ Holding her firmly with one hand he thrust the other hand under her skirt. ‘Very nice,’ he said. Lucy’s feet scrabbled for the floor as she tried to avoid his groping hands. ‘Look at ’er, Ma, can’t keep herself off me.’

  Ma watched with mild interest for a second more then whistled. Snapper jumped up. ‘See ’er off,’ she told him.

  Lucy bolted for the pub door. Snapper dashed after her but then he shot through Harry’s legs and down the alley, barking as he went.

  Ma stared after him as he ran, his pads barely touching the dirt, towards a well-dressed young woman at the south end of the walkway. The young woman looked to be in her early twenties and was wearing an outfit that would fetch at least ten shillings. Whoever she was she must have been addled in her brain because as far as Ma could tell, she was alone.

  Snapper reached the young woman and with a quick double step he sprang at her, teeth snapping. The young woman didn’t scream, as Ma expected her to but thrust her umbrella at the dog. Snapper’s jaws closed around it and he ripped it from her hand.

  Harry pointed at the dog. ‘L . . . look, Ma, old Snapper’s . . .’ he laughed. Others in the alley joined in.

  Having found something that he could chew his way through, Snapper took his prize over to the far wall. Growling, he shook the umbrella, bit its cane frame into slivers then ripped through the silk cover.

  The young woman watched her umbrella being destroyed and then she turned. Setting her mouth into a straight line, she strode over.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ she asked in an odd-sounding Irish accent and pointing her finger at Snapper.

  ‘Aye,’ Ma replied, drawing slowly on her pipe.

  ‘Well, then,’ the young woman said, glancing briefly to where the dog was shredding the last few solid pieces of the coloured fabric. ‘If you don’t want the police after you, you had better keep it under control.’

  As the words left her lips Josie realised that she just should have walked by and ignored them. Now it was too late.

  The man and the wrinkled old woman stopped laughing instantly and the old woman blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. She was bareheaded and without a shawl and a grimy charcoal gown covered her overfed figure. Although her hair was pulled back, a number of greasy strands fell around her face and, as her grey eyes glided slowly over her, Josie suppressed the urge to shudder.

  ‘You threatening us with the nabbers, are you?’ the man asked, revealing a set of brown teeth.

  A tingle of disquiet crept up Josie’s spine. The crowd gathering around them was enjoying her discomfort and, although they seemed good-natured, if this brute turned nasty she knew that every one of them would turn their back and leave her to her fate. She tugged down the front of her coat.

  ‘I’m just saying that it might not be an umbrella next time but a child’s leg, that’s all.’ She set her lips firmly together. ‘But as there is no harm done we’ll say no more about it this time. Good day.’

  She went to walk past but the man grabbed her arm. ‘What’s your hurry, sweetie? Come and ’ave a drink.’

  His fingers closed around her arm and dug through the fabric of her jacket. Josie glanced down at the plump hand with dirty, broken nails and then she fixed its owner with a furious stare.

  ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘A sweet girly like her is too good for you, Harry,’ the old woman said. ‘She’s probably got some man waiting for her, some toff, who ain’t got missing teeth or a beer belly.’

  Harry sucked in his stomach as he gave his mother a hateful look, and then turned his attention back to Josie.

  ‘You can have a brandy with me before you run off to your fancy man,’ he said, dragging her towards him.

  ‘She don’t seem very keen, son,’ the old woman said, as Josie’s feet skidded on the earth.

  Her bonnet fell to one side but Josie ignored it and glared at the man holding her. ‘Get your filthy hands off me, you great lummox, or by the Virgin I’ll see you swing for it, so I will,’ she yelled.

  The old woman chuckled. ‘Oh, Gawd luv us, she’s a Paddy.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then, they all like a drink or two,’ Harry said.

  With a monumental effort, Jos
ie ripped her arm free. Harry reached out to catch her again then his gaze flickered past her.

  ‘Can I be of some assistance, Miss?’ a deep voice with an Irish lilt asked from behind.

  Josie spun around and stared up at the face that she’d thought never to see again this side of heaven.

  ‘Patrick?’

  There was the mass of black hair that she remembered so well, curled around his ears and forehead, softening the toughness of his face. There was the same strong nose, well-shaped mouth and square jaw, now covered with the dark hue of end-of-day stubble. There was also a spray of dark chest hair poking up through his open shirt that hadn’t spread past his breastbone the last time she had seen him.

  ‘Josie?’