‘Thank you,’ he said, noticing that the cream stripes of her gown not only drew attention to the auburn tones of her hair but also to the slender circumference of her waist.
‘What was your wife’s name?’ Josie asked. The tightness around her eyes had returned but her smile was warmer.
‘Rosa,’ he said, her name falling like a stone between them. ‘She was Spanish.’
They stared at each other and then there was a knock on the door. Josie turned and her skirts swished over his leg as she picked up her bonnet and gloves. ‘That will be Sam. I told him to collect me in an hour.’
She flipped her bonnet over her head and started to tie the sateen ribbon. The gloves slipped from her hand.
Patrick scooped them up in one movement and offered them to her. As she took them, his work-roughened fingers briefly glided over her soft ones. A shock of electricity seemed to dart through him.
Since Rosa had left, he’d hardly lived the life of a monk so he was surprised to find himself reacting like a callow youth.
Josie shoved her fingers in her gloves. ‘It’s been grand seeing you all again and I’ll give me mam your regards as I promised.’
‘I’m glad you came, Josie,’ Sarah said, her eyes fixing on to Patrick. ‘And I hope now you’ve found your way here you’ll come back when you have a mind.’
Josie hugged Sarah and Mattie then adjusted her bonnet. Patrick held out his hand. After the briefest hesitation, Josie took it.
‘I hope you will come again,’ he said, taking her hand firmly.
She snatched her hand away. ‘I’ll be here to help sew Mattie’s wedding gown so you’ll see me again, I’m sure.’
Mattie stepped forward. ‘Josie’s coming with me and Brian to the fair in the Thames Tunnel. Why don’t you come, Pat? Make up the numbers.’
His sensible mind told him that a social trip in the Tunnel would provide him with the ideal opportunity to tell her the truth about Rosa, but it was his body concentrating on the inviting fullness of Josie’s lips that made him answer.
‘I’d love to.’
Chapter Six
Josie finished the chapter she had been reading aloud and closed the book. Ellen’s eyes remained closed and her breathing steady. Carefully, so as not to wake her mother, Josie leant back in the nursing chair. It squeaked as she sank into its candy-striped upholstery but Ellen still didn’t stir.
They had left most of their furniture in America, but her mother had insisted on bringing a few special bits like the cherry-wood nursing chair, and Robert hadn’t argued. It now sat where it always had, beside her mother and stepfather’s bed.
Mrs Munroe had practically fainted when she found out that her son and daughter-in-law shared a bedroom. She told them in chilly tones that she and her dear departed husband had only shared a bedroom when they visited people. Josie had suppressed the urge to ask if that was the reason why, by Mrs Munroe’s own admission, Robert’s father had always preferred to stay at home.
Her mother’s eyes blinked open. ‘I must have dropped right off to sleep,’ she said pushing herself up on the bed.
Josie helped her mother to sit up. ‘You must be fair worn out; listening to today’s suggestions from Mrs Munroe of things “you probably wouldn’t know about, Ellen dear.”’
‘Josie—’
‘And I swear by the saints above, if I hear that story about how her brother died at Waterloo one more time, I’ll run screaming from the house.’
‘And I’ll be just behind you,’ Ellen said, looking up at the ceiling. She leant over and squeezed Josie’s forearm. ‘But, praise the saints, she’ll be gone in six weeks.’
‘And I for one will be waving her off from the steps,’ Josie replied.
A wistful smile spread across Ellen’s face. ‘You look just like Gran sitting there,’ she said, a faint tinge of sadness in her tone. ‘Now - tell me how the Nolans are.’
Josie told her.
‘I’m glad Sarah is well,’ Ellen said, biting her lip. ‘When Mrs Munroe leaves I’ll invite her here one afternoon.’
A crooked smile curled Josie’s lips. ‘I quite understand. Although Mrs Munroe’s heart “bleeds” for the suffering of the poor, we’d have to find the smelling salts quick if we were to suggest that she might like to sit down to tea with any of them.’
Ellen didn’t argue the point.
‘I remember that Sarah was hell bent on you and Patrick marrying.’
Josie’s cheeks felt warm. ‘Do you remember I said Patrick still had grand curly hair?’ Ellen nodded. ‘Well, so does his son.’
Ellen’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’
‘He’s married.’ A lump settled in her throat. ‘That’s to say, he was married but his wife died and left him with two children - Annie, who’s just short of six, and Mickey, who’s four. They both look very like him although with darker skin. His wife was Spanish,’ she said, wondering, not for the first time, what Rosa must have looked like.
Ellen folded her arms tightly over the top of her stomach. ‘Well, of all the . . .’ She pressed her lips firmly together for a moment then continued. ‘At least we know why your Patrick didn’t come back.’
The words cut through Josie like a sharp stab of pain. Even after she accepted that he had probably died at sea and was never coming back, Josie always thought of him as her Patrick. It was disconcerting and unsettling to think that he had been someone else’s Patrick. It was stupid of course, but when she thought about Patrick’s lively eyes running over some other woman envy gnawed at her.
‘Are you very upset?’ her mother asked.
‘A little upset, but more put out by the shock of Annie calling him Pa. But, really,’ she forced a light laugh, ‘we were little more than children when we started walking out together. I mean -’ she laughed again - ‘I was only a bit older than Bobby is now and Patrick was just a lad of seventeen, barely a man.’
He might not have been a man then but he certainly was now. An image of Patrick standing with his children floated back into Josie’s mind. She remembered how tenderly he had lifted Annie and kissed her, and the affectionate way his hand had rested on Mickey’s head. A pall of sadness settled over her but she pushed it aside, and said, ‘In truth, our worlds moved apart and I’m very happy Patrick met someone else. After all, I wasn’t short of offers, either.’
‘You could have married several times over if you’d just put your mind to it.’
‘Yes, I could have. And I will marry - as soon as I meet the right man,’ Josie replied, trying not to think about how strikingly handsome Patrick looked, even in his rough working clothes.
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t married again,’ Ellen said, cutting through Josie’s thoughts. ‘Most men would have, if only for the children’s sakes.’
‘Maybe he still loves his wife,’ Josie replied, as envy dug into her.
‘Maybe so,’ Ellen sat up and Josie patted her pillows back in place. ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Arnold is taking tea with us on Sunday.’
‘Is he?’ Josie replied in a cool voice as she sat back down. ‘That’s a pity because I’m visiting the Thames Tunnel with Mattie and her intended.’
Ellen raised an eyebrow. ‘And now, would I be right in thinking that Patrick is going as well?’
Josie forced herself to seem uninterested. ‘He is, just to make up the numbers.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Munroe will have a word or two to say on the matter.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Josie replied, ‘but I’m not going to be dictated to by Mrs Munroe. And it’s perfectly respectable for me to take a stroll in a public place, in the middle of the day with Mattie and her fiancé, and an old friend who happens to be a widower.’
‘Maybe so,’ Ellen replied slowly, ‘but I hope you’re not trying to fan an old flame, Josephine Bridget.’
Josie gave a hollow laugh. ‘For the love of the saints, Mother, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well then, tell Mattie you’ll go another day and sta
y for Mr Arnold’s visit.’
‘It is not polite to put off a friend for an acquaintance,’ Josie replied, not quite managing to hold her mother’s gaze. ‘I’ll take tea with Mr Arnold another time. He visits often enough.’
The door opened and Robert came in. Ellen’s face lit up. ‘Darling, I wasn’t expecting you until late afternoon,’ she said, reaching out her hand.
He took it and sat on the bed.
‘Braithwaite cancelled so I came home early,’ he said. ‘How is my patient this afternoon?’ he asked, looking across the bed at Josie.
‘Mam has done as the doctor ordered and has been resting for two hours,’ Josie replied, noting how her stepfather’s eyes rarely strayed from her mother’s face.
From the moment she’d turned around in the alley to find Patrick standing behind her, the subject of love and what people actually meant by it kept running through Josie’s mind. She knew it was absurd to compare her mother and stepfather’s enduring affection to her and Patrick’s youthful love, but she couldn’t help remembering that in order to marry Ellen, a woman whom his family, colleagues and society considered too far beneath him, Robert had turned his back on them all to cross an ocean and find her. He hadn’t sworn eternal love and then fallen in love with someone else.
A smile twisted Patrick’s lips as he watched Brian turn one way and then the other as he studied his reflection in the mottled glass propped against the wall. He had already tried at least half a dozen such suits on but hadn’t been happy with any of them. It wasn’t surprising. Although the top floor of Moses Brothers’ warehouse was packed from floor to ceiling with jackets, trousers, overcoats and work wear, Brian was after a suit for his wedding and he was looking for something a little more stylish.
Patrick glanced up at the mahogany clock at the end of the room. It was five to ten in the evening. They had arrived just after the store opened at seven and had been there nearly three hours. The two brothers who owned the vast emporium, and whose father had started the business from a hand-cart in Rosemary Street clothes market, were Jewish. In observance of their religion they were obliged to close their business from Friday sunset to Saturday sunset so, to make up for the loss of revenue, the warehouse stayed open until midnight on Saturday. Judging by the way Brian was trying on and discarding jackets, they would still be there when it closed.
Although Moses Brothers was only one of the many clothing warehouses dotted along Whitechapel High Street, it was the most visited, and not just by working men like Patrick and Brian. The well-to-do from all over London caught omnibuses to shop there, while others from as far away as Stratford and Leyton caught trains to Shoreditch Station in search of a bargain in the three-storey building.
The entire upper floor was crammed with all manner of male attire. Rough canvas trousers ticketed at three shillings, cord jackets costing four shillings and buff overalls reasonably priced at two and sixpence, hung from the two-tier rails, alongside expensive worsted day suits and tailored overcoats. There was even a reasonable selection of dinner suits marked up at four pounds, ten shillings in the far corner, with silk scarves and white gloves artfully arranged next to them but in a locked cabinet to prevent pilfering. In contrast, and discreetly tucked behind the far pillars, was a selection of quality second-hand items, while against the far wall narrow shelves displayed row upon row of shoes and boots.
Brian and Patrick weren’t alone in searching for the right apparel. Under the yellow glare from the dozens of lamps hanging from the ceiling, city types rummaged through the rails of dark suits while, at their elbows, tradesmen searched for serviceable jackets and trousers. As they slid the metal hangers back and forth, dust particles and loose fibres rose up and danced in the artificial light above.
‘What do you think?’ Brian asked, pulling down the front of a jacket only to have the lapels curl up.
‘It’s too tight,’ Patrick replied. ‘I still think the dark green one you tried on two hours ago suited you best. It fits like it was made for you.’
Brian’s face lit up. ‘Does it? Really?’
‘Aye. It hides your beer gut for a start and when you miss your mouth with your fork the gravy stains won’t show,’ Patrick replied with mock innocence.
Brian laughed and stuck two fingers up at him then shrugged the jacket off. He reached into the tightly packed rail and pulled out another.
‘What about this then?’ he asked flourishing it at Patrick. ‘Is this what a toff like you would wear when the queen invites you to tea at the palace then?’
Patrick grinned as he eyed the garish mustard, green and black checked jacket with a broad, velveteen collar. ‘I don’t know about that, but it’s the sort of dog’s dinner Harry Tugman would wear in the Monkey parade.’
They laughed, and the slender floor-walker who supervised the shop assistants and who had had his eyes on them since they arrived, stared at the pair. Patrick stared back and the man lowered his gaze.
Brian shoved the checked jacket back and retrieved the green suit that Patrick had referred to. ‘I think I’ll have this one. I’m sure Mattie will like it.’
‘I’m convinced she will,’ Patrick replied, thinking of the ear bashing his sister had given him about making sure Brian got something dignified rather than flash for their nuptials.
Brian threw his suit over his arm. ‘We had better kit you out now. What do you fancy?’
‘I thought I might treat myself to something a little classy,’ Patrick said, moving towards the top end of the rail.
He could have made do with one of the ten bob suits but it was his sister’s wedding after all, and he’d had a good few weeks on the river, so he thought he might splash out a bit. Besides, it would make a change for him to stand next to Josie dressed in something that for once didn’t look as if it had been fashioned out of old potato sacks.
The floor-walker left his position by the till and edged over to them. ‘The suits in this section start at two guineas,’ he said.
‘I can read,’ Patrick replied, nodding at the bold lettering in the sign above the rack.
‘That’s all right, my good man,’ Brian said, giving the sallow-faced attendant an idiot-like grin. ‘He’s the Duke of Dublin, don’t you know.’
The supervisor turned his back on Brian and gave Patrick a smile almost as oily as his hair. ‘Perhaps sir would consider this?’
He pulled out a brown suit with a broad black stripe. Patrick gave him a frosty stare and the shop assistant slid it back on the rack and reached for a blue checked one. ‘Well then, how about—’
‘This is more what I had in mind,’ Patrick said, lifting a charcoal jacket off the rail.
‘A very good choice, if I might say so,’ the assistant warbled. ‘Note the fashionable three buttons and the styling on the back. It’s the only one we have in that style and skilfully made by one of our local suppliers.’
‘It’s cabbage then,’ Patrick said. The assistant gave a noncommittal smile.
Because the old weavers’ houses in the area had large upstairs windows, Aldgate had more than its fair share of tailors eking out a living in them. The large establishments up West sent fabric for a set number of jackets or suits ordered in bulk to the tailors, who often managed to squeeze an extra garment out of the cloth, giving them something to sell on. Such items were commonly known as cabbage.
Patrick shrugged off his jacket, handed it to Brian then slipped on the new one. It sat squarely on his shoulders and hung well. He ran his hand over the fabric, feeling the fine weave with his fingertips. It was so dark it was almost black, and even with his old work shirt underneath it gave him a look of understated elegance. He twisted this way and that, feeling the lining move with the jacket over his body.
Brian let out a rolling laugh. ‘Look at yourself, then,’ he said. ‘You just see how the girlies’ eyes light up when they catch a glimpse of you, Pat me boy.’
‘Very nice,’ the shop assistant cooed. ‘It complements your athletic figure.
The trousers are ready to fit.’ He indicated the un-hemmed bottoms and unfinished waistband.
Patrick studied himself in the mirror. Although it might be a sin to say so, he didn’t look half bad. But would Josie think so? Would her eyes light up?
He glanced down at the cuff and caught sight of the paper ticket.
Two pounds, fifteen shillings and sixpence!
‘Worth every penny,’ the supervisor said swiftly, seeing that he had spotted the price.
Perhaps . . . but this was nearly two weeks wages.
Patrick looked at his reflection again, and this time imagined Josie on his arm. In his mind’s eye he saw her laughing and smiling as she walked beside him. Her eyes would flash and sparkle as they always did, and if they danced, as they very well might, then the silk of her skirt would glide over, not snag on, the fabric of his clothes.
A Glimpse at Happiness Page 8
