Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Well, yes. She knows Stebbins and I thought—’

  ‘She’s a looker, then.’ Boyce grinned.

  ‘That’s not why I took the job.’

  ‘Sure, you never,’ Boyce replied, taking a mouthful of drink. ‘Look mate. See Susy over there.’ He indicated a slim young woman whose red hair was piled incredibly high in contrast to her indecently low neckline. ‘She’s clean – only been on the hook for a month – and she’s a country girl, too. Why don’t you take her upstairs and when you’re done you can have a chat about sheep or fields or whatever the feck yokels talk about. It’ll help you get some right thinking about this job.’

  Nathaniel laughed. ‘You’re a daft old bugger, Boyce. But I’m serious about working at Maguire’s.’

  Boyce topped up their drinks. ‘Have you lost all your marbles? How can you drive a cart around the streets all day when there’s a fecking wanted poster outside every nick from Houndsditch to Bow with your name and description plastered all over it? Someone’s bound to recognise you. If you’re brainless enough to take that job you might as well march into one of Old Robert’s shops and turn yourself in.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘The description on that poster could fit half a dozen men in this bar. And if Maguire’s were a bakers or grocers I’d agree with you but it’s a coal yard. Get it? All the deliverymen wear split sack over their heads and they’re so black from the dust I doubt I’d recognise myself in a mirror. I’m only standing in for Mrs Maguire’s man, who’s injured, so I won’t be there more than a week or two at the most.’

  Boyce sucked his gums. ‘I don’t know. I suppose if you trim your hair short so it don’t curl and keep the beard you might get away with it for a bit. But it’s still chancey. What are you going to say when people ask you who you are?’

  ‘That’s where you come in, Boyce, my old mate.’ A conspiratorial smile spread across Nathaniel’s face. ‘I need you to find me some kith and kin.’

  Reverend Garrett looked around at the members of St George’s parish council and cleared his throat. ‘All those in favour of Mr Stebbins’s proposal that we send a letter to Superintendent Jackson urging him to take action—’

  ‘Urging him in the strongest terms,’ interjected Amos.

  ‘Urging him in the strongest terms,’ the clergyman corrected himself, irritation flitting across his face. ‘To take action against the increasing numbers of women soliciting along the Highway, say aye.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied the dozen men around the table.

  Amos was pleased that yet again his eloquence had carried the day. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll write to Superintendent Jackson first thing in the morning.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Stebbins, for taking it upon yourself to remind the police of their duty in this matter,’ said Mr Harris the verger. Several heads nodded in agreement and Amos basked in their approval. ‘Having such women loitering on every street corner is a disgrace. It attracts the lowest sorts into the area and now respectable women are being accosted – and in broad daylight, too! Why, only last week my wife was importuned by three sailors.’

  ‘Disgraceful!’ exclaimed Dunn the choirmaster.

  ‘They must have been very drunk to accost your wife,’ Amos said, imagining Letty Harris, whose face could scare a gargoyle, fighting off a pack of marauding sailors.

  ‘Sir, my wife is a jewel among women.’

  Amos placed his hand over his heart. ‘Mr Harris, you mistake my meaning. I mean, that these ruffians must have been very drunk indeed not to see what a paragon of respectability your wife is.’

  ‘Just so, Mr Stebbins.’

  ‘Well, gentlemen.’ Mr Garrett straightened the set of papers in front of him. ‘If there is not any other business?’ The men of St George’s parish council shook their heads. ‘Then I have nothing further other than to thank Mr Stebbins for taking this matter up on our behalf, and again to thank him for his generous pledge of seventy pounds for our new altar frontal and church linens . . .’ a dozen pairs of eyes looked at Amos with approval. ‘And I declare this meeting closed. If we could just bow our heads. Almighty and everlasting . . .’

  With the committee’s attention elsewhere and his hands concealed from view, Amos slipped his fob watch from his pocket and flipped it open.

  Nine-thirty! And he knew that Mr Dunn would want to speak to him before they left.

  Then he remembered. It was the first Wednesday and Cecily was hosting the League of Hallowed Homes monthly Bible study and prayer meeting. If the parish council could argue the back leg off a donkey for endless hours, their wives could trump them, so a later finish wouldn’t interfere with his plans. Even if he returned home at midnight Cecily wouldn’t be concerned as he often remained into the small hours discussing pressing church matters with the vicar, or so she believed.

  Of course, he shouldn’t have offered to pay for the new church fabrics. The deeds to Maguire’s yard still eluded him and Fallon at the City & County was squeezing his credit again. But a man in his position had to set the example of selfless giving. More importantly, if there was even a hint that his finances weren’t as sound as he professed them to be he could lose the investors he’d been cultivating to set up Wapping & Stratford.

  Why hadn’t Maguire’s gone under? Had it not been for the possibility of Nathaniel Tate lurking in shadows waiting for his chance to jump him, he would have gone to the yard and pressed Mattie harder to sell but, even so, she surely couldn’t possibly go on for much longer . . .

  ‘Amen,’ concluded Mr Garrett.

  ‘Amen,’ replied Amos, as he stood up from the table. The committee broke into small groups as they collected themselves together before heading home. Mr Dunn caught his attention and skirted around the table towards him.

  ‘Thank you for your support about the letter, Dunn,’ Amos said, as the choirmaster reached him.

  ‘Think nothing of it. Now about the Wapping and St—’

  ‘Shh!’ Amos took his arm and pulled him to the side. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Well, let’s stroll to the Hoop, we can talk there without fear of being overheard,’ Dunn replied.

  Amos pulled out his watch again. ‘Not tonight.’ He snapped it shut and slid it back in his pocket. ‘Meet me in the church on Friday. Three o’clock. We’ll talk then.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Discretion, Dunn. Discretion.’

  Collecting his hat, coat and walking stick from the stand, Amos took his leave of his fellow vestrymen, wished the vicar a restful night and left the church as the clock struck the three-quarters of the hour. He sent up a prayer of thanks when an empty cab rolled up to the church gates just as he walked out of them, and within minutes he was heading north.

  He sat back, lit a cigar, and lost himself in his thoughts as the cab rolled through the City and on to the leafy suburb of Islington. After half an hour or so the driver turned into a quiet street.

  Amos knocked his cane on the roof. ‘This will do,’ he called.

  The cab pulled to a halt. Amos stepped out, tilted his tall silk hat over his eyes, and handed the half-crown coin to the driver without glancing up. London cabbies knew better than to look too closely at a gentleman stopping off at certain establishments but Amos couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘What time, guv?’ he asked from the back of his rig.

  ‘Just after midnight,’ Amos replied, tucking up his collar. ‘And wait here.’

  The whip cracked and the cab moved off. Amos stepped back into the shadows and looked both ways. Satisfied that he was indeed alone, he turned and walked briskly to the white steps of the last house in the road, but before he could use the lion’s head knocker the door opened.

  Amos stepped in, unhooked his cloak and removed his hat. He handed them to a dark suited servant who bowed respectfully and kept her eyes averted. She indicated a side room and said, ‘If you would come this way, sir, I will inform the mistress you have arrived.’

  He followed the servant into Madame La Verne’s sumptuo
usly furnished parlour. French style chairs and sofas were dotted around the room, and a large gilt mirror hung above the fireplace. Amos stood in front of the fire with his back to the empty hearth, his eyes resting on the large picture opposite, which depicted the rape of the Sabine women. The door opened and Madame La Verne swept in. Her pale blonde hair was secured with a spray of red ostrich feathers and her breasts were tightly laced and squeezed into two creamy mounds above the top of her evening gown. She gave him the widest of smiles.

  ‘My dear Monsieur S,’ she said, with only the faintest trace of London twang, and crossed the floor to greet him, her peacock-coloured silk skirt rustling as she glided across the floor. She held out her hands and he took them.

  ‘Madame,’ he said pressing his lips on her gloved fingers.

  She gave him a coy smile. ‘I ’ave such a delight for you tonight, Monsieur.’

  A tingle of excitement ran down Amos’s spine, and he adjusted the front of his trousers. Madame’s eyes followed his hand. ‘I can see you are eager,’ she said, ‘and I know you will not be disappointed when you see the little bonbon.’ She crooked her finger. ‘Shall we go to the green room?’

  She beckoned him into the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. Like all the other rooms in the house it was lavishly furnished, with an old fashioned four-poster bed covered in a shiny satin bedspread. The walls were painted in soothing pastel stripes and there was a large floor-to-ceiling mirror fixed to the wall on the right side of the bed.

  Madame La Verne clapped her hands lightly and a little girl sitting at the dressing table stood up obediently.

  Amos’ mouth dropped open. Her wide blue eyes were set in a heart-shaped face and there was a pretty flush on her soft cheeks, which highlighted the deeper tone of her rosy mouth. Most of her fair hair had been tied with a ribbon on the top of her head, but several strands curled over her shoulders. The sleeveless muslin garment she wore was almost transparent and allowed Amos to see the shape of her slender body, budding with the first hint of maturity.

  Madame La Verne pushed the girl forward. ‘Say hello, Daisy.’

  A smile crossed Amos’s lips. They were always named after flowers.

  The young girl’s eyes darted up to the woman beside her. Madame gave her a tight-lipped look and Daisy took two steps forward.

  ‘’Ello, Mister,’ she whispered, with a warble in her voice.

  Now that she stood within an arm’s length of him, he could see the rapid pulse at the base of her neck. He reached out and ran his finger around her jaw and chin, enjoying the softness of her tender skin. Daisy started to tremble. He loved it when they did that.

  ‘Is she not adorable?’ Madame asked. ‘And quite untouched.’

  Amos trailed his finger down the child’s neck and across her bare shoulders.

  ‘She looks very young.’

  A simpering expression spread across Madame’s face. ‘She’s slow in maturing.’

  Girls like Daisy, born and bred in the rookeries, lived a feral, half-starved existence and learnt the ways of men very early in their lives. Daisy was fortunate to have been taken up by Madame – well, her mother was, at least. The price of her virginity would probably feed the rest of the family for a month or two.

  ‘The usual compensation?’ he asked, studying Daisy’s young lips.

  ‘I thought two guineas extra, perhaps,’ Madame answered, her face a picture of professionalism. ‘Slow maturing and untouched. A rare combination, don’t you think, Mr S?’

  Amos’s gaze ran over Daisy’s fresh young face. The child raised her eyes and gazed back up at him. Her lips parted. Amos shifted his position.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, taking the little girl’s hand and drawing her to him.

  Madame bowed and silently left the room.

  ‘Why don’t you sit here?’ Amos patted the top of his thighs.

  She climbed on to his lap. Her small frame started to quiver and Amos petted her shoulder, enjoying the contrast of the delicate bones of her arm with his large hand.

  ‘There there, sweetheart, you like that, don’t you?’

  She nodded. Amos pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. She gave him a little smile.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, kissing her again but on the lips this time. ‘Now, why don’t you call me, Papa?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Thank you,’ Mattie said, taking the plate with a wedge of ginger cake on it from Josie and setting it beside her tea cup.

  Now that Brian had given up his afternoon sleep, Mattie had resumed visiting Josie every Tuesday as she used to. Sarah was in the kitchen finishing the weekly washing and keeping an eye on the children, who were playing in the back garden. This was the only hour the two friends could chat without having to wipe noses and break up squabbles. Freddie had dropped Mattie off as usual, and it was the fact that he’d spent the whole journey telling her how the colour of her gown suited her, how much he enjoyed having a ‘pretty gal’ beside him, and generally sitting far too close for Mattie’s comfort, that she’d finally decided to mention his peculiar behaviour to her best friend.

  ‘So what exactly is Freddie doing?’ Josie asked, cutting herself a slice.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult to say.’ Mattie wondered just how best to explain. ‘Thinking back, it started just after Eli became ill. I have to say at first I thought I was just imagining it. But when he’d called me darling for the third time in a week I—’

  ‘He called you darling!’

  ‘And sweetheart and love.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a liberty, isn’t it? I know he’s family, but even so. I hope you told him.’

  She hadn’t. What could she say? Stop being nice? And if she accused him of flirting with her and he denied it she would blush to the roots of her hair.

  ‘You know what he’s like, Josie. You’re the one who called him Flash Freddie. It’s what he is. Half the time I don’t think he knows he’s doing it, giving women the eye, I mean. And really I can’t complain too much about his cheeky chatter because it’s brought me at least a dozen customers, so I just ignore it. But then I noticed that he kept . . .’ the corners of her lips twitched.

  Josie eyes twinkled. ‘What?’

  Mattie laughed. ‘He sort of keeps looking at me like this.’ She half-closed her eyes, raised one eyebrow and gave her friend a flirtatious look.

  ‘No!’ Josie chuckled.

  ‘And this.’ Mattie tucked her chin in and looked at Josie sideways from under her brow while a teasing smile played across her lips.

  Josie covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, my.’ She coughed. ‘How do you keep a straight face?’

  Mattie shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, struggling to get her words out between giggles.

  ‘How odd,’ Josie said, as she got control of herself. ‘Not that he shouldn’t flirt with you – I’m sure you have that all the time – but I wonder what’s got into him.’

  ‘Oh that’s easy,’ Mattie laughed. ‘It’s not me he’s after but a raise.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Josie asked. ‘I mean, it could be that he’s admired you all this time and now that a respectable amount of time has passed since Brian died he thinks it’s time to declare himself.’

  The laughter she’d only just contained bubbled up in Mattie again. ‘Oh, Josie, you’ll really have to stop reading those penny romances. This is Freddie we are talking about. Flash Freddie, the housewife’s bit of relish.’

  Josie rolled her eyes. ‘What am I thinking?’ she patted her stomach. ‘It’s the baby. It’s giving me all sorts of strange notions.’

  ‘It can’t be much stranger than Freddie’s notion to sweet-talk a raise out of me. And even if that were the case, you must know that Freddie Ellis is the last man on earth I’d marry. He might be able to charm the birds from the trees but can you imagine what Maguire’s balance sheet would look like after a week with him in charge? No, it’s clear that now the yard is picking up Flash Freddie is trying all
his tricks on me so that when he asks for more money I’ll give it without a murmur.’

  ‘The yard’s picking up? I’m so pleased to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, thanks to the recent damp weather.’ Mattie drained the last of her tea. ‘And I’ve taken on a man, temporarily,’ she said, as an image of Jack Archer – his sleeves rolled up and collar undone – effortlessly shouldering a hundredweight coal floated into her head.

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘No. He’s not from around here.’

  ‘Where’s he from then?’

  ‘Sussex somewhere.’

  ‘Who were his references?’

  ‘He didn’t have any.’

  Josie stared at Mattie in astonishment. ‘Mattie—’

  ‘I was having an argument with one of Morris’s drivers and he intervened. He said he was looking for work and I offered him a job. It’s only until Eli gets better’

  ‘But even so. Without references!’ Josie eyes grew even wider. ‘I mean, he could be anyone. There was a poster outside Wapping police station offering a reward for an escaped felon who has been seen in the area.’

  ‘Josie, will you listen to yourself?’

  ‘Alright, alright. I grant you I’m running on a bit but still, you should have asked for references.’

  Of course Josie was right. She should have, and in the normal way of things she would have, but somehow, deep down, Mattie knew she could trust him.

  ‘Look, Josie. He arrives each day on the dot, is loaded and away in half the time it takes the other drivers. He’s always respectful and in only one week he’s added three households to his rounds and the customers like him.’

  A smile tugged at Josie’s lips. ‘He’s handsome then?’

  ‘I suppose so, in a dark sort of way,’ she said, thinking about the way his closely trimmed beard followed the strong line of his chin. ‘Actually, I’m hoping Kate might look in his direction. I’m sorry to say, Josie, but I have a suspicion that she’s fixed her sights on our Flash Freddie.’

  ‘I thought she was walking out with Alfie what’s-his-name.’

  ‘So did I. Alfie’s a nice enough lad. Hard working, good to his mother but . . . well, dull.’