Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  Nathaniel looked doubtful, but said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Course I am, and it’s only for a week or so.’

  Mrs Maguire’s cheery morning smile and happy greeting sprang unbidden into Nathaniel’s mind. ‘Well, perhaps a little longer,’ he replied, in what he hoped was a matter of fact tone.

  Boyce’s sharp eyes searched his face. ‘I hope as ’ow you ain’t getting fond of that Irish woman who runs the yard.’

  ‘Her name is Mrs Maguire.’

  ‘Oh, is it now.’

  ‘Yes it is, and I’m not getting fond of her. It’s just that it might take me a little longer to find out how Stebbins is connected to the yard.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Boyce clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘You and your sister must have a lot to talk about after all this time so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Nathaniel opened the door for him to leave. As he passed him Boyce paused. ‘A word in your shell like, old son. Why don’t you take advantage of Bella’s special rate to save your naggers leading you off in the direction of Mrs Maguire?’

  Amos sat chewing the corner of his moustache and tried to ignore the gurgling in his stomach as the cab negotiated its way west along Leadenhall Street. The dyspepsia that had started as soon as he swallowed the first mouthful of kipper at breakfast now had an unyielding grip on his vitals. He punched his chest but the hard knot at the back of his breastbone didn’t budge. It was hardly surprising that his digestive system was out of sorts. His wine merchant’s bill had arrived with the morning post, along with a curt letter threatening to stop further supplies unless it was paid. There was even a hint that the rogue would have recourse to the law should payment not be forthcoming.

  Damned impertinence!

  And if that wasn’t enough to sour a man’s appetite the morning post had brought another rude letter from Fallon at the bank.

  It was too much to bear that a man such as he, a respectable businessman, a prospective alderman no less, should be harassed by tradesmen and jumped-up money changers. A tremor of apprehension passed over him. If he didn’t secure the deeds to Maguire’s yard soon Fallon would call in all of his credit and that would be the end of him.

  If anyone had told him three months ago that Maguire’s would still be in business he would have laughed in their face. He’d thought that with old Eli injured, not to mention an unusually warm summer, the yard would have gone under weeks ago, but it seemed that September’s unseasonal cold snap and a week’s worth of heavy rain had come to Mrs Maguire’s aid – which is why he was having to go cap in hand to meet the City & County’s chief banker.

  The cabbie brought the horse to a halt. Amos stepped out and handed the driver a shilling. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘And good health to you, guv,’ he said, touching the peak of his cap.

  The bank sat on the corner of Lombard Street and Nicolas Lane, just around the corner from the Bank of England.

  It had been founded in the last century and had a reputation for solid investment and discretion. It had been Cecily’s father’s bank, which is why Amos had opened an account there. Of course, that was in old Mr Wilburton’s time. He had been an old-fashioned gentleman banker and had a proper understanding of an entrepreneur’s needs. He hadn’t allowed himself to be shackled with all this regulation nonsense that was creeping into too many of the City’s financial institutions.

  The tall doorman jumped forward. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, pulling open one of the heavy doors by its gleaming brass handle.

  Stowing his cane under his arm, Amos fished out a penny tip. As the door closed behind him the hubbub from the street outside grew faint and the calm of the entrance hall took over. The scratch of pens coupled with whispered voices joined together in an odd mix of industry and worship, giving Amos a feeling of financial well-being.

  Fallon’s young clerk, Deacon, looked up from his scribbling. He was a small, wiry fellow who looked only just old enough to shave. His well-oiled fair hair shone in the light from the gas lamps and his pale eyes were somewhat bloodshot from hours studying the heavy account books on his desk. He walked briskly towards Amos.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Stebbins,’ he said, curling forward and rubbing his hands together. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you again.’

  ‘Deacon,’ Amos replied, ‘Would you tell Mr Fallon I’m here to see him?’

  ‘Is he expecting you, sir?’ The clerk asked glanced nervously at the half-glazed door that led the banker’s office.

  ‘No.’ Amos replied, fixing him with a bellicose stare.

  A tic started in the corner of Deacon’s right eye. ‘If you care to take a seat,’ he said, indicating the winged-back chairs in the corner of the lobby area, ‘I’ll inform him of your arrival.’

  The clerk scurried off and Amos paced back and forth for a full five minutes until the clerk returned.

  ‘If you would follow me, sir,’ he said.

  Amos marched towards the chief officer’s door. Deacon grasped the brass knob and paused. He cleared his throat. ‘May I be so bold as to congratulate you on your fine letter in The Times last Monday, calling for tighter controls in our prison.’

  Amos puffed out his chest. ‘Too kind,’ he said, the clerk’s reverential tones going some way towards soothing his colicky temper.

  Deacon opened the door and Amos walked in, scrutinising the man behind the desk. Only a year or two older than himself, Amos guessed that as a child Wilfred Fallon would have been described as delicate. He was barely five foot five tall and had a frame like a schoolboy, which made him look slightly incongruous in his expensive Savile Row suit.

  He rose to his feet. ‘Mr Stebbins, ‘he said, coming around his desk to offer Amos his hand.

  ‘Mr Fallon.’

  ‘Please take a seat.’

  Amos paused for a second then threw his tails back to perch himself on the edge of the chair.

  Fallon sat down and looked over his half-rimmed glasses. ‘I trust you are well?’ He paused. ‘And that you have received my letter.’

  Amos glared across the desk at the banker. ‘I did, and frankly, I object to the tone.’ He leant forward and jabbed at the desk top with his index finger. ‘And I’ll tell you this, Fallon, I shall move my account if I see another arrive at my breakfast table couched in the same objectionable language.’

  He sat back and waited for concern, if not outright fear, to show on the banker’s face. He was disappointed.

  ‘That of course would be your prerogative,’ Fallon replied, ‘but at this present time . . .’ he glanced down and traced his finger along a column of figures. ‘You might find another institution reluctant to accommodate you. I wrote so that we could talk discreetly before the directors instruct me to take matters further.’

  A trickle of cold sweat broke out between Amos’s shoulder blades. ‘Directors? Take things further? Good grief, man. What’s all this nonsense about?’ he asked, changing tack to a come-on-old-chap tone.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot regard an overdraft of a thousand pounds as nonsense, Mr Stebbins.’

  A thousand pounds! I thought it just seven hundred.

  He forced a laugh. ‘Is that all?’

  Fallon set his lips in two thin lines. ‘I do not think this is a matter for merriment.’

  The chair creaked under Amos’s weight. ‘Look here. I own the Grey Friars wharf and a portfolio of shares in other city companies. Frankly, Fallon, your clerks can’t have any understanding of a balance sheet versus capital holdings if they are shoving such trivia under your nose.’ Amos drew out a cigar, making a play of lighting it, and continued. ‘I take it as a personal slight being sent rude letters over a measly thousand pounds. My assets are worth six times that amount.’ He blew circles of smoke upwards and re-crossed his legs. ‘Not to mention my reputation, which is solid as the gold in your vaults.’

  Fallon pushed his spectacles back in place. ‘Your assets may be worth that – but not to
you. The City & County hold the mortgage to Grey Friars of . . .’ he lifted a sheet of paper with a wax seal attached, ‘two thousand pounds, which you required eighteen months ago to ease your liquidity problems and, as far as I can see, the wharf is still barely in profit.’

  Amos felt the blood rise to his head. The damned impertinence of the man! But he shouldn’t be surprised by Fallon’s disrespectful, nay, anarchical attitude to his social superiors. After all, he was a Methodist.

  ‘I still have my other business interests and investments.’

  ‘True, but some of them are not performing as well as they should.’ He scanned the ledger again. ‘The Anglo-Bolivian Mining Company, for example. You invested heavily in it a few months ago but have seen no return.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘When you requested a banker’s draft for the purchase of the shares I distinctly remember you telling me that the mineral deposits were near to the coast, whereas in fact the deposits are almost three hundred miles into the interior through an almost impenetrable jungle. And I have it on good authority that the company’s own engineer stated quite clearly that the initial cost of getting minerals out would be three times what the directors who proposed the venture indicated in the share prospectus.’

  ‘How could you know about the engineer’s report?’

  ‘This is a bank, Mr Stebbins, it is our business to know. Other than eight hundred pounds, which is held in trust for your stepdaughter, almost all of your assets are mortgaged to us, and the majority of your other investments are worth less now than when you bought them. I have a duty to protect the City & County’s shareholders and depositors from bankruptcy.’

  ‘Bankruptcy?’

  ‘Yes. Caused by your unsecured debt dragging the bank into insolvency, which is why I will not sanction any further credit on your account.’

  The moisture evaporated from Amos’s mouth but he jumped to his feet. ‘Damn it! How am I supposed to do business without credit to draw on?’

  Fallon didn’t answer.

  Perspiration sprang out on Amos’s brow as his mind went to the drawer full of unpaid bills in his desk. He rested his hands on the desk. ‘Listen to me, Fallon, I have an investment opportunity on the horizon that is guaranteed to make us both a fortune.’

  Fallon raised an almost invisible eyebrow. ‘A rubber plantation in Canada perhaps? An ice mine in Arabia? Really, Mr Stebbins, there isn’t anything you could say that—’

  ‘George Hudson.’

  ‘George Hudson? The George Hudson?’

  ‘The very same.’

  The banker’s pale complexion flushed.

  A warmth spread through Amos’s belly. He wasn’t surprised at Fallon’s sudden change of tune on hearing the Railway King’s name. George Hudson had gone from living above a provincial draper’s shop in York to owning a country estate, a townhouse on the north side of Hyde Park and sixty per cent of the trains that puffed up and down the country.

  ‘You have a project involving Mr Hudson?’ Fallon asked, rising from his desk and moving to the sideboard with the drinks tray on it.

  ‘I can’t tell you all the details as yet,’ Amos replied, ‘but I can tell you I am meeting him in the House in a week to discuss a new railway line. Just a small one,’ he added as Fallon raised the decanter.

  ‘Well, this shines a different light on the matter,’ Fallon replied.

  Amos laughed – a little too uproariously – as relief swept through him.

  Fallon handed him a large brandy. ‘I hope you will ask the City & County to handle any company monies.’

  Amos took a slow sip as some of his anxiety ebbed away. ‘Could you handle such a large investment?’

  It was Fallon’s turn to look offended. ‘I can assure you we are able to provide any service a joint stock company might need. Any service at all.’

  Amos finished his drink. ‘There is just the little matter of my credit, of course. I must have working capital if I am to progress the matter.’

  The banker’s buttoned-up expression returned. ‘I will need further securities.’

  ‘My two clippers, the Tempest and the Dolphin,’ Amos replied.

  What were two old buckets against the chance of partnership with George Hudson, who practically shat money? There wasn’t an investor in the land who wouldn’t give their right hand to be linked to a company of his.

  The banker hesitated. ‘And I have your word that the City & County will be offered first option of a share issue?’

  ‘Without question.’

  ‘And that you have all the necessary title deeds to the land over which your railway is to travel.’

  ‘Of course,’ Amos told him smoothly. There was now no conceivable way the Maguire yard could stay in business for much longer.

  Fallon extended his hand. ‘Well, then. I shall prepare the papers and extend your credit once you’ve signed them. Please feel free to draw on your account at the City & County as you require.’

  A satisfied smile spread across Amos Stebbins’s lips. ‘Thank you. I will.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Well, Fallon. Now we’ve come to a more amicable understanding I’ll bid you good day. Don’t bother,’ he said as the banker made to rise. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  He left Fallon’s office and made his way back through the bank, exchanging pleasantries as he passed. He drew a cigar from his pocket as he waited for the doorman to call him a cab and then flipped him another sixpence as he climbed in.

  Amos settled back in the plush seat and the cab jolted forward. He took out his hip flask and, with shaking hands, raised it to his lips. The silver edge rattled against his teeth as he closed his lips around it. The raw spirit burnt but it steadied his jangling nerves. He threw back the last of the brandy then sat back, closed his eyes, and concentrated on keeping hold of his rising panic. He knew Fallon’s agreement to extend his credit was only a reprieve and if he didn’t get his hands on the deeds to Maguire’s within a month, his creditors would have him by the throat. It was risky, very risky but he would have to take matters into his own hands if he was to avoid utter ruin.

  Chapter Ten

  Mattie put down the quill and stared at the neat line of bound ledgers standing like faceless soldiers on the two shelves opposite. The oldest of them, with the ragged tops and faded colours, dated back twenty-five years to Brian’s father’s time. The ones beneath spanned the ten years leading up to the present day and included the one now open on the expansive desk.

  Mattie pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment then looked back at the neat rows of figures on the balance sheet. She’d collected the four deliverymen’s order books when they’d returned earlier and, after snatching a quick meal, had left Brian with his gran. She started with the tedious chore of entering the income and outgoings into the Maguire & Son’s 1848 account book. That was the easy part. Balancing one against the other so they all matched was the task that made her head sore. She’d been at it nearly an hour but she had only just managed to decipher the scribble in Freddie’s order book. It looked as if it was going to be a long night.

  When she married Brian she thought her job would be making a home and caring for their children yet, strangely, in those first few terrible weeks after he was killed, having to run the coal yard somehow helped her stay sane. But now the ever dwindling income kept her awake at night. She sighed as despondency settled on her shoulders. She had sworn to hand Maguire & Son over to young Brian when he was old enough, but as things stood she wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.

  She ran her hand over the cardboard cover of Jack Archer’s ledger before opening it. She looked over the bold script that seemed to burst from the confinement of the ruled lines on the page. The confident curves and loops of the letters reflected the man. Although, like every other working man in the area, he wore kneed trousers, a worn jacket and heavy boots, the angle of his shoulders, the turn of his head and his powerful stance demanded attention. It was odd
that Kate didn’t see it and was still mooning over Freddie.

  What is wrong with the girl?

  She traced her finger over Jack’s signature at the bottom of the page and remembered how he’d smiled down at her as he handed it to her that afternoon. Before she could prevent it, her stomach leapt excitedly.

  She picked up the pen again and ran down the list of her creditors, carefully re-checking the amount against the delivery notes she’d taken from the spike in the desk. There was a knock on the door.

  She looked up and there stood Jack.

  Breathe, she reminded herself.

  Unlike the other drivers, Jack liked to wash the worst of the day’s grit off before he left and Mattie had willingly supplied him with a bucket of water and a bar of soap. He’d clearly just completed his evening’s ablutions as his hair was still damp and curled around his forehead and cheekbones. The oil lamp hanging above threw blocks of shadow across the strong planes of his face.

  Goodness, that man’s easy on the eye, she thought before she could stop herself.

  ‘Mrs Maguire said you were here,’ he said, dipping his head to avoid the doorframe and stepping into the office. ‘She seems better today.’

  ‘It was the third anniversary of Brian’s death last week, you see, and well . . .’

  ‘Pete told me,’ he said quietly.

  The warm tone of understanding in his voice washed over her. They stared at each other for a moment. ‘Kebble’s man finished unloading the fodder, and the wagons are ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mattie replied. ‘I’ll see you in the morning then.’

  A dart of pain shot across her forehead and she rubbed her temples for relief.

  ‘You look tired. Are you almost finished?

  Mattie shook her head. ‘No, not by a long chalk. I’ve only just started to enter the bills and sales, let alone balance them, and the longer I look at these numbers the less sense they seem to make.’

  He came around behind her and leant over her shoulder.