Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said, placing his hand beside her own.

  Mattie’s eyes fixed on the well-formed hand resting beside the ledger. Like the rest of him, there was a casual power in the strong fingers with their neatly clipped nails. She noted the fine line of hair tracking up from his wrist to his little finger and the ridge of tendons under the tanned skin. As her eyes took in all the details, Mattie wondered what his hand would feel like running over her bare skin.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘If you read out the bills, I’ll enter them on the page.’

  ‘That would be helpful, but surely after a day’s work you want to be getting along.’

  He pulled a chair over and took the quill from her. ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  She picked up the first docket from the pile. ‘Alright then . . . Kebble’s. Four carts of hay, two pounds, five shillings and sixpence.’

  Jack wrote the charges under the fodder merchants, and then all the others waiting to be entered, until the last of them was impaled on the collection spike.

  Mattie reached for the four order books but Jack’s hand rested on them first.

  ‘Let me.’

  She shouldn’t take advantage of his good nature by asking him to spend another hour or so itemising the customer’s orders, but suddenly the luxury of having him share her burden for even just a moment or two was too much to resist.

  ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind,’ she repeated, secretly thrilled at the thought of having his company for a little longer.

  He opened the first one and placed his finger on the top line and then he looked at her sideways. ‘I wouldn’t want your eyes to lose their sparkle because you’ve been squinting at numbers.’

  Mattie’s heart thumped in her chest and then raced off at a gallop. She studied the area just below his cheekbone where his beard gave way to smooth skin and she imagined what it might feel like to place her lips there. The wedge of unruly hair he had combed back with his finger fell forward and Mattie had to almost sit on her hands to stop herself from reaching forward to repositioning it.

  Mattie Maguire, what to goodness, are you thinking?

  She looked at Jack’s bare forearm, and saw how the corded muscles moved as he wrote.

  It took some while but, at last, he was finished. ‘There we are, done.’ He closed the last book and stretched his arms behind his head.

  Mattie studied the result. A frown ruffled her brow.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, as her eyes reached the bottom line of the page. ‘Perhaps I ought to think about Mr Stebbins’s offer,’ she muttered.

  ‘Mr Stebbins?’ He repeated looking at her intently. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  She shook her head. ‘I only know him because I take my mother-in-law to the Sunday service at St George’s. He’s a member of the vestry committee and owns Grey Friars warehouse. He’s very important but very kind.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Truly.’ She glanced at the figures again. ‘He even came and looked over Maguire’s books a while back but I can’t say it helped much.’ She shot Jack a shy look. ‘To be sure, he’s probably so used to dealing with vast sums of money that he’s forgotten how a small company like Maguire’s works. He tried to tell me that the business was about to go under but I can add and subtract, and anyone with half an eye could see that although we don’t make a fortune, we are breaking even. But I don’t think he understood because he kept telling me I had no option but to sell the yard. He even said he’d help me find a buyer and sent a note yesterday urging me to act before it’s too late.’

  Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘You own the yard?’

  ‘Yes. My late father-in-law bought the title about twenty years ago. I know if I sold it I would have some cash to see me through, but I just can’t. My husband’s father built this yard up from nothing and passed it on to my husband, who wanted to do the same for our lad Brian. Unfortunately he . . . he didn’t live long enough to see that happen. So I have to do it for him now.’

  He glanced down at the open book, catching his lower lip with his teeth, showing Mattie a faint image of the boy he must have once been.

  ‘Mrs Maguire,’ he said, formally. ‘If you’re intent on keeping the business for your son, I have a suggestion or two to help.’

  Mattie closed the garden gate to the house and cast her eyes around the yard, which was bathed in the late afternoon sunlight.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs M,’ Billy called.

  ‘Afternoon, Billy. How have you fared today?’

  ‘I did all right around Prescott Street,’ he replied as he set the broom against the fence. ‘But there were only a handful of deliveries down Samuel, James and William Street and none in the alleys.’

  Mattie struggled to maintain her smile as she thought of the unpaid delivery bill from Morris sitting on top of Kebble’s invoice.

  The day after Jack had helped her with her accounts he’d spent the next evening sketching out a crude map of the area on a large sheet of paper so she could mark out Maguire’s customers. The next evening they re-organised the delivery route so that the older horses, Samson and Flossy were given three local deliveries each day and the younger two were allocated customers further afield.

  It had taken the horses a week to learn the new route and after only two weeks of the new system Mattie was able to do something she hadn’t done for over a year: give Patrick money to deposit in Maguire & Son’s account.

  Something darted across the yard and Mattie turned just in time to see a large grey rat scrabbling towards the stable. It was a hazard of living so close to the river.

  Pete whistled between his teeth. ‘Did you see the size of that one? Blimey, if they get any bigger we’ll be able to put them between the shafts and drive them.’

  ‘That’s the third I’ve seen this week,’ Mattie said, as she watched the rat slither through a broken plank in the stable wall. ‘I’ll go take a look.’

  ‘Be careful, Mrs M,’ Billy called after her as she marched across the yard.

  The three horses raised their heads in mild interest as she entered the stable and edged her way between the stalls towards the hay store. She cocked an ear to listen for the tell-tale scurrying. Thankfully, the only sound was that of the horses crunching their suppers. She leant the broom against the end of the stall and wiped her brow with her forearm.

  Someone walked into the stable behind her.

  ‘Freddie,’ she said, surprised that he was still in the yard even though it was past five.

  He stood with his hands in his pockets and his cap at its usual angle – with the peak over his right eye. He’d unbuttoned his shirt and had artfully retied his kingsman.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs M,’ he said, swaggering towards her.

  ‘Yes, afternoon, Freddie,’ she said, as he stopped an arm’s reach from her.

  ‘You’re looking very fine to day, Mrs Maguire. I’ve always liked you in that gown.’

  Here we go again Mattie thought as she suppressed a smile. He’s certainly laying on the old sweet talk with a trowel.

  She was amused by Freddie’s attempts to soften her up but she wished he would just come out and ask her for a raise. In fairness, she hadn’t increased her drivers’ wages for almost two years and she’d already thought to give them all a raise of two shillings a week in November if the yards still prospered.

  ‘Thank you, Freddie. Now about—’

  ‘In fact,’ he took a step nearer and glanced swiftly around . ‘There’s someone nearby who thinks you look dandy each and every day. I think you know who I mean.’ He winked.

  Jack! Mattie’s heart did a little double step.

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Surely not . . .’ Freddie gave her a roguish grin. ‘Really?’

  He nodded. ‘And why not? You’re a good-looking woman.’

  An image of Jack strolling across the yard, harnessing the cart and sitting at her table eating his dinner flashed into Mattie’s mind.

  ‘Oh, Freddie, I never thought
. . .’ Mattie looked away so he couldn’t sense her excitement.

  ‘And it’s about time someone took part of the burden of the yard off those delicate shoulders of yours.’

  He was right. What with the work they’d done over the past week and his quiet overseeing of the yard, Jack had certainly eased her load. A feeling like warm honey spread through her.

  She gave Freddie a friendly smile. ‘Well, I can’t say it’s been easy these last few years.’

  ‘Now haven’t I seen you struggling on since poor Brian died.’

  ‘What choice did I have?’

  ‘None. Though a grand job you’ve made of it all. And I might say, you’ve shown Brian proper respect by keeping yourself to yourself these three years, if you get my drift.’ Mattie’s cheeks burned. ‘But, perhaps, it’s time you started thinking about putting away your widow’s weeds.’ A playful expression spread across his face.

  Mattie grabbed hold of her dancing imagination before it took flight and cleared her throat. ‘I think it’s a little too soon for that.’

  Freddie looked puzzled. ‘Well, if you say so.’ He straightened up and became serious. ‘But perhaps, while we’re here alone, like, Mrs M – Mattie, if I can be so bold – if I could just ask you . . .’ he swallowed.

  ‘I know what you’re going to ask but if you could just wait a little longer,’ she said, annoyed with herself for being so easily drawn in by his flattery. ‘Perhaps we can talk about it just before Christmas.’

  Freddie’s happy expression slipped a little but then it rallied. ‘I was ’oping for a bit sooner but’ – his eyes twinkled – ‘as long as we understand each other what’s a few months.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes and ask me in November. Well,’ she said in a tone she hoped would put an end to their conversation. ‘I’d better go and see to Brian.’

  Leaving Freddie staring after her Mattie retraced her steps. As she stood in the doorway, number one wagon trotted into the yard. Jack had removed his protective sack and the autumn breeze ruffled his hair. The warmth of desire gathered behind her breastbone turned to ice as she watched him smile down at her sister, Kate, who sat proudly beside him.

  The clouds that kept the temperature down for most of the day finally moved aside and let the late afternoon sun warm Nathaniel’s back as he crossed Whitechapel High Street. The last few stalls of the market were just closing and the costermongers called back and forth to each other as they cleared the rotten stock from their barrows before wheeling them into the storage yard.

  Nathaniel went into Jack and Jill’s pie shop, and after exchanging a bit of light-hearted banter with Jack Peirce he bought himself a penny mutton pasty. Placing the carefully wrapped still-hot pie, in his pocket, he continued past the bare-footed children picking over the vegetables in the gutter. He noticed a young woman balancing a child on her hip and his mind drifted back to Mattie Maguire.

  Nathaniel had asked himself many times in the last week how he could forget his wife so quickly. In truth, he hadn’t. He would never forget Marjorie, their young family and the love they had shared. But the Nathaniel who courted the squire’s daughter in the fields and orchards around Romford wasn’t the same Nathaniel who fought like an animal for his existence in Botany Bay.

  In any case, it didn’t matter about the whys and the wherefores. After all, a person wasn’t allocated a set quantity of love that once given was gone forever. It multiplied and changed, and having loved once he knew he needed to love again. And now he loved Mattie Maguire with her dark, sparkling eyes. But what could he offer her?

  A rat-catcher strolled past with three white-and-brown terriers at his heels and his day’s work strung up on a pole over his shoulder. Nathaniel turned his focus back to the present and sauntered the last fifty yards down Hope Alley.

  Two shillings a week was nothing less than daylight robbery for the damp and dirty room he rented from the Roscoes. Sure, he was grateful to Boyce for his cover story, but after being eaten alive by bed bugs on the first night, he’d scrubbed the iron bedstead with caustic soda to clear the insects and their eggs, burnt the old mattress and replaced it with a new one stuffed with fresh straw. He’d then dragged the bed from the wall and placed each leg in metal pie dishes filled with vinegar to prevent more insects from climbing up into the bed.

  As he entered the passageway there was an explosion of barking behind the door leading to the scullery at the back. The door opened and Dolly poked her head out. ‘I fought it was you, Jack,’ she said, struggling to keep the half dozen snarling and snapping dogs behind her.

  The bow-legged, barrel-chested scrappers that she and Tubby bred seemed to be much favoured by the inhabitants of the area. Each Sunday morning Dolly and Tubby would pile the pups into their handcart and trot themselves off to the livestock market in Club Row two miles away. They lived in the grubby front room but the dogs pretty much had the run of the scullery and the handkerchief-sized back yard. A black snout poked out around the side of her skirt and Dolly blocked it with her leg.

  ‘Get back yer bugger!’ she shouted over her shoulder, the lank-grey rats’ tails of her hair sliding over her face as she turned her head. She glanced back at Nathaniel. ‘I’ve just taken yer water up. It should still be hot.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, putting his foot on the first step.

  His diminutive landlady started to close the door and the dogs, as if sensing they had missed their opportunity to escape, launched themselves at it, yapping and barking with added gusto. A small dog wriggled through the gap and ran towards Nathaniel wagging its tail and hindquarters excitedly.

  Nathaniel bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ear and was rewarded with a lavish hand washing by a lolling tongue. It was only a young dog, a pup really but with enormous paws. It wriggled around Nathaniel’s leg pleased with the unusual personal attention.

  ‘Come back you bugger!’ Dolly yelled again, kicking backwards into the pack of dogs behind her to keep them from following the escapee. ‘Mr R!’

  The front door opened and Tubby stepped out. ‘Wot?’

  ‘One of the young’uns got out.’

  Tubby heaved a sigh then lumbered over and caught the pup by the scruff of its neck. It yelped and tried to get away but Tubby held on and dragged it towards his wife. The dog twisted its head and looked beseechingly back at Nathaniel. A memory of being dragged from the dock at Chelmsford Crown Court in a similar fashion flashed into Nathaniel’s mind.

  ‘How much do you want for him?’ he asked, as the smell and the sheer terror of the court holding-cell flooded back to him.

  Tubby’s eyes widened at the unexpected offer. ‘I don’t know ’ow as I want to sell ’im,’ he said, giving the dog what Nathaniel took to be an affectionate shake. ‘He’s shaping up to be one of my—’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A shilling and sixpence.’

  Nathaniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins. ‘I’ll give you nine pence.’

  Tubby shook his head. ‘I couldn’t take less than one and threepence.’

  Nathaniel put the pennies back in his pocket and turned back to the stairs.

  The breeder dragged the dog back to the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m robbing meself, so I am, but a shilling and not a penny less.’

  Tubby spat on the palm of his hand and released the dog.

  ‘Done,’ said Nathaniel, handing over his hard-earned shilling and grasping Tubby’s hand, thankful for the bucket of hot water waiting for him. He clicked his fingers and the dog shot to his side.

  ‘Come on then, boy,’ he said softly.

  The dog hesitated for a moment then scampered up the flight of stairs, his feet barely touching the wooden boards. Nathaniel followed and opened the door to his room. He pulled out his pie and put it on his one plate. The dog made to jump for it.

  ‘No!’ Nathaniel told it firmly.

  The dog’s ears dropped and his tail curled under again. Nathaniel stroked his head. ‘Good bo
y.’

  The dog’s tail and ears perked up. Nathaniel set a quarter of the pie on a scrap of newspaper on the floor. The pup snatched at it.

  ‘No!’ Nathaniel repeated.

  The dog’s body grew tense as its hunger fought with a deeper instinct not to challenge the dominate male.

  ‘You can have it,’ he told the pup in a softer tone and on command the dog snuffled up his share of the supper. He poured himself a beer and ate the rest of the pie, while the dog sat at his feet licking the paper. Nathaniel studied his new friend. Unlike Tubby’s usual mutts, this dog had a long-haired pelt of black and tan with splashes of white on his enormous paws and long snout. With a last lick of the paper, the pup sat back on his haunches and cocked his head. His ears flopped forward, making him look somewhat comical. His thumping tail disturbed the dust on the floor.

  ‘Here boy,’ Nathaniel patted his leg and the dog stood on its hind quarters to rest its big paws on his thigh.

  A lump formed in his throat as he remembered Lily rolling around in the middle of the half a dozen black and white puppies born to their neighbour’s dog in Como Street. He had promised her a puppy for her next birthday, but he couldn’t live up to his word because when she turned five he was half a world away.

  Nathaniel scratched behind the pup’s ear again. ‘I know a little lad who’ll enjoy playing with you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Mama.’ Cecily looked up from the embroidery hoop at her daughter sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘Did my real papa tuck me in each night?’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Cecily answered. ‘Although you were very young so I don’t suppose you remember.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ Ruth replied, tugging at one of her ringlets.

  Cecily reached out and stilled her hand. ‘Remember what we agreed, sweetheart.’

  Ruth smiled apologetically and released her hair. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  ‘Your father, God rest him, would tuck you in so you wouldn’t get a chill, then kiss you and tell you to sleep tight,’ Cecily said, selecting a skein of bright green wool.

  She was making a new cover for Amos’s church kneeler as a birthday present. This one had St George on it, and she was just about to start on the fiery dragon twisting in agony at the point of the holy soldier’s lance.