Hold On to Hope Read online

  Hold on to Hope

  Also by Jean Fullerton

  No Cure for Love

  A Glimpse at Happiness

  Perhaps Tomorrow

  Hold on to Hope

  Hold on to Hope

  JEAN FULLERTON

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books, an imprint of Hachette UK Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

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  Copyright © Jean Fullerton 2012

  The moral right of Jean Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 178 649 5761

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  To Hannah, Nathan, Sarah and Imogen.

  Chapter One

  Kate Ellis tucked the wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear and handed over the bowl of steaming stew to the next customer.

  ‘There you go. That’ll be threepence, please. And just take a cuppa.’ She nodded at Sally, her assistant standing beside her and pouring tea into a dozen or so mugs.

  The docker handed her the money and Kate pulled out the drawer under the counter, slipped the cash into the well-worn copper section then shut the drawer. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. There might be icicles hanging from the crane arms in the docks but the chop house was steamy as a laundry.

  Kate’s Kitchen sat on St George’s Highway about a mile east of Smithfield on the corner of Neptune Street and was situated at the rough end of Wapping and Shadwell’s main thoroughfare. Her eating house drew trade from the old St Katharine’s church area and the tobacco docks as well as the port offices around the Royal Mint.

  The shop took up most of the downstairs part of the property and allowed Kate a small parlour, accessed from behind the counter and through the back door. The room had a fireplace and a set of narrow wooden steps leading to the two rooms above, where she and her children slept. The backyard contained the privy and the chicken coop. The derelict stable formed the back wall.

  Many of the local traders were having brash new windows fitted, made up of a single sheet of glass; Kate kept her front window with its traditional small panes. She felt that they helped to give the shop a homely feel, along with the clean, bright paintwork and red-chequered curtains.

  ‘How’re you doing, Sally?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I’ll have to brew another pot in a mo’ but I’ll squeeze another couple of mugs out of this one first,’ Sally replied.

  ‘Good. The next batch of pies should be ready in a minute.’ Kate squeezed behind her assistant to reach the oven.

  Sally’s husband, Will, was a long-time drinking pal of Kate’s brother Patrick. He had been a lighterman on the river until his boat collided with a Woolwich steam packet on its way upriver three years ago which crushed his arm. As soon as Patrick told Kate of Sally’s circumstances she had offered her work.

  Although there was barely room to accommodate both women, she and Sally had developed an uncanny knack of avoiding bumping into each other as they dished up dozens of hot dinners and poured gallons of sweet tea.

  ‘I thought your Joe would be back by now,’ Sally said, sliding the dirty plates stacked on the end of the marble counter into the enamel sink.

  ‘So did I,’ Kate replied, pouring custard on to two bowls of jam pudding.

  On cue, the parlour door opened and Kate turned to see her son Joe standing in the doorway.

  As usual, and despite Kate combing it into order that morning, Joe’s hair now flew off in all directions. There was a smear of mud on his right cheek and both socks had lost their fight with gravity and were bunched just above the tops of his boots. Despite eating what seemed to be his own body weight in food each day, Joe remained stick thin, probably because he burnt up so much energy tearing around the streets.

  ‘I thought I told you to come back at noon,’ Kate said, picking up the tea towel.

  Joe found space behind the counter and grabbed a wooden spoon. ‘Sorry, Mam, but me and Sammy were playing soldiers.’ He swished his improvised sword back and forth. ‘We was fighting off cannibals, like the ones Uncle Pat told us about.’

  The corner of Kate’s mouth lifted. ‘And I’ll have to have a word with my brother about his tall tales.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ Joe protested as he parried an imaginary enemy. The spoon pinged against a mug, setting it wobbling.

  ‘I’ll have that,’ Kate took the spoon from him, ‘before my china ends up shattered on the floor.’

  Joe surrendered his sword and lolled against the counter. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, gathering a fingerful of custard from the side of the jug and popping it into his mouth.

  ‘Nothing until you’ve nipped these around to the trade door at Murphy’s Wharf,’ Kate said, picking up a basket filled with wrapped pies that had been kept warm beside the stove.

  Joe stuck out his lower lip. ‘Oh, Maaaam.’

  ‘It won’t take you a moment and I’ll have your plate ready when you get back.’ She tousled his fair hair. ‘There’ll be an extra dollop of jam if you’re quick.’

  Joe grinned, showing a shadow of his father’s easy charm, before scooping up the basket and dodging between the tables.

  ‘And don’t drop the money on the way back!’

  The bell over the door jingled as Joe dashed out, almost knocking Ruben Krowsky, one of the coffee sellers, flying.

  Ruben stamped his feet on the coconut mat and unwound his scarf as clinging wisps of river fog evaporated in the warmth of the shop.

  ‘Afternoon, Ruben,’ Kate called over the heads of the other customers.

  ‘And to you, dear lady,’ the old man replied, as he reached the counter. ‘I see your Joe’s full of beans today.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Isn’t he always?’

  ‘And how is my lovely Ella? Working hard at her lessons?’

  A little bubble of pride started in Kate’s chest. ‘She’s grand! She got a special commendation from her teacher last week for her neat handwriting.’

  ‘Did she?’ Ruben said, approvingly.

  ‘She did. And of course Joe will be going to St Katharine’s after Christmas.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Well, he’s six in May.’

  ‘Six! It only seems yesterday he started walking.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Joe’s long given up walking in favour of running.’

  ‘A truer word was never spoken.’ Ruben’s long face creased into a smile. ‘I know I’ve said it before but you don’t look old enough to be their ma.’

  ‘Go away with you,’ Kate replied, feeling her face grow warm.

  Ruben put a fingerless-gloved hand on his chest. ‘As Jehovah is my witness! You can’t be a day older than my Sadie and she’s only twenty-four in January.’

  ‘Ah well then, I have a couple of years on her,’ Kate replied. ‘How’s Hester?’

  He shook his head dolefully. ‘Oy. Not good. She’s been coughing all night, fit to wa
ke the dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She took a plate from the stack on the end of the counter. ‘Stew or pie?’

  ‘Pie, I think.’

  Kate picked up a tea towel, opened the oven and manoeuvred a steak and onion pie onto the plate. She scooped up a generous portion of mashed potato alongside it then ladled gravy over both. ‘That should warm your cockles,’ she said, handing it to him.

  ‘I hope so! It’s cold enough to freeze the blood in a poor man’s veins. I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t see ice floating on the river soon like it did back in ’49. Do you remember?’

  ‘How could I forget,’ Kate replied, smiling at him. ‘That’s when we first met.’

  A fatherly expression stole over Ruben’s face. ‘Ah yes. I can still see you now with baby in one arm, a basket hooked over the other and selling pies at the dock gates.’

  ‘And you gave me a mug of coffee and let me warm Ella by your stove,’ Kate replied, softly.

  Ruben looked amazed. ‘Did I?’

  She smiled. ‘You know you did. Now, Ruben, I think there’s a space or two at the back. And also,’ she picked up one of the wrapped pies from the back of the hotplate, ‘put it on your stove to keep it warm for later.’

  Ruben put his hand up. ‘No, I couldn’t—’

  ‘Sure you can, for Hester.’

  He took the parcel and tucked it in his pocket. ‘Thank you and a blessing on your house.’ Picking out a knife and fork from the tub on the counter, he made his way between the tables to the rear of the shop.

  The bell tinkled again and Joe dashed back in.

  ‘That was quick,’ Kate said, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching for a bowl.

  ‘That’s cos I’m the fastest runner in the street,’ Joe told her, his eyes fixed on the ladle as it filled the dish with mutton stew.

  Kate took the money from him and then handed him his dinner. ‘Go and keep old Ruben company.’

  Cradling his stew in his hand, Joe made his way between the men seated around the dozen tables to where the old coffee seller was eating his dinner.

  Knowing that the end-of-lunch bells would soon ring, most of Kate’s customers were mopping up the last drops of gravy and preparing to go back to work. And sure enough, within half an hour the last few stragglers were gone, leaving only a couple of street traders sipping coffee at the back. Joe finished his dinner and Kate got him to help sort the cutlery to keep him occupied. As she wiped down the last table, her daughter Ella walked in.

  Although she wouldn’t turn seven until April, Ella was already half a head taller than many of her classmates who were two years older. With bright blue eyes and two long blonde plaits bouncing down her back, she looked very much as Kate had done twenty years before. The cold had put a sparkle in her eyes and pink on her cheeks.

  She was dressed in the uniform at St Katharine’s School, a navy button-up dress, a white pinafore and a dark blue calf-length coat. Well, the coat should have been calf-length but it, like the dress and pinafore, was almost up to her knees and would have to be replaced before the next school year.

  ‘You’re out early,’ Kate said, putting the last plate on top of the stack.

  ‘The boiler went out so Miss Wainwright called Mr Delaney in to look at it. After he played about with it for a bit, it started smoking and filled the classrooms. Mr Rudd had to close the school.’

  The two teachers did their best to keep St Katharine’s going but since the old headmaster Mr Gardener died a year ago, the school seemed to be going to rack and ruin. Perhaps, instead of sending Joe there in January, she should apply for a place in the Green Coat School in Norbiton Road just off Salmon’s Lane. She had to find a good place for him as without a proper school certificate there was no hope of either of them securing an apprenticeship or an office job. She had heard that St Katharine’s school guardians were interviewing someone to replace the old headmaster so maybe she’d wait a couple of weeks before making a final decision.

  ‘Sally, do you think you can finish off here while I go and put my orders in for next week?’ Kate asked, untying her apron.

  ‘Sure thing, Mrs E,’ Sally replied.

  ‘In fact,’ Kate glanced at the darkening sky through the window, ‘I doubt in this weather you’ll get many more in so as soon as the last few have left, you can lock up. And take the last couple of pies yourself.’

  Sally’s pale face lifted into a smile. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs E. That should do Will and the boys just right for their supper.’

  ‘And make sure you take one for yourself,’ Kate added, thinking Sally could do with putting a bit of meat on her bones.

  Sally’s two older lads were already working on the river but they only brought home boys’ wages so Kate made sure there was always a bit of something left over.

  ‘I will,’ Sally replied, putting another handful of dishes in the sink. ‘And I’ll set the pot to soak before I go. What do you want me to do with the leftover bread?’

  ‘Just leave it. I’ll make some bread pudding with half of it and take the rest to the mission when I get back. There should be enough stew left to feed a few more poor souls.’

  Kate collected her coat and bonnet from behind the parlour door. ‘Joe, Ella, do you want to come with me to Watney Market?’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ Ella said, rewinding her scarf around her head.

  Joe jumped off the stool behind the counter and dashed around. ‘Can we have a ha’penny to spend in the sweetshop?’

  ‘I think I might just find a farthing or two for you both. Now get your coat, Joe, and we’ll be off.’

  As Kate had hoped, the stallholders were selling off their fresh produce cheap rather than have it spoiled by the frost overnight. After giving next week’s order to the butcher and grocer, Kate loaded up her basket and dropped in two oranges for an after-supper treat. When they started home, the lamplighters were already at the top of their long ladders, bringing to life the lamps dotted along the main thoroughfare. They could hear the faint hiss of the gas as they passed underneath.

  The fog along the highway was so thick that she and the children could hardly see across the road. Taking the long way to avoid the sailors outside the seamen’s mission, Kate hurried on. She’d left a pie for their supper on the table and it wouldn’t take long to heat it while she brewed a cuppa for them all. Then, when the children were tucked into bed, she could set the meat simmering for tomorrow and darn Joe’s socks yet again.

  Going around to the back of the shop, Kate lifted the gate latch and ushered the children into the yard. The chickens, snug in their coop, clucked and cooed as Kate closed the gates behind her.

  She pulled her key out to open the back door but found it already unlocked. Her brows pulled together. She had been into the yard to gather eggs before dinner and was sure she’d locked it after her.

  She turned the handle and, with her heart thumping in her chest, made her way along the short passageway to the parlour. She pushed open the door and gasped. There, sitting in her chair with his feet on the fender was the man she’d last seen almost four years ago: her husband, Freddie Ellis.

  Standing just over five foot eight, he was taller than most local-born men, many of whom struggled to match Kate’s five foot four. He was dressed in a well-fitted houndstooth jacket and matching trousers, and his tall crowned hat was placed on the table beside him. With hazel eyes and a full head of dark brown hair combed back so that it skimmed his collar Freddie was a man women looked twice at. Kate herself had thought him the most handsome man in the world when she’d first set eyes on him.

  He stood up and, with an expression she once thought endearing, said, ‘Hello, Kate.’

  ‘Who is it, Mam?’ Joe whispered, shaking her skirt.

  The urge to scream rose up inside her but somehow Kate held it in. ‘Ella, Joe, this is your father.’

  Ella took a step closer to her and stared wide-eyed at Freddie.

  Joe rushed forward. ‘I’m Joe and I�
�m five and almost as tall as Ella and she’s six!’ He stretched up to his tiptoes.

  Freddie crouched down until his face was level with Joe’s. ‘So you’re my Joe?’ His gaze ran slowly over his son’s face. ‘Why ain’t you just the replica of me when I was a lad? But are you a scrapper like me?’

  Joe raised his fists in front of his face. Freddie looked impressed. He touched Joe’s small white knuckles with his scarred ones. ‘You’ve got you dabs just—’

  ‘Children, go to your room,’ Kate cut in.

  Ella gave her a father an apprehensive look and headed for the door.

  Joe’s shoulders slumped. ‘But, Mam . . .’

  Kate glared him. Defiance flickered briefly across Joe’s face but then he followed his sister, dragging his feet all the way. The door clicked shut.

  Kate glared at Freddie, who gave her a cocky grin and sat down again.

  ‘I must say you’ve got a nice little place here,’ he said, slowly looking around. ‘I ’ope you don’t mind I got myself a bite to eat.’

  Kate glanced at the empty plate where their supper had been. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Who says I want anything?’

  Kate regarded him coolly. ‘You always do.’

  ‘Ain’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Why should I care? Millbank or Pentonville. One prison’s much the same as another.’

  Freddie sneered. ‘I suppose cos I ain’t been around for a while you’d hope I was dead and buried somewhere.’

  Kate didn’t answer.

  Resentment flashed across Freddie’s face before he smiled and with slow deliberation rested his feet back on the fender. ‘So this your place then?’ he asked, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. Whose is it then?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Freddie jumped up and loomed over Kate who had to stop herself gagging as the stench of stale sweat and beer wafted over her. ‘Got yourself a man then, have you?’

  Forcing herself not to step back, Kate met his gaze coolly. ‘I haven’t forgotten my marriage vows – even if you did the moment the ink was dry. My brother owns the shop and I run it for him. If you must know.’