Perhaps Tomorrow Read online

  ‘You can try,’ bellowed the driver.

  He shifted his weight then punched out with his left. Nathaniel sidestepped and caught his fist mid-air, forcing it back. The tension in Jock’s arm turned to pain as Nathaniel threatened to snap his wrist. Nathaniel twisted his grip, side-stepped and shoved the man’s arm up his back then wedged his free arm under his stubbly chin.

  ‘I said, apologise,’ he repeated, as the driver struggled against his grip.

  The stale odour of sweat and beer wafted up as Jock Murray fought Nathaniel’s headlock.

  ‘I’m fe—’ Nathaniel tightened his hold. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . missus,’ he forced out.

  Nathaniel released him and the driver staggered away with his hands at his throat.

  ‘Now, unless you want me to go around to your master and tell him you’re after cheating a customer, I suggest you pick up that shovel,’ Nathaniel nodded at the discarded spade. ‘And start using it.’

  The driver flexed his twisted arm for a second then snatched up the shovel. ‘You ’eard,’ he growled at Bert, kicking a jagged lump of coal and sending it bouncing across the cobbles. ‘Get this lot back on the fecking wagon.’

  Nathaniel picked up his hat, which had fallen off in the tussle and turned to look at Mattie.

  Today her ebony hair was hidden under a red-and-blue scarf but several tendrils had escaped, curling around her oval face and drawing attention to her high cheekbones and small square chin. The soft blush on her cheeks heightened her beauty.

  ‘Thank you for your help. You’ve performed a miracle in making Jock apologise but I don’t think the Virgin herself could stop him swearing. But thank you Mr . . .?’

  ‘Archer. Jack Archer,’ he said, combining his middle and his mother’s maiden name.

  ‘I’m Mrs Maguire of Maguire & Son’s.’ She nodded towards the open gates with the red and gold lettering painted across them.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to have been of service to you, Mrs Maguire.’

  ‘You’re not from around here, are you, Mr Archer?’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The way you talk. Country-like.’

  ‘You must have an ear for such things, Mrs Maguire,’ he said. He dusted the coal specks from his hat. ‘I should be on my way.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And thank you once again for stepping in as you did.’

  ‘I’m glad I was passing. I’m sure the brute wouldn’t have taken such liberties if your husband had been in the yard,’ he added, strangely annoyed that a man should leave his wife to face such a foul-mouthed rogue alone.

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have, but my husband died three years ago,’ she said softly.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Nathaniel replied, knowing such words were no more use than a solitary raindrop to quench a fire.

  ‘Ah, well. Sure, I’m not the only one, ‘she told him, then put on a bright smile. ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘Except when you have to deal with the likes of him.’

  ‘And having a driver off sick.’ She nodded at the idle cart. ‘And a child who never sits still. And,’ she turned her face to the sky and her headscarf slipped back to reveal the rich lustre of her hair. ‘Having the sun blazing in the sky fit to melt yer so no one has need of coal.’

  She laughed a low throaty laugh that stirred something in Nathaniel that he’d almost forgotten was there. When she’d first turned and looked at him, he’d thought that she really was pretty but now, with the sun bathing her face in a warm glow, he saw he was mistaken. She wasn’t pretty at all, she was beautiful.

  Stebbins! He reminded himself.

  ‘And doing all the orders and accounts,’ he added, in what he hoped was a conversational tone.

  She laughed again. ‘I certainly wish I’d taken more notice of arithmetic at school, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I really must be on my way,’ he said, making no move to do so. ‘I heard there was a job going at Crane Wharf.’

  ‘You’re too late for a morning ticket, so you’ll only earn half a day’s money – even if you can get something this afternoon.’ A thoughtful expression settled on her face. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me being bold, Mr Archer, but you’re obviously new to such things. The gate callers, who allocate work tickets, give it to their regulars who stand them a pint or two in the hiring pubs. It might be days before you get the nod. You’ve done me a service and I’d be obliged if you’d allow me the chance to do the same for you.’ She glanced towards the empty cart. ‘My driver Eli is sick, and if you’re not afraid of hard graft you could take his round, just for a week or two. The first delivery has to be out by seven and in the afternoon by two, but you’d be finished as soon as that’s done and you’ve sorted your rig for the morning. It’s heavy work but I pay fifteen shillings a week and a hot midday meal.’

  Nathaniel was taken aback. He’d been looking for money in hand, not permanent work, but taking Mrs Maguire up on her offer would help him find out about Stebbins. But what if he were a regular visitor? If Amos spotted him he’d find himself sailing back to Botany Bay with an additional seven years on top of the original sentence. Still, if he kept his wits about him, it would be worth the risk.

  ‘Fifteen shillings and home cooking,’ he said. ‘How could I refuse?’

  Cecily Stebbins shifted in her seat to ease the pinch of her corset as her husband Amos took his place at the brass spread-eagle lectern. He opened the large, gilt-edged church Bible and Cecily smiled at him encouragingly. Naturally, as he was about to read the words of God himself, Amos didn’t respond. He cleared his throat. ‘The Lesson for today is taken from the second book of Kings, chapter nine, starting at verse thirty.’ His eyes narrowed and his gaze ran slowly over the congregation. ‘The Lord’s judgment on Jezebel.’

  A little thrill of anticipation ran through Cecily. Amos always made the back of her neck tingle when he read from the Old Testament. When his measured tones told of how God’s wrath slaughtered unbelievers and cast them down the fiery pit, you could almost smell the burning.

  Her eight-year old daughter, Ruth, shifted beside her and Cecily looked at her sharply. Ruth was the daughter of her brief first marriage to Mr Oliver, who had unwisely stepped out in front of an omnibus travelling at full speed. He left the bulk of his estate to his daughter in trust. Cecily could have lived comfortably enough on her two-hundred pounds-a-year widow’s portion but had decided to return to her father’s house.

  Ruth lowered her head, setting her ringlets jigging against her bonnet rim and studied her gloved hands. With her mid-brown hair, broad forehead and deep-set brown eyes, Ruth was so very like her late father. She was a pretty child with a sweet nature, but it was a pity she hadn’t inherited Cecily’s own honey-coloured locks and blue eyes to give her the ‘English Rose’ look, as the World of Fashion called it, because it was considered a mark of fine breeding.

  It was through her dearest departed papa, Jonathan Delahay, that Cecily had met Amos. He had just come to town from Essex and had rented a small office next door to her father’s clockmaking shop. As a widow just the wrong side of thirty, and with a figure that a kind soul would describe as Rubenesque, Cecily had resigned herself to a life alone, but, Amos had declared his admiration for her within a few weeks and she became his wife three months to the day after first setting eyes on him.

  As Amos’s forbidding tones described the wantonness of the ‘harlot queen of Israel’, Cecily’s eyes fixed on her husband’s thickset hands. Under the expensive Chinese-blue silk of her new gown, her shoulders slumped. How long had it been since they’d had relations? During their spring visit to Brighton four months ago . . . and before that? Just after twelfth night, if she recalled the occasion correctly. A twist of unhappiness caught in Cecily’s throat. How she longed for him to reach for her, hold her and cherish her instead of merely extinguishing the lamp and rolling over to sleep.

  She sat bolt upright and concentrated on the ornate crucifix on the altar. Shame on you, Cecily
Ruth Stebbins, for allowing such physical thoughts to creep into your mind. And in church of all places!

  Amos was the most considerate of husbands and she should be grateful that, with deference to her sensibilities, he subdued his base urges to spare her. What wife could ask for more? But is it so wrong to crave a little bit of loving now and then, a small voice in the back of her head replied.

  ‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Amos boomed out.

  Only the sound of his feet marching across the stone floor broke the silence. He took his seat on the other side of Ruth and the service continued. A hymn, the briefest of sermons, and then the congregation rose to their feet. With the promise of Sunday dinner awaiting them, they sang the final chorus.

  Cecily picked up her gloves and beaded bag. ‘Your reading of the passage was masterful as always, Mr Stebbins.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked beyond her.

  Cecily turned to see what had caught her husband’s attention and saw Mattie Maguire in the pew across the way from them.

  As a good Anglican she should disapprove of Mattie, who was not only a Roman Catholic but Irish to boot. But she couldn’t help but admire her, running the coal yard, raising her son, and caring for her afflicted mother-in-law patiently – even bringing her to church every Sunday so that the poor woman could draw comfort from God’s word. Added to which there had never been a whiff of scandal attached to her, which is more than could be said for some of the widows she met as a pastoral visitor for the League of Hallowed Homes.

  Today, like every other Sunday, Mattie was dressed in her best twill gown and matching jacket edged with worn braid trim. It had seen better days but it had a few more years in it before it was ready to be sold on to the rag trader. Her bonnet sat squarely on ebony hair but, unlike Cecily’s own couture creation, it had a modest brim, allowing her face to be clearly visible. Cecily gave her husband a questioning look.

  ‘I was just pondering what an example of forbearance Mrs Maguire is in her care of poor Queenie,’ he told her, as they watched Mattie persuading old Mrs Maguire to put her bonnet on the correct way. ‘Perhaps we should give her a word of encouragement.’ He offered Cecily his arm.

  Cecily curled her hand around her husband’s arm. ‘You are, as ever, so mindful of others,’ she said, inclining her head and setting her hat feathers bobbing.

  Amos didn’t contradict her. With Ruth following, they strolled over.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Maguire,’ Cecily said.

  ‘And to yourselves, Mrs Stebbins. Mr Stebbins. And Miss Oliver.’ She smiled at Ruth who smiled back. ‘The vicar was in fine form this morning, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Cecily replied. She turned to Queenie. ‘And did you enjoy the service, Mrs Maguire?’

  Queenie’s work-worn face creased into a rapturous grin. ‘I liked the singing. My son’s in the choir. Did you see him?’

  ‘Of course we did,’ Cecily replied. ‘Standing at the back, wasn’t he?’

  Queenie nodded. ‘That’s right. You can’t miss him.’

  ‘And how are you today, Mrs Maguire?’ Amos asked the old woman, articulating his words slowly as one would to a small child. ‘When I saw your daughter-in-law on Wednesday at the yard she said you were a little unwell. Are you any better?’

  From the other side of the church the choirboys burst from the vestry. They had changed from their long blue gowns back into their tatty trousers and grubby shirts.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch Brian,’ Queenie said, as she scurried over to the boys on the chancery steps.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Mattie said apologetically. ‘If you’ll excuse me I ought to follow her . . . just in case.’

  Amos waved her apology aside. ‘Please, don’t give it another thought.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mattie. ‘And thank you again for taking the time to call at the yard this week.’

  She hurried after her mother-in-law.

  Cecily stared at her husband. ‘You didn’t mention that you visited Mrs Maguire this week, my dear.’

  Amos looked surprised. ‘I’m sure I did, my love.’

  ‘I don’t think you did, husband.’

  Amos took her hand and wrapped it around his arm. ‘Well, if I didn’t it was because as soon as I’m home the heavy burdens of business fade from my mind.’

  ‘So, you had business with Mrs Maguire?’

  ‘Of course. Why else would I call?’ His eyes flickered past her. ‘Oh, I’ve just spotted Mr Dunn. Will you excuse me for a moment, my dear, while I have a quick word with him. I’ll meet you and Ruth outside.’

  Cecily watched him go, then looked back at Mattie, who was walking out of the church with her arm looped in Queenie’s. As she watched them head for the door a feeling of uneasiness crept up Cecily’s spine. Even her second-hand clothes didn’t disguise the fact that Mattie Maguire was a handsome woman, with generous curves and a surprisingly slender waist. She herself had to grip the bed post each morning while her maid laced her corset. Perhaps she should cancel her weekly order of chocolates from Hewett’s in Regent Street. But what if it was too late and Amos had already . . .?

  Cecily laughed.

  ‘What is it Mama?’ asked Ruth as she took her mother’s hand.

  ‘Oh, just something very amusing crossed my mind. Let’s go out into the sun to wait for Mr Stebbins.’

  Still smiling Cecily walked her daughter out of the church. Yes, how funny. It was unimaginable that her husband, Amos Stebbins, churchwarden, guardian of the Wapping Workhouse and St Katherine’s School and pillar of the local community would ever transgress any of God’s laws, especially with the act of adultery.

  Chapter Eight

  Boyce placed his hands on the polished surface of the table and stared blankly across at the man opposite. ‘What’d you say then?’

  Aaron Ishovich, or Russian Harry, as he was know hereabouts, stared back, the ringlets on either side of his face trembling ever so slightly.

  ‘A five shillings a dozen?’ he replied stroking his long beard.

  Boyce’s eyes narrowed. ‘Seven and a tanner or I’ll offer them to Esther.’ A small tic started in the corner of the pawnbroker’s left eye. ‘It’s my last offer,’ Boyce added, stroking the pair of kid gloves on the table between them.

  The two men stared eyeball to eyeball for a moment or two then Aaron’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Done.’

  Boyce jumped up and spat on his hand. ‘Put it there.’

  Aaron Ishovich rose to his feet and they shook on the deal.

  The pawnbroker picked up his felt hat. ‘You’re a thief you know.’ He said it without rancour.

  Boyce grinned. ‘My boys’ll deliver them on Friday,’ he said wiping the damp off on his palm down his trousers. ‘Show Mr Ishovich out.’

  One of his men held back the threadbare curtain to the passage leading to the back door.

  Boyce smacked his lips together. ‘All that haggling’s dried me out.’

  He went to the back of the pub and into the Duck’s main bar. It was only half full but then Spitalfields market wouldn’t have closed yet. The barmaid slid a drink across the bar to him and he spotted Nathaniel sitting in a quiet corner.

  Nathaniel had changed so much from the young man whom he’d been chained to for six weeks in the bilge of the ship, that Boyce reckoned his own mother would have had trouble recognizing him. When he’d first met Nathaniel the law had just plucked him from the comfortable life of a country clerk and thrown him into a world he never dreamed existed and hadn’t been raised to deal with. But by Christ he’d learnt. And fast. He’d learnt to eat his dry ship tack as soon as he had it in his hand or have it filched off him. He learnt to see everything and tell nothing, to look for an angle in any situation, stand by a mate and take the lash without a murmur.

  Boyce had been drawn to him from the moment they were chained together in that stinking hold. He’d worried about it at first – was he going a bit Nancy? – but then one day as they were trudging around on deck on their h
our’s exercise, Nathaniel laughed at something and in an instant Boyce understood.

  Jem! That’s why he’d taken to Nathaniel – because he reminded him of his elder brother. Jem had sheltered him and fed him when he was just a snotty-nosed kid and taught him how to survive. It was Jem who schooled him to slip a purse out of a pocket or a watch from a chain with a feather-light touch. He’d taught him the way to raise an unlocked window without a squeak and what to take from a jewellery box and what to leave behind.

  He’d been dead almost twenty years now. Boyce had nursed him as best he could on the bare floor of the attic in Golden Lane. He’d rubbed his brother’s icy hands to get some blood in them and forced brandy between his chattering teeth to ease his pain. But Boyce had been but a lad, less than a dozen years old, and could do nothing except watch helplessly as Jem coughed up his lungs and died.

  But for all his thievery Jem was honest, straight. If he gave his word he’d never go back on it, and if he was your pal then he’d stand by you in the face of the Devil. Nathaniel was just the same. On more than a handful of occasions Nathaniel’s quick wits and courage had saved Boyce’s life. And for that and for Jem, Boyce was going to see him right as far as the bastard who’d sent him sailing to Australia was concerned.

  Nathaniel looked up as Boyce approached.

  ‘Sally! Bring us another bottle,’ he shouted as he took the chair opposite Nathaniel. ‘Wot you see and wot you know?’

  ‘Quite a bit since I left this morning. And,’ Nathaniel leant forward. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  The bar placed the new bottle on the table and blew Nathaniel his customary kiss.

  ‘What sort of problem?’ Boyce asked.

  ‘I’ve taken a job.’

  ‘What! Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Ha! Probably. I went back to the coal yard where I saw Stebbins last week and the owner, Mrs Maguire, was having trouble with a delivery driver. I stepped in and she offered me a job.’

  ‘And you took it.’