A Glimpse at Happiness (12 page)
‘What about this then?’ he asked flourishing it at Patrick. ‘Is this what a toff like you would wear when the queen invites you to tea at the palace then?’
Patrick grinned as he eyed the garish mustard, green and black checked jacket with a broad, velveteen collar. ‘I don’t know about that, but it’s the sort of dog’s dinner Harry Tugman would wear in the Monkey parade.’
They laughed, and the slender floor-walker who supervised the shop assistants and who had had his eyes on them since they arrived, stared at the pair. Patrick stared back and the man lowered his gaze.
Brian shoved the checked jacket back and retrieved the green suit that Patrick had referred to. ‘I think I’ll have this one. I’m sure Mattie will like it.’
‘I’m convinced she will,’ Patrick replied, thinking of the ear bashing his sister had given him about making sure Brian got something dignified rather than flash for their nuptials.
Brian threw his suit over his arm. ‘We had better kit you out now. What do you fancy?’
‘I thought I might treat myself to something a little classy,’ Patrick said, moving towards the top end of the rail.
He could have made do with one of the ten bob suits but it was his sister’s wedding after all, and he’d had a good few weeks on the river, so he thought he might splash out a bit. Besides, it would make a change for him to stand next to Josie dressed in something that for once didn’t look as if it had been fashioned out of old potato sacks.
The floor-walker left his position by the till and edged over to them. ‘The suits in this section start at two guineas,’ he said.
‘I can read,’ Patrick replied, nodding at the bold lettering in the sign above the rack.
‘That’s all right, my good man,’ Brian said, giving the sallow-faced attendant an idiot-like grin. ‘He’s the Duke of Dublin, don’t you know.’
The supervisor turned his back on Brian and gave Patrick a smile almost as oily as his hair. ‘Perhaps sir would consider this?’
He pulled out a brown suit with a broad black stripe. Patrick gave him a frosty stare and the shop assistant slid it back on the rack and reached for a blue checked one. ‘Well then, how about—’
‘This is more what I had in mind,’ Patrick said, lifting a charcoal jacket off the rail.
‘A very good choice, if I might say so,’ the assistant warbled. ‘Note the fashionable three buttons and the styling on the back. It’s the only one we have in that style and skilfully made by one of our local suppliers.’
‘It’s cabbage then,’ Patrick said. The assistant gave a noncommittal smile.
Because the old weavers’ houses in the area had large upstairs windows, Aldgate had more than its fair share of tailors eking out a living in them. The large establishments up West sent fabric for a set number of jackets or suits ordered in bulk to the tailors, who often managed to squeeze an extra garment out of the cloth, giving them something to sell on. Such items were commonly known as cabbage.
Patrick shrugged off his jacket, handed it to Brian then slipped on the new one. It sat squarely on his shoulders and hung well. He ran his hand over the fabric, feeling the fine weave with his fingertips. It was so dark it was almost black, and even with his old work shirt underneath it gave him a look of understated elegance. He twisted this way and that, feeling the lining move with the jacket over his body.
Brian let out a rolling laugh. ‘Look at yourself, then,’ he said. ‘You just see how the girlies’ eyes light up when they catch a glimpse of you, Pat me boy.’
‘Very nice,’ the shop assistant cooed. ‘It complements your athletic figure. The trousers are ready to fit.’ He indicated the un-hemmed bottoms and unfinished waistband.
Patrick studied himself in the mirror. Although it might be a sin to say so, he didn’t look half bad. But would Josie think so? Would her eyes light up?
He glanced down at the cuff and caught sight of the paper ticket.
Two pounds, fifteen shillings and sixpence!
‘Worth every penny,’ the supervisor said swiftly, seeing that he had spotted the price.
Perhaps . . . but this was nearly two weeks wages.
Patrick looked at his reflection again, and this time imagined Josie on his arm. In his mind’s eye he saw her laughing and smiling as she walked beside him. Her eyes would flash and sparkle as they always did, and if they danced, as they very well might, then the silk of her skirt would glide over, not snag on, the fabric of his clothes.
But two pounds, fifteen and six
. . .
. . .
‘I don’t know,’ he said, studying the sharp line of the shoulders.
The supervisor’s encouraging expression faded a little.
A smile spread across Brian’s freckled face. ‘I’ll tell you what, Pat, it won’t only be the local girls who’ll be giving you the glad eye.’ He winked. ‘I bet when a certain young lady catches sight of you looking like the dog’s naggers, she’ll wish she’d come back from America sooner.’
Patrick slipped the jacket off and handed it to the assistant. ‘I’ll take it.’
Patrick and Iggy Bonny stood on the stone quayside and surveyed Roy MacManus’s barge, the
Mary Ann
, lying half submerged in the ebbing tide. Inside its hull, Roy stood up to his knees in slurry, desperately packing cork into the damaged timber.
Mary Ann
, lying half submerged in the ebbing tide. Inside its hull, Roy stood up to his knees in slurry, desperately packing cork into the damaged timber.
Patrick had strolled down to the
Mermaid’s
mooring before sunrise and had arrived just before Iggy about half an hour ago.
Mermaid’s
mooring before sunrise and had arrived just before Iggy about half an hour ago.
Ignatius Cassius Bonny, to give him his full name, had joined Patrick on the
Sea Horse
in Kingston ten years before. Sailing around the Cape in the teeth of icy winds and mountainous waves had soon cemented a friendship between this unlikely pair. Although Iggy was as dark as any other native African, his light green eyes and aquiline nose betrayed the other races that were part of his ancestry. When Patrick returned to London, Iggy declared himself finished with the roving life and had crewed the
Mermaid
with him ever since.
Sea Horse
in Kingston ten years before. Sailing around the Cape in the teeth of icy winds and mountainous waves had soon cemented a friendship between this unlikely pair. Although Iggy was as dark as any other native African, his light green eyes and aquiline nose betrayed the other races that were part of his ancestry. When Patrick returned to London, Iggy declared himself finished with the roving life and had crewed the
Mermaid
with him ever since.
He’d met and married Colly, a fair-skinned, red-haired Irish lass, and settled down in Tait Street, around the corner from the Nolans. Colly sold sweets in twists of newspaper to the local children from her front parlour window and presented Iggy annually with an infant - brown-skinned and red-haired, or with a buttermilk complexion and curly black hair, or some other exotic combination. Usually it was Iggy who was early, waiting on the dockside, but since Josie’s visit a few days ago, Patrick found himself awake well before dawn with a vision of her imprinted in his mind’s eye.
Although the sun was barely up, the waterfront was already alive with dock labourers working under the direction of their masters, the men who oversaw the loading and unloading of the ships. Red-eyed night watchmen slowly made their way home, hunched with fatigue after a night on duty on ships and in warehouses. The slippery jetties were stacked high with crates and barrels awaiting the army of porters to take them into the warehouses standing tall along the docks.
‘Don’t you worry, chum, we’ll soon have her bobbing along good as new,’ one of the lightermen shouted down as he started unbuttoning his jacket.
‘This can’t go on,’ Patrick said, to rumbles of agreement on either side of him. ‘We all know that Roy told Ma Tugman to sling her hook and this is the result.’
Bert Bunton, who was so ancient he could have sailed with Drake, slipped his cap off and wiped his forehead. ‘And much good it did him,’ he said, the leathery skin of his face creasing as he spoke. ‘All e’s got to show for it is a hull clogged with mud.’
Patrick nodded. ‘That’s a fact, but a man can mend a boat. He can’t feed his family if he’s in prison, can he now?’
Ezra Lennon, a regular in the Town of Ramsgate and one of the dock masters who gave out the daily work tickets, stepped forward. ‘Roy’s barge isn’t the first to be stoved in,’ he said. ‘Seth Morton’s
Dolphin
had its rigging cut and Conner’s had his sails ditched in the river. They’d told Ma to look elsewhere, too.’
Dolphin
had its rigging cut and Conner’s had his sails ditched in the river. They’d told Ma to look elsewhere, too.’
Bert’s rheumy eyes flickered into life. ‘That wot I’s saying - Ma and her boys will get you. I’ve been on this ’ere river over forty years, since I was a nipper. In me old dad’s time Popeye Wells and the Shadwell boys ruled, then it was Mad Corky and a dozen years ago Danny Donovan held sway. So if it weren’t the Tugmans, it would be some other fast crew. As I say, it is the way of the river.’
‘Only if we let it be,’ Patrick replied, in a voice that carried over the crowd. ‘You all know where I stand on the Tugmans, but I’m only one man. If we join together they won’t be able to pick us off one by one and they’ll have to move their pilfered goods some other way.’
‘What’s you saying?’ Ezra asked.
‘I’m saying that all of us who are interested should meet in the Town next Saturday and form an association,’ Patrick replied.
Bert pointed a tobacco-stained finger at him. ‘You’re not one of those Chartists are you, Nolan?’ he asked. ‘Cos I ain’t marchin’ on Westminster. Not with my legs.’
Patrick’s manner lightened a little. ‘No. I’m just after getting us to stand together against those who’re trying to take the bread out of our children’s mouths.’
There were murmurs of agreement then, from the back of the crowd, a police officer in a navy, high-collared tailcoat and top hat, pushed his way through.
The officer was shorter than Patrick and looked to be ten or so years older, with a girth that spoke of a man who did justice to his plate. He sported a fine pair of sideburns and a broad moustache. Stopping a foot or so in front of Patrick, he looked him up and down slowly.
‘Morning gentlemen. You planning a revolution like those frogs across the Channel then?’ he asked.
‘Someone’s taken an axe to Roy’s barge,’ Patrick replied, flicking his head sideways.
The officer tucked his thumbs into his shiny belt and peered over the side of the quay. He tutted loudly then cast his eyes around the crowd of men. ‘Anyone know who did it?’
No one spoke.
The police were a fact of life and as such they were tolerated. They stopped runaway horses and pulled bodies from the river but they weren’t to be trusted. No one ever told them anything.
A low-life who sneaked information to the constabulary wasn’t regarded favourably by the local population. The crowd shuffled away, and a few climbed down to help Roy bail out the
Mary Ann
. Within a couple of moments only Patrick and the officer remained.
Mary Ann
. Within a couple of moments only Patrick and the officer remained.
‘It’s Pat Nolan, isn’t it?’ he asked, taking a pipe out from the front of his jacket. He stuck it in the side of his mouth and struck a Lucifer.
‘Aye,’ Patrick replied, not too sure he liked his name being known to the local peelers.
‘I’m Plant, Sergeant Plant.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘I heard you’re the one niggling at the Tugmans.’
Ignoring the prickle of uneasiness creeping up his spine, Patrick gave the man an ingenuous smile. ‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘Harry and Charlie are a pair of wrong ’uns and no mistake. Especially Charlie; I reckon he’s got something missing up here.’ Sergeant Plant tapped his temple and Patrick was inclined to agree. ‘They’re almost as bad as that old mother of theirs but then they’d have to go some way to match her wicked streak.’
Patrick wouldn’t have argued that one either but his expression remained impassive.
Plant drew on the pipe and let a puff of smoke escape from the other side of his mouth. ‘I heard it was Harry who lifted the cargo from the
Maid of Plymouth
last week,’ he said.
Maid of Plymouth
last week,’ he said.
Patrick tried to look surprised. Plant studied him for a few more minutes then knocked the ash from his pipe before stuffing it back between his brass buttons. ‘Ah, well. If you do hear a whisper just come and find me. I’ve got an interest in the Tugmans’ business.’
Hitching her basket on her hips, Josie followed her friend Sophie Cooper along Shorter Alley. True to her word, Josie had volunteered to help Sophie with her round of pastoral visits to the poor of the area, and they were making their way to one of the rundown areas just north of Cable Street. It was the last refuge of the destitute before they were forced onto the parish.
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