Josie’s head started to throb again. ‘They were, but he said it was a long story. Frankly, Mam, we were standing in the middle of Wapping High Street and all that was going through my head was that Patrick wasn’t rotting at the bottom of the sea.’ An image of Patrick swam into Josie’s mind as she remembered the sensation of his eyes on her. ‘I only just managed to ask about his family and what he was doing.’ She sat herself up on one elbow. ‘When he turned around and looked at me I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight . . . I just babbled on.’
A faint smile crossed Ellen’s face. ‘I can understand why. What did he tell you about his family?’
Josie recounted the Nolan family news, and then a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘He looked just the same, you know. Tall as a tree and just as solid, but broader than I recall. That old scar on his chin has faded but he has a new one on his right cheek and he still has grand curly hair. He’s still Patrick.’ She caught her mother’s sharp look. ‘As I said, I was shocked, so it was only on the way home I started to think clearly about everything.’
Ellen sighed. ‘I don’t suppose it matters very much, after all this time. It was so long ago and you were both so young.’ She patted Josie’s hand. ‘Now: you know I’ll always have a soft spot for Patrick for the way he saved our lives. If it wasn’t for his quick actions on the night Danny Donavan tried to murder me, both of us would have long been in our graves. But perhaps him not coming back was for the best. You’re in a different position now, Josie, what with Robert’s new post at the hospital and everything.’
Josie nodded. ‘I may be, but I’m still the Josie who was best friends with Mattie. I’m going to visit her and her mother next week. Patrick said he would be there and I’m determined to get his “long story” out of him then.’ The pounding in her temples started again so she lay back. ‘I’m sure that, whatever the reason for his disappearance, it will be an interesting one.’
As he turned into Walburgh Street, Patrick’s weary eyes rested on his front door at the end of the road. There were already new gas lamps along Commercial Road but he guessed it would be many years before such an innovation reached his street and, until it did, he would only have the candlelight flickering in his front window to guide him home.
Like the rest of the street, number twenty was a two-up, two-down with a small back yard which led out to a narrow alley at the back. Although it was larger than their previous house in Cinnamon Street, the Nolan family packed it to the brim, which is why he was thankful when Gus decided to seek his own lodgings a year ago.
His daughter Annie shared a large bed in the downstairs front room with her aunts, Mattie and Kate, while Mickey bedded down alongside his gran in a truckle bed. As the man of the house Patrick had the small back room above the kitchen to himself. If he stretched his arms wide he could almost touch the walls, but the room did have a small fire and a rag rug and he’d managed to squeeze a compact easy chair next to his bed. Cramped though it was, the room allowed him the privacy that no one else in the house enjoyed.
As he opened the front door, warmth and the mouth-watering smell of oxtail stew wafted over him. On entering the kitchen he greeted his mother and his sister Mattie. Sarah Nolan acknowledged her son with a nod but stayed seated by the fire. Patrick strode over and kissed her on the head then slipped half a dozen coins in her hand.
‘That should keep the rent collector happy for another week,’ he said.
Mattie looked up from stirring the pot over the fire and smiled at him. She was still dressed in her drab workaday gown but she had taken off the tight-fitting cap that kept her hair clear of the machinery in the sugar refinery where she worked. She shared her brother’s colouring, his green eyes and his coal-black hair, but whereas his hair just curled around his ears hers cascaded down her back when it was allowed.
‘No Kate?’ he asked.
As if she had heard her name, Kate appeared at the back door. She too had an abundance of curly hair but, whereas Mattie’s was black like Patrick’s and their pa’s, Kate’s was fair, like her mother’s. She looked particularly pale as she entered the kitchen and there was a fine sheen of flour dusted over her.
‘You’re late,’ Mattie said.
‘We had a batch of pies ruined so we had to make up another two dozen ready for the morning,’ Kate replied, taking off her cap and sending a puff of flour into the air. ‘I found this on my way home, too.’
She cocked her head behind her to where Gus was standing. He drew in an exaggerated breath through his nose.
‘Am I in time for supper?’
Sarah laughed. ‘When are you not?’
Gus grinned. He had yet to fill out and still had three or four inches to go before he would match Patrick’s height, but he promised to match Patrick in stature. Like Kate he had their mother’s fairer looks, but like the rest of the Nolan menfolk he was always hungry.
‘It’ll be ready soon, won’t it Mattie?’ he asked, pulling out a chair from the corner and sitting down.
Mattie rolled her eyes at her younger brother then turned back to Patrick. ‘Annie’s taken Mickey to bed and is probably reading him a story by now,’ she told him. ‘Have you been for a drink?’
‘Me and Brian had a pint at the Town. He said he’d be around later.’
‘Never mind about Brian,’ Sarah said, folding her arms across her bosom. ‘A birdie told me you were arguing with Harry Tugman outside the Boatman the other day.’
‘The news is a bit slow around here if you only heard that today,’ Patrick said, shrugging off his jacket.
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give them a wide berth. They’d slit a man’s throat without breaking their stride, so they would,’ Sarah said.
Mattie waved a spoon at him. ‘I don’t know why you come home past that gin shop every day instead of just carrying on along Wapping Wall,’ she said, sending little specks of gravy flying.
‘I go that way because that fecking old bag sits there every day and I want to make sure she sees me.’ Patrick jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. ‘I smile at her and wish her a good day with such a grin on my face just to see the frustration in her beady old eyes.’ He gave them both an exaggerated smile. ‘I’m a free man. I’ll walk anywhere I have a mind to and Ma Tugman will not make me do otherwise.’
‘Good man yourself, Pat,’ Gus said. ‘Show that old bag she’s no say over you.’
Sarah gave her youngest son a sharp look which he ignored. ‘You heard about Peggy Grady’s son?’ Mattie said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Of course I did,’ he replied. ‘And sorry I was for him, too.’
Sarah leant forward. ‘By the time Charlie Tugman had finished slicing him he looked more like a butchered pig than a man.’
‘Bled all the way to hospital,’ Gus cut in.
Katie nodded. ‘Those who saw it said they didn’t know a man could shed so much blood without the spirit departing his body. Right across his face it was,’ she drew her finger across her cheek. ‘It’s a pure mercy that he still has two eyes. He’ll carry the scar to his grave, so he will.’
‘I don’t need reminding what the Tugmans are like, Mam,’ Patrick said, ‘but I’ll not kowtow to scum.’ He stared at his womenfolk. ‘And after a day of shovelling coal I would be obliged if you would quit your nagging, at least until me belly’s fed.’
‘If you were just
passing
how come you and Harry were seen squaring up to each other?’ Sarah asked.
‘If you must know, I was saving a young lady from Harry’s attention,’ he replied, remembering Josie in her expensive gown and smart jacket being jostled by the thug. He took the kettle off the stove and poured the water into the enamel ewer, to take to his room for his evening wash.
His mother tutted. ‘The trollops in the Boatman are used to Harry’s mucky hands so I don’t see why you had to int—’
‘It was Josie O’Casey,’ he said, in what he hoped was a level voice.
Mattie’s, Kate’s and Sarah’s mouths dropped open, and even Gus was lost for words. They all looked at each other in astonishment before Mattie recovered her wits.
‘Josie O’Casey? Your Josie?’
He gave a hard laugh. ‘She’s not mine anymore.’
‘Of course not,’ Sarah said. ‘Is her husband here? Has she any children?’
A lump formed itself across Patrick’s windpipe. ‘She isn’t married.’
His mother mouth dropped open. ‘But—’
‘It was her cousin who wed at her house. I heard it wrong,’ Patrick said as the constriction around his Adam’s Apple tightened.
Sarah gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Oh, well, perhaps it’s for the best. You and her are worlds apart now.’ A soft look crept into her eye. ‘I did have hopes that you and Josie would marry one day, and now she’s back, who knows? Although I expect she’s a proper lady now.’
‘Her money and my lack of it is neither here nor there, nor is the fact that she isn’t wed, Mam,’ Patrick said in an exasperated tone. ‘My being married - to someone else - is why she isn’t
my
Josie any more.’
‘Why was she outside the Boatman?’ Mattie asked.
Patrick told them.
‘I bet she was right pleased to see you,’ Gus said. ‘Especially with that fat Harry mauling her.’
That was true enough. Josie’s relief was palpable when she turned and looked at him but, remembering the way her gaze danced over his face, Patrick suddenly hoped the pleasure she showed at seeing him was for more than just deliverance from Harry.
‘She asked after you.’
‘What does she look like after all this time?’ Mattie asked.
What does she look like? Patrick’s mind conjured up the picture of her that had barely been absent from his memory - her rich auburn curls escaping from under her bonnet and her slim waist emphasised by the tailored cut of her jacket, her upturned face and large eyes - these images embedded themselves in his mind. Josie had always been a pretty girl, but now she had matured into a real beauty, so stunning it hit right to a man’s core.
‘Grand. She was grand,’ he replied, knowing it was well short of the mark. ‘She even said she might visit.’
His mother rocked back in her chair. ‘I hope she does. I’d like to hear how Ellen and her doctor are after all this time.’
Mattie stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did you tell her about Rosa and the children?’
Patrick raked his hands through his hair. ‘I didn’t have time . . . we were in the middle of the High Street.’ He wished he didn’t sound quite so defensive.
Kate gave a flat laugh. ‘So when
are
you going to tell her, Patrick?’
‘The next time I see her,’ Patrick answered firmly. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. ‘She said she’ll send word when she’s to be expected and I’ll make sure I’m here when she arrives. ‘He grasped the jug of water and opened the door to the passage. ‘And
then
I’ll tell her everything.’
As Harry opened the small door into the main cellar under Number Six Burr Street, a shaft of light cut into the narrow passage. He stooped so as to avoid braining himself on the low lintel and cursed Ma for not making the secret entrance to their underground warehouse higher.
As he stepped into the main part of the storeroom, he shifted his burden into a more comfortable position. The main room was usually kept empty in case the local police wanted to have a nose around, but today it was crammed with crates and barrels, tobacco and tea.
The Maid of Plymouth
had arrived from the Indies on the evening tide and weighed anchor mid-stream. Harry had gathered his henchmen and they had swifted away a decent haul from right under the nose of the ship’s captain and the police patrols.
Ma sat in a colourless old armchair just to the right of the stairs, her eyes darting back and forth over the goods as they were fetched in. She always came down to supervise the division of a big shipment. The main storage and distribution centre of stolen goods in the area lay under a row of old tenements.
They were owned by some lord or earl but his rent was collected by Messrs Glasson, Glasson and Oakes, a small but respectable law firm with offices in Aldgate. They might be respectable but their chief clerk was not. It was he who had pointed Ma towards the crumbling three-storied houses by the railway arch of the Blackwall to City line. Although Ma could tally in her head as quick as any bank teller, she could only just write her own name, so the lease on the four dilapidated houses was agreed with a spit on the palm and a shake of the hand.