When she’d taken them over, most of the rooms were already used by the local prostitutes so Ma just formalised the arrangement and added some muscle to ensure that the police looked the other way, but the real value of the terrace was in the cellars of the houses. Seeing their possibilities from the first, Ma had left the cellar under the end house open and filled the front of the other three with rubble, then she had bricked up false walls, concealing the cavern that held all their stolen goods awaiting a buyer. Anyone looking down into the area to the old servants’ quarters would just think the cellars had been abandoned.
Harry rolled the barrel off his shoulder to join the other four by the stairs. Ma watched, but her gaze ran over him without any obvious pleasure and he wondered again what more he could do to please the old cow.
‘What took you so long?’ she barked, but before Harry could decide on a suitable reply, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Charlie Tugman sauntered in, wearing a dress suit complete with a threadbare top hat. As it couldn’t have been more than seven in the morning, he looked quite ridiculous.
Ma’s eyes darted upward to where her youngest son stood and a look of pure adoration spread across her face, giving it an oddly innocent appearance.
Harry’s shoulders sagged with despondency. He knew the only thing he could do to please the old harpy: be Charlie.
His brother stomped heavily down the stairs, the treads creaking and cracking beneath his weight. He yawned when he reached the bottom, and took off his tall hat. He scratched his head, setting his oiled hair askew.
The men carrying the crates of sugar and stacks of tobacco back into the inner recess of the cavern acknowledged him and continued with their task.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ Harry said, glaring at his brother.
Charlie threw himself on the chair beside Ma. She reached out to stroke his hair out of his eyes but he flicked his head away and she let her hand fall.
‘You eat and drink the food off the table same as I do, it wouldn’t hurt you to work to put it there,’ Harry snarled, kicking one of the crates of tea.
‘Watch your boot, Harry!’ Ma snapped. ‘Those chests are like glass. You bust them and there’ll be leaves all over the floor and no profit to take.’
Charlie grinned at Harry. ‘I
have
been working,’ he said, stooping down and picking up the bottle of brandy beside his mother.
Harry gave a hard laugh. ‘Work! You don’t know the fecking meaning of the word,’ he said, stomping across the floor to where they sat.
‘And you don’t know the meaning of most words,’ Charlie replied, taking a large swig from the bottle.
Harry grabbed his brother by the lapels and dragged him to his feet. ‘Why, you little bastard, you—’
Charlie shoved back and Harry crashed into the tea chest. The side split and a stream of brown tea leaves poured out.
Ma heaved herself up from the chair and lumbered between them. ‘That’s enough.’ She smacked the back of her hand across Harry’s arm. ‘I told you to mind the crate.’
Harry pointed over her head at his brother. ‘You heard ’im insult me. And where has he been all night while I’ve been busting my balls?’
Charlie snorted. ‘I’ve been working all right, it’s just that I can do it with me head.’
Harry lunged at him again but Ma stood in his way.
‘Charlie!’ she snapped. He grinned at her. ‘Stop riling your brother.’
She turned to the bench and her eyes fell on the spilled tea. ‘Oi! Scotch.’ The man heading into the tunnel with a barrel on his back stopped. ‘Go up to China Rose and tell her to send any of her doxies without a man down here and set them to packing that tea.’
Scotch lowered the barrel to the floor and stomped up the stairs. The treads squeaked and groaned again. He returned a few minutes later with four young women, dressed in gaudy evening gowns, trailing behind him.
Harry knew them all by sight but could never remember their names. They all looked much alike to him, with their scraped-up hair and bright patches of rouge on their cheeks. The clothes didn’t help either - they rented their gowns by the day so whoever stumbled out of bed first had the pick.
Charlie tossed the empty bottle away and it skidded across the floor and hit one of the girls on the ankle. She winced.
‘Did you find out who she is?’ Ma asked.
‘Who?’ Harry asked.
A smirk spread across Charlie’s face. ‘Your little lady love. Miss O’Casey. The little darling who Nolan walked away with.’ He pulled out a cigar, jammed it in his mouth and then struck a Lucifer on the sole of his boot. ‘It seems Miss O’Casey wasn’t always dressed in feathers and lace. In fact, her mother sang in old Danny Donovan’s pubs before she married one of the doctors at the hospital.’
‘Did you find out the doctor’s name?’ Ma asked.
‘Munroe. Robert Munroe. It was his investigation into Danny Donovan’s dealings what sent him to the gallows, and’ ‘Ellen O’Casey, who is now Mrs Munroe, helped put the noose around old Danny’s neck. Charlie drew deeply on the cigar again and blew some smoke rings. The little sweetie who gave you the brush-off is her daughter, Josie. They went to America after the trial and only came back a month ago.’
‘Danny Donovan was a hard man but fair,’ Ma said in a tone of deep respect. ‘Your father was one of his top men.’
Charlie let out a long whistle between his teeth. ‘I remember I smashed into Danny Donovan in the street one day. I nearly shite meself.’
Harry studied his brother lounging in the chair. He would like to see his lazy, sniggering brother shite himself. In fact he’d give his eye teeth to see Ma look at Charlie, just once, with the contempt she always reserved for him.
It didn’t matter to Ma that he’d spent all night on the river lowering barrels and boxes over the side of a ship. Or that, without even seeing his bed, he’d had to hump the same fifty or so crates and sacks down into the storeroom while Charlie snored in drunken oblivion. No. Because anything Charlie did was just dandy in Ma’s eyes.
‘Hey, Harry,’ Charlie said chewing on his cigar. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked, leaning back.
‘She was all right,’ he said, trying to sound uninterested to avoid them finding something else to ridicule him for.
Charlie raised his hands and cupped them in front of his chest. ‘Did she have a good handful?’ he asked flexing his fingers.
Harry grinned. ‘Enough.’ Thinking about her trim figure and bobbing curls . . .
Charlie shifted forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. ‘What else did she have?’
‘Nice eyes,’ Harry blurted out.
Charlie snorted. ‘Nice frigging eyes! Do you hear that, Ma?’
Ma chuckled. Harry glared at his brother. He hated himself for not being quick enough with a stinging retort but he hated Charlie more.
A faint titter came from across the room and he glared at the sallow-looking redhead at the end of the bench. She lowered her gaze back to the dusty tea leaves but not before her lip curled up.
‘Charlie’s only having a laugh, aren’t you, Charlie?’ Ma said, glancing towards the bench. There was a rustle of paper as the four girls returned to their task.
The urge to smash his fist into his brother’s smug face swept over Harry but he held it back. One day, he would get his own back when Ma wasn’t there to protect her favourite.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her snuff box. She tapped out two small piles on her hand.
‘Well,’ she said, closing one nostril with her finger and sniffing the grey powder up the other. ‘From what I could see, she’d already caught Patrick Nolan’s eye.’ The rest of the snuff disappeared up the other nostril and she held her breath.
Yes, Harry had noticed the way that bastard Nolan’s eyes glinted when they looked at Josie O’Casey. He had a roguish way about him that women liked and by the way her eyes changed as they rested on Nolan, Josie O’Casey was no exception.
A crafty expression crept over Charlie’s face. ‘Don’t worry, Ma. Our Harry won’t let no poxy Mick get the better of him. Will you?’
Get the better of him? Damn, that’s just what he
had
done, hadn’t he? Outside the Boatman, and in every other fecking encounter he had ever had with Patrick Nolan. That bloody flash Paddy always seemed to out-talk, out-think and out-tough him. He remembered Josie’s pleased expression.
‘No, I fecking well won’t!’ he bellowed. Warmth briefly flickered in Ma’s eyes and he grinned. ‘Too right, Charlie! No poxy Mick’s going to get the better of me.’
Chapter Five
Josie pulled her purse from her handbag and snapped it open. She fished around inside it, extracted a sixpence and handed it to Sam. ‘It’s three o’clock now and I want you to come back for me in an hour.’
Sam touched his cap and pocketed the coin. ‘Very good, Miss.’
Josie stood for a moment, watching as he headed off towards the London Docks to buy himself a pie and coffee.
Across the muddy street a front door opened and then another. Two women in the usual garb of dark gowns and head shawls eyed her curiously. A few children in rags edged out of doors and stood clinging to their mothers’ skirts.
Josie had put on her cream dress that had just a single ruffle around the neck and sleeves, and had chosen a simple bonnet with nothing more than a ribbon around its crown yet - in this street of modest, tightly packed cottages - she stood out like a duchess in ermine.
She studied the door of number twenty, reflecting how, when Patrick hadn’t returned to New York she’d presumed him dead. It had taken several years before she could think of him without tears but now, knowing he was alive, had seemed to unlock her memories.
They had spoken for no longer than fifteen minutes but she could remember every detail of their meeting: the way his hair had moved as the river breeze ruffled it, the dark hue of his jaw with its day’s worth of bristle, and the shape of his strong hands, the balance of his shoulders . . .
Her body had recalled past pleasures as his eyes had travelled over her, their expression changing as they always used to.
Josie studied the panelled door for a second longer, then rapped firmly with her knuckles. Her heart thumped in her chest as she waited. After what seemed like an hour the door flew open and Sarah Nolan stared at her.
Although a little heavier and greyer, Patrick’s mother was much as Josie remembered her. The black dress she wore gave her pale skin a waxy look, but her eyes were still soft and kind, as they always had been.
Her gaze flickered down the street and then she smiled warmly. ‘Josie O’Casey, as I live and breathe!’
Josie gave Sarah an apologetic smile. ‘I hope I’m not early, Mrs Nolan, but I was so eager to see you all.’
It was true. She had been on tenterhooks all day. She woke from a fitful sleep at first light - ravenously hungry but found she’d lost her appetite after the first couple of mouthfuls of porridge. After breakfast she’d tried to read but found herself turning over pages without the faintest idea as to what was written on them. She abandoned the book and took up her needle, but her concentration wandered again and she stitched a red petal on a daffodil without even noticing. All the while the clock tick-tocked out the hours more slowly than ever until finally it was time to put on her coat and bonnet, summon Sam and head off towards the river.
‘No, you’re not early.’ Sarah glanced up the street again. ‘Although I was hoping Patrick might be back before you arrived.’ She ushered Josie through the door. ‘Well, for the love of Mary, what
am
I about? Come in! Come in!’
Josie stepped in to the narrow hallway and Sarah closed the door. ‘When Patrick told me that he’d met you in the street I could hardly believe it.’
‘Neither could I,’ Josie replied. ‘I just turned around and there he was, as large as life.’
‘Large as life is the truth of it. He fair blocks the sun if he stands in front of you.’ Sarah showed her down the passageway. ‘Go through - there is someone in the back eager to see you.’