A Glimpse at Happiness (29 page)
Harry’s man Ollie Mac, a swarthy bloke with a shaved head dashed at Patrick and criss-crossed his knife at Patrick’s face. Patrick arched back but felt the blade breeze by within a hair’s breadth of his cheek before Ollie stabbed at his chest. He missed when Patrick sidestepped, catching the man’s arm and snapping it over his knee with a satisfying crunch. He screamed out and crumpled to the floor, cradling his injured arm. Mercilessly kicking him aside, Patrick turned to face the next man, a stocky thug with missing front teeth, who threw himself on Patrick and they tumbled across the floor.
He rolled on Patrick, getting him on his back, and fastened his stubby hands on his throat in a vice-like grip. Patrick retaliated, smashing his fist into the face above him, but still the grip around his throat remained. Bracing his foot on the floor, Patrick heaved himself up and over, gasping for air as he pinned his assailant under him. He groped on the floor and felt the cool smoothness of a bottle. He closed his hand around it and smashed it on the side of the brute’s face, feeling a sharp sting as the edge of the broken glass sliced though the top of his own thumb. But the man trying to strangle him howled and closed his hand over the bloody gash on his cheek and chin. Patrick sprang to his feet and looked around.
To his right, Brian picked up the chair he’d been sitting on only moments before and smashed it across a pock-marked brute swiping at him with a docker’s hook. Other men scuffled and fought with knives, fists and still more bottles. He saw old Bert Bunton lying in a crumpled heap, blood seeping from a wound in his forehead, while another of Arthur’s regulars sat with his back to the far wall using his leather belt as a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood from a thigh wound. Still others lay in the blood-drenched sawdust, either moaning or crawling away from the fight.
Harry Tugman stood by the door, his knife raised in his hand, but watching rather than joining in the carnage. Raging fury rose up in Patrick, as his gaze ran over the fat gang leader. Men who simply wanted to earn an honest living were being slaughtered by Harry’s bunch of animals and he, Patrick Michael Nolan, wasn’t going to let it happen.
Picking up a chair by its leg with one hand and retrieving his knife from the floor with the other, Patrick smashed the chair on the bar where it shattered to leave a splintered end.
‘Come on, lads!’ Patrick yelled above the bedlam. Several of the boatmen looked his way. ‘We’ve heard Ma’s message, now let’s send ours back.’
A howl rose up and the boatmen surged forward. With a look of determination Patrick made his way towards Harry. When someone blocked his way, he jabbed the raw end of the chair leg in his face and the man fell back. Another leapt at him, but Patrick caught him mid-air and flipped him onto a table, which collapsed under his weight.
Now it was Harry’s men who were being pressed back. Some of them stumbled towards the door, holding their hands over bloody wounds or shouldering injured members of their gang out into the street.
Harry tried to scrabble back through the front door but his own men were blocking the way. As Patrick reached him he darted away. For a big man Harry was surprising agile and managed to dodge Patrick but, seeing his way to the street blocked, he pushed towards the rear of the pub with three or four of his men. Patrick crashed after him.
‘Stop that bastard!’ he bellowed, as he saw his quarry disappearing towards the back door.
Brian, who was grappling with a skinny lad, looked up and saw Harry. He smashed his fist into the man beneath him and stood up.
A glint, like a crack of lightning cut across Patrick’s vision as Harry’s blade slashed through the air. Silently, it travelled down Brian’s throat, leaving behind a vivid red line.
The whole scene slowed as Patrick watched his boyhood friend’s blue eyes open wide in childlike surprise. His mouth dropped open and a large hand, still black with the coal dust of his trade, went to the gaping wound that ran from his ear to the edge of his collar bone.
Patrick forgot everything as he crashed and stumbled towards his friend. Blood - red, sticky and pumping forcefully out - sprouted through Brian’s thick fingers as the large Irishman sank to his knees. Patrick caught him before he hit the floor and cradled his head in his arms. Brian’s blue-eyes shone upwards from a rapidly whitening face.
‘Pat,’ he gurgled.
Patrick couldn’t speak. Someone gave him a cloth which he placed over Brian’s neck but within seconds it was soaked with blood. Brian started to shiver and Patrick held him closer.
‘Pat, take care of Mattie and kiss my boy for me,’ his bloodless lips mouthed rather than said.
No. No. No! Please God, no. Not with Mattie and the baby. Oh God, let him see his child at least
, Patrick pleaded silently, as Brian grew heavy in his arms
.
, Patrick pleaded silently, as Brian grew heavy in his arms
.
He stroked his brother-in-law’s bright red hair, thinking of them running and laughing together as boys. Always in trouble and always together. This couldn’t be happening, Patrick’s mind kept saying and then, suddenly, Brian’s head flopped forward. Patrick held Brian’s face between his hands and gently tipped it back and, with his own tears clouding his vision, he gazed down at his friend’s now sightless eyes.
It was so still that outside the rattles of the beat constable could be heard echoing around the streets. The last of Harry’s men had sloped away and the remaining boatmen stood silently amidst the debris of the Town of Ramsgate’s bar.
As Patrick stared down into the face of his dead friend a tortured howl filled the air. For a second he thought there must have been a dog injured in the fray, but then he realised the piercing scream of pain was coming from him.
Chapter Sixteen
Mid-July, and the weather was so hot and dry that street dust, disturbed by the traffic of horses and heavy wagons, flew into the air, catching at the back of people’s throats and stinging their eyes. And, as it hadn’t rained for a few days, debris lay undisturbed in the gutters, to reek and ferment unhindered. Josie, wearing her coolest cotton day dress and straw bonnet, and having dispensed with her two heaviest petticoats, gathered her skirts to dodge through the wagons passing in both directions along The Highway. Despite her light clothes, sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades and the backs of her thighs.
She had visited four houses since she and Sophie had decided to divide their efforts and had parted at the coffee house in Cannon Street Road. Normally, they visited together but as Edith Carp, who was part of their pastoral team, was unwell Josie persuaded Sophie that the most effective course of action would be to split up. This way, all those mothers reliant on their delivery of food baskets would be able to give their little ones a decent supper.
If she were honest Josie welcomed the chance to visit the tenement and houses alone because she couldn’t face another conversation with Sophie about how wonderful it would be when William Arnold proposed.
Everything that was sensible in her called her a fool for turning away the prospect of a good income and an amiable husband. Becoming Mrs Arnold would keep her close to her family and, in time, give her children of her own, but how could she encourage him when her heart belonged to Patrick?
If she couldn’t be Patrick’s wife she would settle for becoming an old maid and draw satisfaction and the joy of motherhood second-hand from her nieces and nephews.
This is what she told her shattered heart at least three or four times a day as it pleaded with her to seek Patrick out.
The postman passed by on the other side of the road with a heavy sack on his shoulder. Josie’s brows drew together slightly, and she felt a sense of unease as she realised that she had yet to receive a reply from her mother to the letter she sent three weeks earlier. Surely Ellen couldn’t be so angry that she wouldn’t have written back . . .
The grating sound of iron rolling over cobbles cut through Josie’s thoughts and she stepped back to let a hay cart pass. The two horses pulling the wagon wore blinkers and had their noses in oat bags as they clopped their way west to the City. Crossing over to the pavement on the other side, Josie smiled at the butcher hooking the newly dressed pigs’ carcasses in a neat row outside his shop. The rotund owner stretched himself precariously at the top of a ladder. The tidy, artistic display of jointed meat attracted customers - and, it had to be said, flies.
Josie had one last cloth parcel to deliver and had deliberately saved Meg Purdy’s visit until last so she could spend a little more time with her and the children.
Even without the benefit of the sunlight, Tun Alley was stifling as she entered it. Thankfully, the pigs had long gone and the central drainage channel was no more than a trickle. Josie carried on to the end of the alley to Meg’s house. She pushed the front door open.
‘It’s only me,’ she called as she entered the one small back room that was Meg’s home.
Since Josie’s first visit two months ago, Meg’s circumstances had greatly improved and the room now contained several more items of furniture. Most noticeable was a second-hand wooden bed in the corner with three or four blankets draped over the end and a bolster at the head, and the baby now slept in a cot rather then a box. There was also a small, worn easy chair by the fire, but what pleased Josie most was seeing a covered loaf of bread in the larder, along with a stoneware pot of jam and a halfpenny’s worth of butter on a plate. There was also a jug of milk on the table and a basket on the floor half-full of potatoes and swedes.
‘Afternoon, Miss,’ Meg said, settling the baby in the centre of the bed. Mary sat on a new rag rug in the corner, where she played with the doll Josie had brought for her the last time.
Meg straightened her hair and came towards Josie. She had improved too, and now wore a brown work dress complete with an apron. She couldn’t run to a bonnet but her hair was neatly tied back with a cotton cap pinned over it.
‘And good afternoon to you, Meg,’ Josie set the bundle she was carrying on the table and took off her bonnet, pleased to have the breeze from the open window to cool her. ‘I have two oranges. My father says one of them a day helps to keep children healthy. You can squeeze the juice for the baby and let Mary eat the pulp. You should have the other. There are three eggs and a bit of fatty bacon too. That should make a bit of a special supper for tomorrow but don’t leave it until Saturday or it will spoil in this heat.’
Meg gathered up the food. ‘Thank you, Miss O’Casey. We’d have been in the poor house long ago if you hadn’t helped—’
The door flew open and a young woman with white-blonde hair and rouged lips burst through and fell back against it.
‘Oh, upon my soul,’ she said, looking panic-stricken as she put her hand above her low neckline.
‘Nell! Whatever is the matter?’ Meg asked.
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
Nell’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘About the battle at the Town?’
Josie felt lightheaded and afraid. The Town! That was where Patrick drank. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
Nell gave her a suspicious look.
‘This is Miss O’Casey,’ Meg explained. ‘It’s her who got me the job at the hospital.’
‘Ah, well then, you should hear too Miss. Last night - they say it was about nine o’clock - Harry Tugman and his crew marched down to the Town and smashed up the place good and proper. Old Arthur - that’s the landlord, Miss - went through the window and not one stick of furniture was left by the time the police arrived. When I went by this morning there was so much blood and guts you’d think it was a charnel house rather than a pub.’ Josie’s heart thundered in her chest as Nell continued. ‘Word is that Ma Tugman wanted to show the boatmen who’s boss.’
‘Who was hurt?’ Meg asked before Josie could.
‘Old Bert, who lodged above the baker’s, was killed, but he wasn’t the only one.’ She paused, and folded her arms across her modest bosom.
Josie, by now imagining Patrick slaughtered on the dirty floor of the pub, struggled to take a deep breath and still her sense of rising panic. ‘Who else?’ she asked.
If Nell said Patrick’s name she knew she would die on the spot - and be glad of it. A world without Patrick in it wasn’t one she wanted to live in.
‘Two of Harry’s mob, and good riddance I say, and Matthew Anders, the loading supervisor at St Katherine’s; also, some bloke from Cable street and that ginger-haired coal merchant, Brian Magu—’
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