The Tea Rose Part 6

"Again? What was it over this time?"

"Getting a second barrow. I want to and 'e doesn't."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's like this, Fee," he began, agitated. "We're doing all right with the one barrow, but we could be doing a lot better. The business is there. Last Sat.u.r.day-you saw it-we couldn't even keep up with the punters. We actually ran out of stuff-ran out, Fee-with people wanting to buy! We could've turned over another crate of pippins, plus figs, potatoes, broccoli but you can't sell off an empty cart. For two months I've been telling Dad to get another barrow and divide the goods between them-fruit on one, veg on the other. But 'e won't 'ear of it."

"Why not? It makes sense."

" 'E says we're doing fine as is. We make a living and there's no need to do anything risky.

'Don't tamper with success,' 'e says. Christ, 'e's always dragging 'is feet! 'E just doesn't see the bigger picture. I don't want to just make a living, I want to see a profit and make the business grow."

"Never mind your father, Joe," Fiona said. "Another year or so, and 'e won't be sitting on you anymore. We'll be out on our own, making the biggest success ever out of our shop. For now, you've just got to put up with it. There's nothing else you can do."

"You're right about that," he said gloomily. But he wondered if he could put up with it. The tension was getting worse. He didn't want to tell Fiona she'd had enough upsets for one day-but he and his father had almost come to blows.

He didn't tell her, either, that right after their row, after his dad had stalked off for a pint leaving Joe all on his tod, Tommy Peterson had appeared. He'd complimented the barrow, noted the brisk business Joe was doing, and invited him to come round to his Spitalfields office tomorrow. Joe was certain Tommy was going to suggest they get another barrow, and maybe even offer them better terms on larger orders to fill it. What would he tell the man? That his father wouldn't let him? He'd look a right git.

Joe and Fiona walked on in silence as the evening turned cool. Summer was on the wane. It would be autumn soon, and the cold weather and rain:. skies would curtail their evening walks. Joe was wondering how on earth h, could get more money so they could open their shop and get married sooner when Fiona suddenly said, "Let's take a shortcut."

"What?"

She was grinning at him mischievously. "A shortcut. There." She pointed at a narrow alley that cut between a pub and a coal seller's office. ''I'm sure. leads back to Montague Street." He raised an eyebrow.

"What? I'm just trying to get 'ome faster," she said innocently, pulling him after her.

As they entered the alley, something with tiny scrabbling feet shot out from between the beer barrels stacked inside. Fiona squealed and stamped he own feet.

"It's just a cat," Joe said. "Of the ... um ... pygmy variety."

Giggling, she pushed him against the wall and kissed him. It wasn't lib her to be so bold.

Usually he kissed her first, but he found he didn't mind. a bit. In fact, he quite liked it. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "Are you trying to 'ave your way with me?"

"If you don't like it, you're free to go," she said, kissing him again. "Ye can leave anytime you want." Another kiss. "Just say the word."

Joe considered her offer. "Maybe it's not so bad," he said, putting his arms around her. He kissed her back, long and deep. Her hands were on his chest, he could feel the warmth of them through his s.h.i.+rt. Gently, he moved his hand to her breast, expecting her to stop him, but she didn't.

He could feel her heart beating. The feel of it under his palm, so strong and yet so vulnerable, completely in his keeping, overwhelmed him. She was his soulmate as much a part of him as the very flesh and bone that made him. She was with him, in him, in everything he did. She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.

Hungry for her body, he pulled her blouse and camisole free of her skirt and slipped his hand underneath. Her breast was soft and heavy in his hand like wine in a skin. He kneaded her flesh gently. A small breathless moan escaped her. The sound of it, low and urgent, made him painfully hard. He wanted her. Needed her. Here. Now. He wanted to lift her skirt and thrust into her, right against the wall. It was so hard to control his desire for her. The softness of her, the smell and taste of her drove him mad. But he wouldn't. He didn't want their first time to be like that quick and hard in some filthy alley. But something had to happen, and fast, before the ache in "is b.a.l.l.s turned into a crippling, blue agony.

He took her hand and guided it. She touched him over his trousers, then inside. He showed her how to move her hand, and she did, rubbing him there, stroking him until his breath came hot and hard, and he groaned into her neck and his whole body shuddered in a sweet release. Then he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, his chest heaving.

"Joe," he heard her whisper anxiously. "Are you all right?"

He chuckled. "Oh, aye, Fee. Never better."

"You sure? I ... I think you're bleeding."

"Crikey! You pulled it off!"

"b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell!" she screeched.

He couldn't help laughing. "Sshh, I'm just teasing you." He wiped at himself with his handkerchief, then tossed the crumpled cloth. "Can't take that 'ome to me mum to wash."

"You can't?"

"Oh, Fiona, you don't know anything about it, do you?"

"You don't know so much, either," she said crossly.

"I know more than you do," he said, bending to kiss her neck. "I know how to make you feel as good as you just made me feel."

"It felt good, then?"

"Mmm-hmm." "What was it like?"

He lifted her skirts, and fumbled with her drawers for a few seconds, before getting his hand inside. He caressed the insides of her thighs, amazed that skin could feel so silky, then his fingers found the soft, downy ::eh between them. He felt her stiffen. She looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning. He heard her breath quicken, heard himself whispering to her in the darkness ... heard the church bell, two streets over, strike the hour.

"Oh, no ... oh, blimey!" she cried, pulling away from him. "I forgot the time! It's nine o'clock!

Me mam'll skin me. She'll think I've been murdered. Come on, Joe!"

They fumbled themselves back together in the dark, b.u.t.toning blouses, tucking in s.h.i.+rts.

'Why was it always like this? he wondered. Why were they always s.n.a.t.c.hing a kiss in an alley or down by the river in the mud?

Fiona fretted, wondering aloud how she was going to explain being late. They ran all the way back to Montague Street. "There, Fee, got you back before you were even missed," he said, giving her a quick kiss on her step.

"I 'ope so. At least me da's not 'ome. See you tomorrow." She turned to go, but before she did, she looked back at him one last time. He was still watching her, waiting to see that she was inside with the door closed before he went.

"Twelve and six," she said.

He smiled back. "Aye, luv. Twelve and six."

Chapter 5.

Kate Finnegan looked at the huge pile of laundry- in front of her and groaned. Bedsheets, tablecloths, serviettes, blouses, frothy nightgowns, camisoles, petticoats she'd have to pack them with the skill of a stevedore to fit them all into her basket. And what a treat the long walk home would be with it all balanced on her shoulder.

"Lillie, you tell your missus it's going to cost 'er double for a load this size," she shouted from Mrs. Branston's pantry.

Lillie, Mrs. Branston's maid, a gangly, red-haired Irish girl, poked her head in. "Sure, I'll tell her, Mrs. Finnegan, but good luck getting it. You know what she's like. Tighter than a duck's a.r.s.e.

Will you have a cup of tea before you go?"

"That sounds lovely, but I don't want to get you in any trouble."

"Oh, no fear of that," Lillie said cheerfully. "The missus has gone up to Oxford Street shopping. She won't be home for ages."

"Then put the kettle on, la.s.s."

When she finished packing, Kate took a seat at the kitchen table. Lillie mashed the tea and brought the pot to the table along with a plate of biscuits. They talked the pot dry Kate about her children, and Lillie about her young man, Matt, who worked at the Commercial Docks.

"Do you see 'im much?" Kate asked. "With you 'ere all day and 'im across the river?"

"Oh, aye, Mrs. Finnegan. He's like me shadow these days, with them murders going on.

Walks me here in the morning on his way to the dock and he's back again at night. And to tell you the truth, I'm awfully glad of it. I don't like being out after dark anymore."

"I don't blame you. You'd think those women would be too scared to walk the streets, wouldn't you? But Paddy says 'e still sees them out at night."

"They don't have much choice. If they get off the game, they go hungry." "Father Deegan was going on about the murders on Sunday," Kate said."The wages of sin is death, and all that. I wouldn't go against 'im, 'im being the priest, but I feel sorry for those women. I do. I see them sometimes, yelling and cursing, all drunk and broken-down. I don't think any of them chooses the life. I think they end up there because of drink or 'ard times."

"You should hear Mrs. Branston going on about it," Lillie said angrily. "Handmaids of Satan she calls those poor murdered women. T'inks they deserved what they got because they were hoors.

It's fine for her, all tucked up in a nice warm house, money coming out of her a.r.s.e." Lillie paused to take a sip of tea and calm herself. "Ah, well, no use in getting worked up over the missus. As me gran used to say, 'Morality is for them who can afford it.' And anyway, Mrs. Finnegan, it's not the murders, it's what's going on down the docks that's really got me worried."

"Don't I know it."

"They're doing the right t'ing, I know they are, but if they strike, G.o.d knows when me and Matt will be able to get married," Lillie said anxiously. "Likely be another year."

Kate patted her hand. "Won't be that long, luv, don't you fret. And even if it takes a little longer than you thought, your Matt's a good lad. 'E's worth the wait."

Her rea.s.surances to Lillie made Kate sound easier about the threat of a strike than she felt.

Paddy believed a strike was a certainty, the only question was when. Just last week she'd sat down with pencil and paper and tried to figure how long they could last if he walked off the docks. A few days. A week at the most.

He usually earned about twenty-six s.h.i.+llings a week for sixty-odd hours of cargo work. A bit more when the wharf was busy, less when it was not. In addition, he often picked up another three s.h.i.+llings by taking a s.h.i.+ft as a night watchman or by taring tea-dumping the crates and raking the leaves into piles-for the graders, which brought the total to twenty-nine s.h.i.+llings or so. He kept two back for beer, tobacco, and newspapers, and one for the union, and handed the rest over to Kate, whose job it was to stretch them out farther than the Mile End Road.

She supplemented her husband's wages by taking in was.h.i.+ng, which netted her four s.h.i.+llings a week after paying for soap and starch, and by renting a room to Roddy and cooking his meals - for which he paid her five s.h.i.+lling a week. She also had Charlie's wages at about eleven s.h.i.+llings and Fiona's at seven, minus what they kept back-Charlie for beer and his kingsmen Fiona for her shop - that came to another fifteen, which gave her about two and ten, give or take a s.h.i.+lling.

Weekly expenses included the eighteen-s.h.i.+lling rent. The house was very dear many families only rented one floor for eight or ten s.h.i.+llings but it was a warm, dry house, free of bugs, and Kate was convinced that crowding was only a false economy, for whatever you saved in rent, you'd lose again on doctors and missed work. Then there was coal-a s.h.i.+lling a week now, but that would go up to two in the winter, and lamp oil-another sixpence.

That left about one and nine, all of which she could've spent on food an still not provided the kinds of meals she wanted to. She limited herself to twenty s.h.i.+llings for the weekly purchase of meat, fish, potatoes, fruit an veg, flour, bread, porridge, suet, milk, eggs, tea, sugar, b.u.t.ter, jam, and treacle to make three meals a day for six people-not counting the baby. There was the s.h.i.+lling for burial insurance, and another for the clothing fund a little tin in which she faithfully deposited a s.h.i.+lling a week against the day somebody's coat or boots wore out, and two more for the strike fund.

She started that one two months ago and it got its coins every week now, even she had to scrimp on meals to find them. That left about four s.h.i.+llings to cover everything else: doctor's bills, boot black, rusks, throat lozenges, matches, needles and cotton, collars, soap, tonic, stamps, and hand soap.

Often there were only a few pennies left by the time Sat.u.r.day rolled around She and Paddy had struggled so hard together to reach their current standard of living. He was a preferred man at the docks now, a man with steady employment. He was no longer the casual he'd been when they were first married-tramping down to the waterfront at dawn every day for the call-on, where the foreman picked out the strongest for a day's work and paid them threepence an hour. Fiona and Charlie both worked now and their wages helped immensely. They were poor, but they were among the respectable working poor, and that made all the difference in the world. Kate didn't have to p.a.w.n things to eat. Her children were clean, their clothes were neat, their boots were always mended.

The constant struggle to stay ahead of the bills wore her down at times but the alternative was unthinkable. Real poverty. The crus.h.i.+ng, inescapable kind where your furniture was thrown out in the street when you couldn't pay the rent and you caught lice from sleeping in dirty lodging houses.

The kind where your kids were raggedy and your husband stayed away because he couldn't bear the sight of his thin, hungry children. Kate had seen these things happen to families on her street when a man lost his job or took families like hers, with no savings to speak of, just a few coins in a tin.

Poverty was an abyss that was much easier to slide into than crawl out of and she wanted to keep as much distance between it and her family as possible. She was terrified the strike would take them right to the edge of it.

"I know what we'll do, Mrs. Finnegan," Lillie said, giggling. "I read in the papers that there's a reward offered for the one who catches the Whitechapel Murderer. It's a lot of money - a hundred quid. We could catch him, you and me."

Kate laughed, too. "Oh, aye, Lillie, what a pair we'd make! The two of us going down an alley at night, me with a broom and you with a milk bottle, one more terrified than the other."

The two women talked for few more minutes, then Kate drained her cup, thanked her friend, and said she had to be off. Lillie opened the kitchen door for her. She would have to go around to a gate, then down a narrow alley that ran alongside the house into the street. She never failed to sc.r.a.pe her knuckles on the brick wall. She wished she could just walk through the house and use the front entry, but a neighbor might see and tell Mrs. Branston. This was a middle-cla.s.s house on a good street and the help did not come and go through the front door.

"Ta-ra, Mrs. Finnegan."

"Ta-ra, Lillie. See that you lock the door," Kate called, her head hidden, her voice m.u.f.fled by the large basket of linens on her shoulder.

Chapter 6.

Autumn is on its way, Fiona thought, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. The signs were unmistakable-falling leaves, shorter days, the coal man bellowing from his wagon. It was a gray September Sunday and the damp, creeping air had turned chilly. "THE SEASON OF DEATH," the headline screamed from the newspaper, "WHITECHAPEL MURDERER STILL AT LARGE."

Sitting on her step reading her father's paper while Seamie played next to her, Fiona wondered how anyone could go off down an alley with a stranger while a murderer was on the loose.

"The devil is a charming man," her mam said. He'd have to be, Fiona thought, to get any woman round here to take a walk with him in the dark, in the fog, all alone.

On her street, and all throughout Whitechapel, people found it impossible to believe that anyone could commit such acts, then simply disappear. The police looked like buffoons. They were criticized by Parliament and by the press. It was taking a toll on Uncle Roddy, she knew. He hadn't gotten over finding the Nichols woman's body. He still had nightmares.

The murderer was a monster. The press had also turned him into a symbol of all that was wrong with society violence and lawlessness in the working cla.s.ses, profligacy in the upper ones.

To the rich, the killer was member of the vicious lower orders, a raging brute. The poor saw him as member of the quality, a gentleman who derived obscene pleasure hunting streetwalkers like prey.

To Catholics, he was a Protestant; to Protestants Catholic. To the immigrants who lived in East London he was a crazy Englishman, liquored up and dangerous. To John Bull, he was a dirty, G.o.dless foreigner.

Fiona had no image of the murderer. She didn't want to know what: looked like. She didn't care. All she wanted was for him to be caught so she could walk out at night with Joe without her mam thinking she was lying dead in an alley if she got in five minutes late.

The noisy crash of building blocks next to her startled her. "b.u.g.g.e.r!" Seamie yelled.

"Charlie teach you that?" she asked. He nodded proudly.

"Don't let our da 'ear you say it, lad."

"Where is Charlie?" Seamie asked, turning his face up to hers.