Dancing in the Moonlight (16 page)

When Tom had left the others outside the hospital he had gone into the nearest pub and ordered a double whisky, which he had swallowed down in a couple of gulps, before
ordering another. Now, gazing into the glass, he swirled the amber liquid around a few times. As yet Jacob didn’t suspect he’d had anything to do with the beating, that much had been
clear. And even if he put two and two together, he couldn’t prove anything, and who’d believe him anyhow? It had been a nasty moment when he’d arrived at the ward and found Jacob
back in the land of the living, though.

He narrowed his eyes and tipped more whisky down his throat. Nine out of ten blokes wouldn’t have survived half of what his brother had had done to him, but that was Jacob all over. Drop
him in a muck heap and he’d come up smelling of roses.

He finished his drink and left the pub, and now his mind had moved on from the annoying problem of Jacob’s recovery and was focusing on the matter that had consumed him over the last days.
Where was Lucy? When he’d called to see her the day after he’d had his way with her, he’d expected to find her broken and submissive and ready to see reason. Instead the house had
been empty and, when he’d gone next door, his mam had been all of a dither, showing him the note Lucy had left and telling him she’d gone off with Donald. He hadn’t disabused her
of this idea. It suited his purposes to let everyone assume Donald had taken the family down south while he made his own investigations. But to date he’d come up with nothing.

But he would. His jaw tightened. She’d had no money; Frank had shown him what he’d found scattered over the kitchen floor and it was most, if not all, of what he had given her. So
she wouldn’t have got far. And Sunderland wasn’t so big she could hide forever, not with four bairns hanging onto her skirts.

He smiled grimly to himself. He’d been spitting bricks that first day, especially at her implied insult regarding the money. He was still angry, but he had to admit a sneaking respect for
her – a first for him where a woman was concerned. She had surprised him too – another first. She had appeared crushed when he’d left that night, but she had more spirit than
he’d credited to her. Life with her wouldn’t be dull. Of course she would do what she was told, if push came to shove, but with Lucy he’d make allowances: the iron hand in the
velvet glove. That was after he’d brought her to heel for leading him a merry dance, mind you.

He nodded at the thought, not feeling the fine rain on his face as he walked on, imagining what he would do to her when he got her into his bed, and after a few moments he began humming a hit of
the year before, ‘Ain’t she sweet’, and he was smiling.

It was seven o’clock in the evening. The rain had become more persistent over the last hour and the hope of the morning was no more. Lucy was beside herself. It seemed no
one was prepared to offer even the meanest work to a young lass with bairns in tow. ‘It’s this way, lass,’ the last prospective employer – a grand name for the owner of the
little pie shop with a notice in the window saying ‘Help wanted’ – had said, ‘I need someone I know isn’t going to let me down. An’ with that lot’ –
she’d flicked her head towards the four standing at the entrance to the shop – ‘you’ve got your hands full already.’

Lucy had nodded dully at the familiar refrain. Now, as she joined the others huddled together against the driving rain and they began to walk away, she was surprised when the shop owner came
hurrying after them.

‘Look, lass,’ the woman said a little breathlessly – she was as round as she was tall, which was a good advertisement for her pies – ‘I know of a bloke who’s
in a bit of a fix, a friend of mine. Do you know Perce Alridge, the fishmonger in Long Bank?’ Lucy shook her head. She knew Long Bank joined High Street and Low Street, because she’d
applied for a job at the kipper-curing house there, but that was all.

‘Well, me an’ Ada, Perce Alridge’s late wife, have been pals since school, but she died a couple of months back havin’ their third. The bab died an’ all, and
he’s bin left with two little ’uns and the shop to run. Ada did a bit in there an’ all and, to tell you the truth, Perce don’t know if he’s on foot or horseback. He
had a young lad helping him till yesterday, when he caught him thieving from the till. It might be worth calling there and seeing what’s what, if nothing else.’

‘Oh, I will, I will, and thank you. I’ll go there now.’

Lucy’s smile lit up her tired face and, after looking at her for a moment, the woman said, ‘You tell Perce that Maggie sent you. All right, lass? An’ steer clear of the pubs on
the waterfront, if you don’t get no joy with Perce. Some of the foreign sailors are drunk morning to night, when they’re not on the boats, and lookin’ like you do they’d eat
you alive. Havin’ the bairns with you would make no difference to them, they’re like animals.’

Her face straight now, Lucy nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, her stomach trembling at the thought of what the woman meant. She knew about two-legged animals and being eaten
alive. The bruises on her body and the stinging and pain between her legs had all but gone now, but she only had to close her eyes at night and she was reliving the nightmare.

It was only a short distance to Long Bank and the rain had cleared the street of the normal scattering of snotty-nosed infants playing their games. John had described the Bank as a
higgledy-piggledy street earlier that day, when they had gone to the kipper-curing establishment, and he was right. Certainly coming from the regimented rows of two-up, two-down streets where they
had lived, it seemed so. Some of the buildings were two-storey and some three- with different-sized doors and windows and jutting-out pieces here and there. The overriding smell was one of fish,
which wasn’t surprising, located as it was within a stone’s throw of the docks; and pubs, shops and tenement dwellings lived in noisy, dirty disharmony. The brothels did a roaring trade
of a night in this part of the East End, and for those customers who weren’t too particular about who serviced them, the dock dollies did the job for half the price in the stinking alleys and
narrow courts that made up much of the area.

They found the fishmonger’s shop halfway along the street, and in spite of the relatively late hour there was a small queue leading to the marble counter, behind which a harassed-looking
man was serving. Not quite knowing how to proceed, Lucy stationed the others outside under the shop’s awning. The twins immediately started to cry. They were wet and cold and hungry, and they
didn’t like the window containing rows of gaping-mouthed, glassy-eyed fish. Telling Ruby to take care of them, Lucy joined the line of housewives, most of whom were carrying buckets or
stained, evil-smelling baskets.

A couple of the women eyed her curiously, the one in front of her turning to say, ‘Haven’t seen you round here afore, lass?’

Trying not to breathe in too deeply, Lucy said, ‘No, we used to live over the river in Monkwearmouth.’

‘Oh aye, Monkwearmouth, was it?’ The woman nodded, glancing at the four huddled by the window. ‘Times are hard, sure enough, hinny,’ she said, the roughness of her voice
softened by a note of compassion. ‘You here for the halibut heads an’ bloaters an’ whatnot? Keeps my lot going, the end-of-day bits Perce knocks out cheap. I reckon he does more
trade in the last hour than he does the rest of the day put together.’

She chuckled, and another of the women chimed in, ‘I got a nice lot of herrings a couple of nights back, Flo. Nowt like a bit of roe on toast in the mornin’ to keep you goin’
all day, an’ we had the herrings soused in vinegar an’ some pickling spice our Rory come by. Handsome they were.’

‘Your Rory oughta be careful, lass. He’ll be sent along the line if he’s caught, or to the House of Correction leastways.’

‘He won’t get caught, not our Rory. Cunnin’ as a cartload of monkeys, he is, an’ twice as nimble.’

‘Aye, so was Sarah’s lad – Larry, wasn’t it? – but he got nabbed.’

‘But he was a pickpocket, Flo. You can’t compare my Rory with him.’ The woman sounded affronted. ‘My Rory don’t go in for the thievin’ proper.’

The conversation continued in the same vein as the queue shortened, and after a few minutes Lucy had a clear view of the fishmonger. He was a big man, not so much in height as in breadth. His
head seemed to flow into his broad shoulders and his chest was massive, straining against the shirt and heavily stained apron covering it. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt showed hairy, muscled
arms and his hands were hairy too, and large. Very large. His hair was short and his face ruddy, and as he served his customers he kept up a flow of banter, which didn’t detract from the
speed with which each woman was sent on her way clutching her purchases and, in the main, smiling.

The closer she got to the counter, the more Lucy wanted to turn on her heels and run. Something about the fishmonger repulsed her and caused a trembling inside, although she didn’t know
what it was.

And then she was in front of him and a pair of mild blue eyes held hers. ‘Aye, lass?’ he said a tinge impatiently, when she didn’t speak. ‘What can I get you?’

Lucy opened her mouth, but no words came out. His shirt collar was undone and a tuft of thick curly hair showed; she had never seen such a hairy man before or such a threateningly male one. He
terrified her. She took a step backwards and trod on the toe of the woman behind her, who swore loudly and pushed her in the back, propelling her forward again. Somehow, through her embarrassment
and panic, she heard herself say, ‘Maggie sent me, Mr Alridge. She – she said you were looking for someone to help out.’

The woman behind her made a ribald comment, which caused the others to titter. Not so Percival Alridge. He watched the young lass in front of him colour to the roots of her hair, a fact that, if
Lucy had but known, amazed him. In this part of the East End the fairer sex didn’t blush; most of the young lassies and women round about had tongues on them that would put a sailor to
shame.

Wondering how on earth Maggie had come across such an innocent – and a bonny one at that, he added to himself – he cast a warning glance at the woman behind Lucy before saying
quietly, ‘A lad, lass. It’s a lad I’m after. This is a fishmonger’s and it’s hard work at the best of times.’

His manner had assuaged the blind fear to some extent, and paramount now was the knowledge that if she didn’t get this job they were done for. ‘I’m used to hard work. I can do
anything a lad can do,’ she said quickly.

‘Aye, an’ more besides,’ the woman behind her quipped, causing another ripple of laughter in the shop.

Keeping his amusement from showing, Perce began, ‘I’m sorry, lass, but—’

‘Please.’
Throwing pride and caution to the wind, Lucy stepped right up to the counter. ‘Please, Mr Alridge, I need this job. I’ll work harder than any lad, I
promise, and I’m stronger than I look. I’ve tried everywhere—’ Her voice caught in her throat and, willing herself not to cry, she said weakly, ‘Please let me prove it
to you.’

‘Oh, give the lass a chance,’ the woman behind her said now. ‘She can’t be worse than Norman. You said yourself he was a lazy little blighter, Perce.’

‘Aye, an’ light-fingered into the bargain,’ another woman piped up. ‘He was lucky to get away with the good hiding you gave him, Perce. Many a man would have called the
law, an’ rightly so. But this lass has got an honest face. You are honest, aren’t you, hinny?’ she called to Lucy. ‘Course you are.’

Lucy nodded, her eyes on the fishmonger, who was scowling at the customers.

‘Let me mind me own business and you mind yours,’ he growled to the shop in general. ‘All right? An’ you, lass’ – his gaze fastened on Lucy for a moment
– ‘you wait at the back till I’m finished and we’ll see, but I’m not promising anything, mind.’

Lucy nodded again. She couldn’t have spoken through the surge of hope which had risen up in a big lump in her throat.

It took half an hour for the customers to dwindle, but at eight o’clock Perce called out that he was closing to any more who tried to enter, and served the last few. After washing his
hands in a bowl of water behind the counter he came round the other side and shut and bolted the door. It was then that he glanced at Lucy, who was standing where he’d told her to.
‘You’d better come up for a minute so’s we can talk proper,’ he said gruffly.

‘Thank you.’ Conscious of four distinctly alarmed faces outside the window, Lucy summoned up her courage. She’d nipped out earlier and told them what was happening, but the
bolting of the door had clearly unnerved them. ‘Could my brother and sisters wait inside, Mr Alridge? They won’t touch anything.’

Perce followed her gaze to where the four children were: the twins sitting on the trunk and Ruby and John standing behind them. All four looked wet and cold, and Flora and Bess were crying.

‘They’re yours?’ His voice was high with astonishment. ‘I thought they were waitin’ for someone.’

‘They are. Me.’

‘Why did you bring them with you if you’re looking for work?’

It was the question she’d dreaded while she had been standing at the back of the shop. ‘I had to. There’s nowhere else for them,’ she said flatly.

‘Couldn’t you have left ’em at home with your mam an’ da?’

She stared at him and after a moment he said, ‘So that’s why you’re cartin’ that damn great trunk about?’ He swore softly. ‘I’ll let ’em in, and
you can all come up an’ have a warm while you tell me what’s what. And the truth, mind. I might not be the sharpest card in the pack, but I know when I’m being lied to.’

‘I don’t lie, Mr Alridge.’

‘Is that so?’ He looked down into the great deep-blue eyes. ‘Then you’re the first of your sex I’ve come across who don’t, and that includes me dear old mam,
God rest her soul.’

They followed the fishmonger across the shop into the rear of the premises where the smell of fish was even stronger, and then up a flight of narrow stairs to a small landing. He unlocked what
looked like a front door and, as he opened it, a small child flung himself at the fishmonger’s legs, crying, ‘Da, Da, Charley’s wet himself again an’ he wouldn’t let
me change him, an’ he’s gone to sleep on the mat.’