The small patch of sky just visible between the sooty clouds was the same shade
of blue as the forget-me-nots and ribbons on her new bonnet; a birthday present
from her father. Smiling happily, Rosina
stepped onto the pavement outside the milliner’s shop.
She was eighteen today and life was wonderful.
In her world the sun was always shining.
She did not see the squalor, vice and poverty
lurking in every dark corner of the Ratcliff Highway - the East End’s most notorious
street, where even the police were afraid to go after dark.
She barely noticed the crush of horse-drawn vehicles with the drivers bellowing
insults at each other. To her ears, the raucous
cries of the costermongers, bootblacks, match sellers and hot chestnut vendors,
all vying for trade, were as musical as the wheezing notes played by the hurdy-gurdy
men.
She picked up her long skirts to prevent them
from trailing on the filthy cobblestones, carpeted with horse dung, dog excrement,
rotten fruit and mouldy straw. She was oblivious
to the stench of steaming sewers and the sulphurous fumes from the river.
She was so accustomed to seeing the slatterns hanging round in shop doorways
touting for trade, and the ragged, pock-marked faces of the street urchins begging
for money, that she barely noticed them.
She stopped to look in a shop window where exotic seashells, shimmering and iridescent,
lay on a bed of white sand. Her reflection
smiled back at her, and she paused for a moment, primping and admiring her beautiful
bonnet. A voice from within called her name,
and Rosina poked her head round the open door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Sanchez. Isn’t it a lovely
day?’
‘Happy birthday, Rosie.’ Mrs Sanchez heaved
her large body from the stool behind the counter and waddled to the door. ‘Hold
your hand out, ducks.’ She took a necklace of pink-lipped shells from the window
display and hooked it over Rosina’s outstretched fingers.
‘Thank you.
It’s really, really lovely.’ Rosina kissed her on the cheek.
Mrs Sanchez wheezed a gale of garlic into
Rosina’s face. ‘It’s not nearly as lovely
as you, my pet. You’re just like your dear
mother, God rest her soul.’
Rosina knew that this was a compliment. It
seemed that everyone had adored her mother.
‘I wish I’d known her.’
‘She was a real lady.
A beautiful woman, Rosie. Too good
for this earth.’ Mrs Sanchez rubbed her hand across her eyes and her full lips wobbled. ‘Look at me, silly old fool.
Making you sad on your birthday.’
Rosina grasped her work-worn hand and gave
it a squeeze. ‘Nothing can make me sad today,
Mrs Sanchez. Papa should be home on the tide
and we’re having a special supper. I’ll wear
my lovely present tonight.’ She slipped the
shell necklace into her reticule.
‘Goodbye, dearie.
Give my best regards to your daddy.’ Mrs Sanchez disappeared into the dark
interior of the shop with her stays creaking like the timbers of an old sailing
barge.
Rosina blew her a kiss and walked on. A small
child, covered in bleeding sores, sidled up to her holding out its hand.
It was impossible to tell whether it was a boy or a girl, but the eyes were
those of an old person, huge and beseeching in a pinched face.
Rosina pulled out her purse and placed two pennies in the outstretched hand.
Claw-like fingers closed over the coins and the child was gone, disappearing into
the gaping mouth of a dark alley. Rosina
sighed and a shiver ran up her spine. She
had chosen to put it out of her mind, but she knew only too well that poverty marched
alongside wealth in the great city of
London
. Misfortune, disease and death could strike
anyone at any time. She walked on; she would
not think about that now, and she would not be unhappy today.
The month was May, her favourite time of the year, when the late spring sunshine
warmed the cold pavements of
East London
and banished the pea-souper fogs into a dim memory.
She had been born in May and her family name was May – the month truly did
belong to her. She paused to stare at the
brightly coloured parrots, waxbills, canaries and bishop birds in old Jamjar’s shop
window. They strutted up and down on their
perches or fluttered about in cages, singing, cackling and squawking.
She loved to look them with their shiny boot- button eyes and bright plumage,
but it made her sad to see birds trapped in cages when they ought to be free to
spread their wings and fly away, far above the soot-blackened chimney tops. She tapped the glass and a green parrot cocked
its head on one side; it seemed to wink its large eye at her and she laughed out
loud.
‘He likes the look of you, young Rosie.’
Old Jamjar, the owner of the shop, whose foreign name had been too much of a tongue-twister
for the East Enders and had been commuted to Jamjar, came out rubbing his bony fingers
together. He grinned at her, exposing bare
gums. His teeth had been knocked out in the
days when he had been a prize fighter, or so the legend had it.
Rosina had never had the heart to enquire if it were true.
She laughed at the antics of the parrot: it seemed to enjoy entertaining
her by standing on one leg and opening its beak to utter a string of swear words.
‘I don’t think I could take this one home,
Mr Jamjar. Bertha wouldn’t have him in the
house using language like that.’
‘That bird sailed with Admiral Nelson on
the Victory, so it’s said.’
Rosina frowned.
‘That would make him older than my papa, older than…’ She hesitated.
Old Jamjar chuckled.
‘Older than me? He would be if it
was true. But it’s a good story. Maybe one
day you’ll buy all me birds and set them free, like you always said you would when
you was a little girl.’
‘When I’m rich, Mr Jamjar, that’s just what
I’ll do. Now, I’d best be on my way.’
‘Just wait a moment.’ He disappeared into
the shop, and came back moments later holding a scarlet, green and blue feather
in his hand. He gave it to her.
‘I hadn’t forgotten. Happy birthday,
Rosie.’
She studied the gaudy feather and smiled. ‘It will make a lovely quill pen. Thank you.’
With a gummy grin and a wink of his one good
eye, old Jamjar retreated into his shop and was greeted by a chorus of raucous bird
calls. Rosina had always imagined that the
jungles of
Africa
would sound just like that. She would not
have been surprised if a monkey had leapt out to swing on the shop sign and tossed
a few coconuts into the street. She was tempted
to linger, but Bertha would be expecting her home soon.
Even though she knew most of the shopkeepers and street sellers by name,
Ratcliff Highway
was not the sort of place where it was safe to linger.
She stepped out briskly, stopping to accept an apple from a costermonger
who had apparently dandled her on his knee when she was a baby, and a second-hand
silk scarf from fat Freda who owned the dolly shop on the corner.
By the time she reached
Black Eagle Wharf
, her arms were filled with small gifts from old friends along the way.
She could tell by the stench from the manufactories in Silvertown and the
ironworks in Bow Creek that the tide had almost reached the high water mark, and
the arrival of her father’s
Thames
sailing barge was imminent.
She scanned the horizon for a sign of the
reddish-brown sails of the Ellie May,
named after her mother who had died when Rosina was just a few days old.
There was already a tier of barges moored alongside the wharf, together with
lighters, small coasters, watermen’s skiffs and wherries.
A gentle breeze rattled the stays against the bare masts, and the tea-coloured
waters of the
Thames
sucked and slapped at the flat hulls of the vessels.
She stopped briefly at the tobacconist’s shop to spend a few pence on an
ounce of pipe tobacco as a welcome home present for her father, exchanging pleasantries
with Sam Smilie, the proprietor. He gave
her a quarter of her favourite confectionery, sugared almonds, and wished her a
happy birthday. She thanked him, and demonstrated
her delight by popping one of the sweets in her mouth.
She walked along the quay wall, sucking the crisp sugar coating slowly, savouring
the rose-scented flavour and anticipating the crunch of the sweet almond inside. She was passing the row of narrow four-storey
houses with oriel windows overlooking the river when Caddie, the heavily pregnant
wife of Arthur Trigg, the mate on the Ellie May,
leaned out of her window on the first floor.
‘Happy birthday, Rosie.
Looks like you done well for yourself.’
She glanced up at her and smiled. ‘Thanks,
Caddie. I can’t believe how many people have
remembered it’s my birthday today.’
‘I’d have got you something meself, but I’m
a bit short of the ready until my Artie gets home.’
‘Don’t even think about it, Caddie.
You need all your money with two little ones to feed.’
‘And another one soon to be born.
My Artie weren’t too pleased about number three, not at first anyway.’
Rosina pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s not as
if he had no part in the matter, is it? Don’t
look so worried, I’m sure he’ll be delighted when the babe arrives.’
Caddie gave her a weary smile.
‘I’m sure he will. My Artie’s the best dad in the world to little Ronnie
and Alfie. I do so hope he gets back soon. I’ll be in a real fix if they miss the tide.’
‘If you’re short of money I’m sure Walter
could let you have some on account. Come
to the counting house in a bit and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I will, and God bless you, Rosie.’
With a cheery wave, Rosina hurried along
the cobbled pathway, past the single storey wharfinger’s office, to the house that
had been her home since she was four years old.
The front room was used as the counting house and was run by Walter Brown, her father’s
clerk. She pushed the door open with her
foot and went inside. Walter looked up from
his desk, peering at her over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles.
His hazel eyes lit with a smile, and he rose to his feet, brushing a lock
of dark hair from his forehead with an ink-stained hand. ‘Miss Rosina.’ He picked
up a small package wrapped in brown paper.
‘Happy birthday.’
‘How
kind of you to remember, Walter.’ She dropped her armful of presents on the desk.
‘You really shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s not much, I’m afraid.’
She accepted the gift, fingering it gently
as she tried to guess what was inside. ‘I wonder what it could be.’
She teased the paper apart, and her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Oh, Walter,
you really shouldn’t have.’ She held the gold breastpin up to the light. ‘This must
have cost you a week’s wages.’
‘Do you like it?
I could always change it if you didn’t.’
‘I love it.
What can I say? I just love it.
Will you put it on for me?’
As he took it from her, she noticed that
his hand shook slightly and she gave him an encouraging smile.
She had always liked Walter. He might
be a little dull, but he was a kindly, serious sort of fellow who worked hard keeping
the books and doing whatever it was that he did to keep the
Ellie May in business. Such matters
were as much a mystery to Rosina as the stars and planets in the night sky, and
Papa always said that she need not bother her head about such things.
She lifted her chin, pointing to the
neck of her blouse. ‘Just there, if you please,
Walter. I can’t do it without a mirror.’ His face was close to hers, and he was biting
his lip as he concentrated on fastening the brooch to the material.
A bloom of perspiration stood out on his
forehead. ‘There, it’s done.’ e He
He took a step backwards, taking a hanky
from his pocket and mopping his brow. ‘I
– I didn’t catch you with the pin, did I?’
‘No, of course not.
I’m afraid I would have screeched if you had, Walter. I’m not very brave. But the gold pin is beautiful and it was such
a kind thought.’ She seized his hand and
held it briefly against her cheek. ‘If I
had a big brother, I would want him to be just like you.’
A
dull flush rose from his starched white shirt collar to his thin cheeks. ‘I’d better
help you upstairs with your parcels.’
‘I can manage, thank you.
But there is something you can do for me, Walter.’
‘Anything, Miss Rosina.
You know that.’
‘I saw Caddie Trigg just now.
She’s in desperate need of some money, and I told her you would give her
an advance on Artie’s wages.’
He shook his head. ‘I’d like to oblige, but
I can’t very well, not without the captain’s approval.’
‘Oh,
come now, Walter. Don’t be mean.
The Ellie May will dock soon and
you’ll be paying Artie off, so what difference does a couple of hours make?’ She
smiled up at him, fluttering her eyelashes.
He appeared to be struggling with his conscience, and she pressed home her advantage.
‘Please, Walter. It is my birthday, after
all.’ He ran his finger round the inside
of his collar, and she saw that his shirt cuff, although spotlessly clean, was frayed
and there were shiny patches on the sleeves of his jacket where he rested his elbows
on the desk. She suffered a pang of guilt
as she realised that he had spent his money on her present, and yet he could not
even afford a new shirt.
She knew that she had placed him in an awkward position, for which she felt
sorry, but she was even sorrier for Caddie. ‘Please, do this for me, Walter. I’ll tell Papa it was all my idea, and that
I made you do it.’
A reluctant smile lit his face. ‘All right,
I’ll do it just this once, and only because it’s your birthday.
But I won’t allow you to take responsibility
for my actions.’
Rosina gathered up her parcels.
‘Don’t worry about Papa; I can wind him round my little finger.’
She picked up the apple that the costermonger had given her and she placed
it in Walter’s hand. ‘There, that’s for you. You really are a splendid fellow, Walter.’
She blew him a kiss as she left the office, closing the door behind her. She hurried
down the narrow passage that led to the kitchen, and her footsteps echoed on the
bare floorboards.
Bertha looked up from her ironing as Rosina
breezed into the room. ‘Well, you look pleased with yourself, young lady.’
‘I’ve had a lovely time.
Just look at all the presents that people gave me.’ She went to put them
on the table, but Bertha shook her head.
‘Don’t
clutter me table, Rosie. Can’t you see that
I’m ironing your best frock?’
‘Oops, sorry.’ She scooped the gifts onto
the seat of a chair. ‘I can’t believe how kind people have been to me today.’
‘You’re spoilt, you are.’ Bertha thumped
the flat iron down on the voluminous skirt of Rosina’s Sunday best gown. ‘I don’t
hold with spoiling children.’
Rosina crept up behind her and gave her a
hug. ‘Woof, woof. Your bark is worse than your bite, Bebe, you old fraud.’ She kissed
Bertha’s wrinkled cheek. Her skin was as
tough and leathery as Papa’s old sea boots, but despite her grim appearance, Rosina
knew that she had a heart as soft and squishy as a marshmallow.
It was Bertha who had nursed her through the miserable childish ailments
that had kept her confined to her bed for weeks at a time.
It was Bertha who had bathed the scrapes on her knees when she had fallen
over on the cobblestones, playing tag with the neighbours’ children amongst the
cranes, barrels, sacks and anchor chains on the wharf.
It was Bertha who had always stood up for her when she was in trouble with
Papa. She gave her another hug. ‘Don’t be
cross, Bebe. I’ve had a lovely day and I
saw all our old friends in
Ratcliff Highway
.’
‘I can see that.
But I’ve told you a hundred times not to go roaming round the Highway on
your own. It ain’t safe.’ Bertha tested the
heat of the flat iron by spitting on it.
‘You’re a young woman now, not a little girl in short petticoats.’
‘Don’t fuss, Bebe.
We lived there once, remember? No
one in the Highway would harm me.’
‘I know where you was raised.
I was with your sainted Ma even before you was born and with her when she
died.’ Bertha put the rapidly cooling iron back on the fire, and picked up the one
that had been heating over the hot coals.
She held it close to her cheek, judging the temperature before she set about ironing
the fine cotton poplin. ‘And you might think
they’re all kind and friendly, but there’s plenty who ain’t.
There are evil men who prey on young girls like you. There’s opium dens and
houses of ill repute down
Ratcliff Highway
. It ain’t safe I tell you, Rosie.’
Rosina snatched up the silk scarf that fat
Freda had given her, and she wound it around Bertha’s neck. ‘There, this will suit
you much better than it does me. I want you
to have it.’
Bertha’s face crinkled into an unwilling
smile. ‘You always could get round me with your soft-soaping ways.’
‘You’re still my Bebe, the kind and lovely
Bebe who tucked me up in bed every night and told me stories about fairies and princesses.’
‘Get on with you, you minx.’ Bertha unwound
the scarf, but she did not take it off. ‘Get out of me way and let me finish me
chores afore the captain gets home. A fine
welcome it would be if he found me doing the ironing, instead of having a hot meal
ready and waiting for him.’
‘I’ll call out when I spot the
Ellie May’s sails coming up river.’ Rosina scooped up her belongings and
took them upstairs to the parlour. She laid
her gifts out on a side table, displaying them for her father to view when he had
had time to settle in at home. Untying the
ribbons on her bonnet, she took it off and went to sit on the seat in the oriel
window overlooking the wharf and the river beyond.
Through the forest of masts she could see past Watson’s Wharf and the
Standard
Wharves
where ships from foreign ports unloaded their cargoes of fruit and vegetables, wines
spirits and tea. It all sounded so romantic
to Rosina’s ears: she had never been further afield than the creeks and salt marshes
of
Essex
, and probably never would. If she had had
the luck to be born a boy, she could have sailed with Papa as mate on the
Ellie May. But if she had been a
boy she would not have been able to wear pretty things like her lovely new bonnet. She fingered the smooth satin ribbons and
sniffed the silk forget-me-nots; ey had no smell, of course, but it was fun to imagine
that they were real, and that she had picked them fresh from a country garden, the
like of which she had seen on picture postcards and in magazines.
A movement below caught her eye, and looking down she saw Caddie standing
on the wharf, with eighteen-month-old Alfie straddled on her hip, and Ronnie who
was little more than a year older, clinging to her skirt as she peered into the
distance. Following her gaze, Rosina spotted
the unmistakeable tan sails of a
Thames
barge coming up river. Even before she could
read the lettering on the bow, she knew that it was the
Ellie May. With a cry of delight,
she jammed her bonnet on her head, and leapt to her feet.
She ran downstairs, tying the ribbons beneath her chin. The office door was
open and she beckoned to Walter. ‘She’s home,
Walter. The
Ellie May has just arrived in port.’
He
rose from his seat behind the desk. ‘I’m
coming. I’ll just get my cap.’
‘Don’t be so formal, Walter,’ Rosina said,
struggling to containt her impatience. ‘You don’t need to wear a cap in order to
welcome home the Ellie May.’
‘The captain wouldn’t appreciate it if I
turning up improperly dressed.’ He took his peaked cap off the hat stand and put
it on.
‘Oh,
really! You are so – so proper!’ She bit
her lip, realising by his downcast expression that she had hurt his feelings. She was sorry for her hasty words, but sometimes
he was so maddening that she couldn’t hold her tongue. It wouldn’t have been so
bad if he fought back, but he always seemed to be in total command of his feelings.
He gave her a brief nod as he strode out
of the house and onto the wharf. Rosina followed
more slowly, wondering if Walter had ever done anything spontaneous in his whole
life. In the two years that he had worked
for her papa, she had never known him to be anything other than polite, punctilious
and hardworking. She had seen occasional
flashes of humour in his eyes, but she had never heard him laugh, or even chuckle. He could not be more than twenty-two or twenty-three,
but to her it seemed that, nice though he might be, he was tumbling headlong into
middle age. She broke into a run, and by
the time she reached Caddie’s side she had forgotten all about Walter.
She waved frantically to her father as he steered the barge alongside another
vessel. Artie leapt off to make it secure. He looked up and smiled as Caddie shrieked
his name, with the infants’ shrill voices piping, ‘Dada, Dada’.
‘I’m so glad he’s home.
I miss him something horrible when he’s away.’ Caddie kept waving as though
she was afraid the barge might sail away again.
‘Isn’t my Artie just the most handsome fellow you’ve ever seen, Miss Rosie?’
Rosina murmured something that passed for
agreement. Handsome wasn’t the word she would
have used to describe Artie. He was not very tall; in fact, he was quite short and
stocky. His face was tanned by the sun, wind
and salt air from the estuary, but his features were unremarkable.
She would have said he was plain, but pleasant-looking.
Caddie, on the other hand, obviously saw something quite different.
Judging by the rapt expression on her face, she was seeing a prince amongst
men. Artie leapt from barge to barge until
he reached the ladder on the quay wall; he shinned up the steps as nimbly as a circus
performer heading for the high wire. He enveloped Caddie in an embrace that almost
squashed Alfie, who howled in protest. Artie kissed him on his downy head and then
he lifted Ronnie up in his arms, chuckling and tickling him until the little boy
let out a peal of laughter. In spite of herself,
Rosina felt a lump in her throat as she watched the family walk off towards the
lodging house, where they lived in two small rooms on the first floor.
It was touching to see them in such a loving relationship and so happy together. She moved to Walter’s side, suddenly stricken
with conscience. ‘I didn’t mean to offend
you, Walter.’
‘That’s all right.
You’re entitled to say what you think.’
‘Well, you are very proper – but that’s a
good thing. It wouldn’t do if everyone was
like me and said the first thing that came into their head.’
‘No, ma’am.’
She turned to stare at him, but his generous
mouth curved into a grin and his eyes twinkled in a way that invited an immediate
response. She tucked her hand in the crook
of his arm. ‘Why, Walter, I believe there’s a little devil hiding somewhere inside
that serious head of yours after all.’
He stiffened and his smile faded. ‘Excuse
me, miss. The captain wants me to go on board.’
She followed his gaze and saw her father
making imperative gestures with his hand.
‘You’d best go then, and see what he wants.’
She waited impatiently for Papa to come ashore; it was, after all, her special day. She paced up and down on the cobblestones,
stopping occasionally to acknowledge birthday greetings from the dock workers. She had known most of them since she was a
child, and she made polite enquiries as to the health of their wives and numerous
children, but all the time she kept an eye on the deck of the
Ellie May, where Papa and Walter were deep in conversation.
When they finally came ashore, she ran to her father and flung her arms
around his neck. ‘It’s good to have you home,
Papa.’
He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘Hello, Rosie.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say to me?’ She
let her arms fall to her sides, staring into his bewhiskered face. ‘Papa?’
‘Don’t pester me now, girl.
I’ve got a lot on me mind.’ He walked away from her, heading towards the
wharfinger’s office.
She ran after him.
‘But what’s the matter? Why are you
so angry?’
‘I’m going to make an official complaint
about that bastard, Ham Barnum.’
‘Captain Barnum?
What has he done now?’
He stopped outside the office door, staring
down at her with a frown puckering his forehead into deep lines.
‘He’s crossed me once too often. Go
home, Rosie. Wait for me there. This hasn’t
anything to do with you.’ He stormed inside
and slammed the door.
‘Well!’ Rosina stared after him.
He hadn’t even noticed her new bonnet, and, worse still, it was apparent
that he had completely forgotten that it was her birthday.
Something must have gone badly wrong.
She turned to look for Walter; he would tell her the truth.
He was talking to a group of men, but he broke off as she approached them. ‘Walter,
what is going on?’
‘It’s not for me to say, miss.’
‘If you don’t tell me, I shall scream.’ She
opened her mouth as if to carry out her threat.
She had no intention of doing so, but she knew it would have the desired effect
on him. Walter was so easy to manipulate. He took her by the arm and led her back towards
the house.
‘It’s a matter between Captain May and Captain
Barnum. It seems as though they’ve fallen
out again, and this time it’s serious. You’ll
have to ask your father to tell you the rest.
That’s all I know.’ Walter opened the door for her.
‘It would be best if you were to wait at home.’
‘Stop treating me like a child.
You were talking to Papa; he must have told you what happened.’
‘You’re placing me in an awkward situation.’
‘Oh, come on, please tell me. I promise I
won’t let on to Papa, but I’m dying with curiosity.
Please, Walter.’
His lips twitched as if he was trying hard
not to smile. ‘You’ll get me the sack.’
‘Please, please tell.’
‘They were racing to get the best cargo.
The captain said that Barnum took his wind and drove him onto a mudflat.
Luckily the tide was coming in and they soon floated off, but it cost him
the cargo he had aimed for, and he says Barnum got it by cheating.
He’s gone to complain of malpractice to the wharfinger, and he intends to
take the case to the Watermen’s Company.
I can’t tell you more, miss. That’s all I
know.’
Rosina had to be content with that until
her father came home, but by this time she was ready and waiting with a jug of hot
buttered rum to soothe his temper, and his slippers were warming by the range. Even
though it was mild outside, Papa always suffered from cold feet, more so when he
was tired after a long and trying voyage.
She had his favourite pipe already filled with baccy, and she had placed his chair
by the fire. Bertha had cleared away the
ironing and was laying the table for supper, which was to be boiled mutton and caper
sauce. Rosina lifted the saucepan lid and
sniffed appreciatively; it was one of Papa’s favourite dishes, and was to be followed
by spotted dick and custard – a sure winner.
Bertha was probably the best cook in Wapping, if not the whole of
London
.
Captain Edward May stormed into the kitchen,
kicking off his sea boots so that they flew up in the air and one of them landed
on the table. Bertha scowled at him, but
she said nothing as she picked up the muddy boot and placed it close to the range. Rosina knew better than to make a fuss.
She poured the toddy into a rummer. ‘Welcome home, Papa.’
Edward shrugged off his pea jacket and dropped
it onto a chair. His scowl lightened as he
took the glass from her. ‘Thank you, Rosie, love.’
She waited in silence, watching the colour
return to his pale cheeks as he gulped the drink.
The tension seemed to leach from him and his shoulders sagged.
Bertha said nothing as she busied herself slicing a freshly baked loaf of
bread. Rosina smiled and refilled his glass. ‘Sit down, Papa.
Bertha has made your favourite supper.’
‘And I’m a brute for taking me megrims out
on you, my pet.’ Edward put the glass down on the table and held out his arms. ‘Come here, Rosie.
Let your old dad give you a birthday kiss.’
She walked into his arms and he kissed her
on the forehead, on the tip of her nose and on both cheeks, in the way he had greeted
her ever since she could remember. She kissed
his cheek and his mutton-chop whiskers tickled her nose.
He smelled of the river, of salty mud, a faint hint of pipe tobacco and buttered
rum. She smiled up into his weathered face. ‘It’s good to have your home, Papa.’
‘And leave your blooming temper outside the
door next time,’ Bertha said, obviously judging that the time was right to have
her say. ‘What sort of greeting was that
for a girl on her eighteenth birthday?’
Rosina felt her father’s muscles tense and
she held her breath. One day Bertha would
go too far, but today was not going to be that day, as her papa let out a shout
of laughter and sat down on his chair, pulling her onto his knee.
‘Trust Bertha to put a man in his place.
I’ve been captain of the ship all week and now I must bow to petticoat rule. Happy
birthday, poppet.’
‘You never bowed down to nothing in your
life, old man.’ Bertha waved the bread knife at him.
‘And if you’ve had an up and downer with that Ham Barnum again, then shame
on you for bringing it into the home.’
‘I don’t wonder that no man ever offered
to marry you, you old harridan,’ Edward said conversationally.
‘You keep your place, madam. If you
wasn’t such a good cook I’d have sent you packing years ago.’
‘And I’d have gone, if it wasn’t for the
little lamb.’ Bertha huffed her way over to the range and stirred the caper sauce. ‘Serve you right if it was burned black as
your heart.’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Rosina said, stifling
a sigh of relief. When Papa and Bertha insulted
each other, things were normal. It was only
when they were coldly polite that she ever worried.
She wriggled off his lap and handed him the pipe.
‘I bought you some of your favourite baccy, Papa.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll enjoy a pipe after supper. Now tell me if you got that bonnet you were
hankering after.’
‘Papa!’ Rosina pursed her lips in a mock
pout. ‘I was wearing it when I met you on the quay.’
‘I’m sorry, poppet.
I was so fired up against that villain Ham Barnum that it escaped my notice. I’ve filed a complaint against him at the
wharfinger’s office and I’m going to take it up with the Watermen’s Company. I’ll have their solicitors on him and that
will take the smile off the bastard’s face.
If he wants war, then war he shall have.’
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