Pandora(5)
‘Mr Tibb, if you please! Mr Tibb!’
Jonas Tibb half-turns his head to see who calls for him then looks back to the barges, and with a gesticulation toward the river says something Hezekiah cannot hear. The foreman turns fully then, makes his way up the dock steps, onto the sloping bank where Hezekiah impatiently waits.
‘Again, Mr Blake?’ Tibb hooks filthy thumbs over the waistband of his trousers, glances back across to the river. The weather – while cold – has remained dry and bright; the water is as still as a duck pond, smooth as glass. ‘I told you yesterday there had been no sign. That’s changed none since the sun has set and risen.’
Hezekiah’s shoulders slump. He feels the stirring of annoyance in his belly, the harsh punch of renewed disappointment. Seeing his face Tibb sighs, removes his woollen cap, rubs at his bald head.
‘Sir, you already said your men won’t be taking the quicker route by road. It’s nearly five hundred miles from Samson and with winter tides you can always expect a day or two delay. Why must you keep coming here when I’ve told you I’ll send word?’
Usually Hezekiah would not stand for such talk. He is a reputable tradesman after all and this man would ordinarily be beneath his notice, but Jonas Tibb has never once questioned why Hezekiah wishes to conduct his business in such a way and the foreman’s discretion has always been unwavering.
‘Hell’s teeth, Tibb. You have no notion of its import. I paid good money to claim this shipment.’
Money, he thinks now with unease, he could ill afford.
Tibb lifts his shoulders in what seems to be the beginnings of a shrug before he appears to think better of it. His watery grey eyes crinkle in a half-smile.
‘I’m sure the Coombes won’t be letting you down. They never have, have they?’
Hezekiah brightens. ‘No, no indeed, they have not.’
Tibb nods curtly, replaces his hat, and Hezekiah grunts now, annoyed with himself for displaying weakness in front of a lowborn.
‘Well, then,’ he says. ‘I shall look forward to hearing from you in due course. I expect a note delivered as soon as you see his boat coming in, do you understand?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Very good.’
And so Hezekiah – handkerchief once more in situ – makes the distasteful journey back up to Puddle Dock Hill, through the cramped cesspit of Creed Lane and onto the crowded bustle of Ludgate Street, but his mind is all a muddle, his temper most aggrieved, despite the foreman’s words.
Where are they? Where is his shipment, his most longed-for prize? Perhaps something has happened – an ambush, or perhaps the Coombes have run off with it – or – and here Hezekiah barks a laugh that causes a milkmaid to look at him oddly and tip her yoke – it has sunk! No, the thought is too awful, too ironically funny to consider. Quick, he thinks, quick! He must have something to ease his turmoil.
Hezekiah’s attention is now drawn to shop windows, eyes darting like billiard balls at the break. A new snuffbox? No, he already has two. Another wig? He touches the fine coil at his ear, the silkiness of carefully chosen human hair. Mayhap not, this one was expensive enough. A cravat pin, perhaps? But then his eyes alight on something else and he smiles, feels the familiar surge of want, the satisfaction of knowing an item is meant so perfectly for him. He enters the shop and, credit given, the purchase is done in moments.
Back on the street he pats his chest, palm pressing on the small package which sits comfortably within the inner pocket of his greatcoat, and smiling widely Hezekiah adjusts his hat, continues on.
CHAPTER THREE
Dinner is a painful affair. Unlike the rest of the house the small dining room with its rich maroon wallpaper and merry fire is cosy and warm, and would be quite an agreeable little place to sit if she were in different company. But Dora and Hezekiah have never been much for pleasant conversation, especially in recent weeks. Christmas passed without any amusement to be taken from it for Hezekiah’s humour was dark and mutinous, which made the experience altogether rather trying. That humour continued – unprecedented, it seemed – into the new year, and Dora has been making every effort to avoid his sharp tongue, the irritation that seems to seep from him like Thames fog. Dora curls her fingers round her napkin. She would much rather pass the evening in her damp and draughty bedroom fixing the glass pebble to her necklace with only Hermes for company. Indeed, she has far more rewarding discussions with him than anyone else, and he only a bird.
Thoughtfully Dora watches her uncle. Hezekiah is distracted, more so than usual, for he is slow to eat and keeps his gaze set on the large map of the world that hangs on the wall behind her, absently stroking his scar, a fine white line that spans the length of his cheek. He coughs and fidgets, taps his wine glass with his thumb, its clink-clink-clink a wearisome noise as the evening draws on. Every now and then his other hand strokes the gleaming pocketwatch that hangs from his waistcoat, its chain glinting in the candlelight.
Dora stares at it fixedly after the sixth time he reaches for it, trying to recall if she has seen it before. Did the watch belong to her father? But no, she would remember it. A new acquisition then, Dora decides, but she holds her tongue. The last time she asked how Hezekiah could possibly afford to buy such baubles he went an alarming shade of red and scolded her so loudly that her ears rang until the following morning. When her uncle coughs again, the effort making a large globular piece of mutton wobble dangerously on his fork, Dora decides she cannot stand it any longer.