Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford
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to draw breath because the minute their loads were delivered they set to work again—the men, their wives, their children—to scrub down their boats, refill the holds with timber or grain, then once more head north.
It was mighty hard work for the boatmen—hard work, too, for the horses who hauled the laden vessels, although those horses, he’d noticed, were tended with as much care as a cavalryman would lavish on his mount. As it happened, just then Jack’s eyes were caught by a big grey horse that was being led right past him, its halter firmly held by a youth in a long coat and battered, wide-brimmed hat.
The horse stopped to look at Jack inquisitively and he reached out to stroke his neck. ‘Hello there, old fellow,’ he murmured. ‘I’d guess you have some stories to tell.’
‘Best watch yourself, mister,’ the youth in the battered hat warned him. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’
‘Doesn’t he, now?’ Jack tickled the animal behind one ear until it gave a soft whicker of pleasure.
The lad’s face was shadowed by that big hat, but Jack was pretty sure he looked irritated by the horse’s evident delight. The lad tugged at his horse’s leading rein and moved on, but called back over his shoulder, ‘Hear that noise? You won’t find those tar barrels quite as friendly as my horse.’
Indeed, there was an ominous rumbling sound getting louder and Jack spun round, jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by some huge barrels that were being rolled along the quayside. Damn! That was close. Breathing rather hard, he took one last look at the grey horse and its slim owner both heading for the blacksmith’s forge, from which came the clanging of hammers on hot iron.
The noise and clamour reminded him that everyone around here was busy except for him and slowly he set off back to his shop, but he was sorry to leave the wharf with all its bustle and energy. More than once he’d found himself envying the sense of community these people who lived around the wharf seemed to enjoy, the sense of belonging. They were also a watchful set and it hadn’t taken long for the regulars to get to know where Jack lived—they called him Mr Percival, or sometimes just Mr Percy, the antiques man. Right now, a bunch of young women from the boats were walking back with full baskets from the local food market.
‘All right there, Mr Percy?’ one of them called. ‘D’you need a hand with anything today?’
They were casting eyes of approval over his curly black hair, his leather waistcoat and breeches and boots. He smiled back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’
But that wasn’t entirely true.
Letting himself into the dust and disarray of his shop, he lit a couple of candles to highlight the debris and wondered what on earth to do next. For several years he’d served with the British army in Spain—in fact, he’d been an officer and Lord Wellington himself had valued him highly. ‘You’re my man for tactics, Rutherford,’ Wellington used to say to him. ‘You’re my man for digging out the enemy’s secret plans.’
And what were Jack’s plans now? He was aiming to get back his inheritance, that was what. He was plotting revenge against the man who’d robbed him, while he’d been away, of his home, his heritage and his pride.
Who’d robbed him, in other words, of pretty much everything.
‘There. That’s Hercules sorted for you, young Matty!’ The blacksmith checked the horse’s freshly shod hooves, then nodded his head in approval. ‘He’s a fine old fellow. Let me know if you’re thinking of selling him off, will you?’
The blacksmith’s forge, Matty always thought, was like a goblin’s cavern, glowing with the heat of the furnace and the glitter of molten metal. In answer to the blacksmith’s question, she shook her head. ‘I’ll not sell him, ever. He’s an old friend, and we won’t be parted.’ Carefully she counted out some coins into the blacksmith’s sooty palm and began to lead Hercules back to the wharf.
Of course, the blacksmith never suspected she was a girl. Nor had that man who’d nearly been felled by those rolling tar barrels a little earlier. She shook her head at the memory; he’d looked like some arrogant ne’er-do-well and he’d taken more notice of Hercules than he had of her. Like most people, he’d assumed Matty was just another local lad and she was fine with that. Yes, thank you very much—just fine.
As Hercules clopped along beside her, she stroked his neck. ‘Pleased with your new shoes, are you, old fellow?’
He nuzzled her neck in reply and she smiled as they walked on past the warehouses to the canal basin.
She had never deliberately set out to deceive people and her long coat and big hat weren’t intended as a disguise—it was just that she found men’s clothes more comfortable, more useful. She was nineteen years old and her full name was Matilda Grey. She’d lived on the canals all her life and as she walked by the moored boats, people stopped what they were doing to greet her. ‘Morning, young Matty! How’s Hercules? Did you get him sorted out at the forge?’
‘Hercules is fine,’ Matty called back. ‘He needed shoeing, of course. But the blacksmith said that now he should be ready for anything.’
Yes, all her canal friends knew she was a girl, but strangers didn’t realise, not unless they got up too close. And she didn’t normally let anybody get too close, no, indeed; she kept her chestnut-brown hair cropped short, she wore a shirt and trousers together with an old coat that reached past her knees and some strong leather boots—no dainty shoes for her. She found it so much easier to dress like that. It helped her to look confident and carefree.
Even though today she felt anything but, because the blacksmith’s fee had reminded her that she only had enough money left for three or maybe four more months of this way of life. This can’t go on, Matty. The bills came in regularly for berthing her boat as well as for Hercules’s stabling and food and that nagging little voice of worry had been wearing away at her for days now. Some day soon either her horse or her boat would have to go. Then what?
She looked around for inspiration, noting that as usual at this time of day the canal basin was packed with boats being laden with grain and timber for the journey north. ‘One boat drawn by a single horse can carry six times as much as a cart pulled by four horses,’ she remembered her father telling her when she was small. ‘Canals are the future, Matty!’
He had died two years ago and recollecting his voice rekindled her sense of loss, together with her fears. Yes, canals might well be the future—but perhaps not for her.
She realised a woman was calling out to her from one of the nearby boats. ‘How’s things, Matty, love? Getting ready for another trip, are you?’
Bess, one of her oldest friends, had a big soapy scrubbing brush in her hand. She was always scrubbing something—her boat, her laundry or her children. ‘I’m making plans, Bess,’ Matty replied. ‘You know?’
‘You and your plans!’ Bess shook her head and tutted, but in her eyes was nothing but kindness. ‘Just be sure to let me and my Daniel know if you need any help, won’t you?’
‘I will. My thanks, Bess.’ And Matty walked on towards her boat, The Wild Rose, where she tethered Hercules close by.
She’d been only three when her mother died and Bess in particular had taken Matty to her heart, cooking meals for her and her father, offering company when it was needed and easing the pain of loss for them both. Matty counted Bess and her husband among her most loyal friends, but Bess would still be watching her, she knew, and just now she needed some privacy. Making for the solitude of her tiny cabin, she dragged off her boots and sat down on the narrow bed.
She still missed her father, so much. An Oxford graduate, he had earned his living by writing articles for historical journals and occasionally