Lucy Ashford - Unbuttoning Miss Matilda

‘You’re one of us, young Matty,’ the canal folk were always telling her. ‘You always will be, lass.’

But Matty knew that in reality she was alone, cast adrift somewhere between the world of the Oxford scholars and the community of canal people, yet belonging to neither. She also knew this way of life couldn’t carry on for much longer without a regular income and some day soon—by the autumn, most likely—she would have to sell The Wild Rose. Already the sharp tang of loss was making her cold. She’d told Bess she had a plan—if only she did.

Slowly she went to fetch a tin cash box from under the bed and unlocked it. The money won’t have magically multiplied since you last looked, you fool.

Inside were some things she’d carefully kept over the years—three bronze Celtic brooches, an Iron-Age amulet and two small silver candleholders, Tudor most likely. And, wrapped in a soft piece of cloth, there was a golden coin. A Roman coin.

Holding the coin up to the light, she thought she would never, ever forget the reverence in her father’s eyes as he’d brushed the dirt from it two years ago. ‘Where there’s one coin like this, Matty,’ he’d said, ‘there’ll be more.’

The Roman coin she would never, ever part with. But perhaps she could sell the Celtic brooches to a collector, then maybe have enough for all the extra expenses involved in journeying to find her father’s treasure, though there was yet another problem. It would take three days at least to get to the site where her father had found the coin and for that length of journey she needed someone to help with the boat. But since there were no women for hire on the canals, that someone would have to be a man—and her heart sank at the thought. Sighing a little, she carefully slipped the coin, the brooches and other treasures into a purse, then climbed back up on deck.

‘Matty, lass!’

It was Bess again on the wharfside, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Look,’ Bess was saying, ‘someone’s just handed me this letter. And bless me, I can’t make head or tail of it.’

‘A letter? Let me see.’ Matty scanned it quickly. ‘Bess, it’s from the corn merchant in Brentford. He’s offering you a new contract, for a whole year!’

‘Really?’ Her friend gave a whoop of joy. ‘Wait till I tell my Daniel! And he pays well, really well. How about coming to dine with us tonight, girl? This deserves a celebration!’

‘I’d love to.’ Matty really meant it. ‘But, Bess, I’ve an errand to make first. I’ve decided I need to sell a few of my father’s things—some old trinkets he gave me—so you see, I might have to head into town.’

‘Lass, if you’re in money trouble, maybe me and Daniel can help...’

‘No! Bess, I wouldn’t dream of it. And I might not even sell them, but I would like some idea of their value.’

‘Well, instead of tramping into town and back, why don’t you call at that place just up the lane there?’

‘Which place do you mean?’

‘There’s a sign over it that says “Mr Percival’s Antiques”. Now, it all seems a bit rundown, but we’ve seen the young fellow who runs it and my Daniel reckons he looks a clever one all right. Why not try him?’

It was indeed a long walk to the antiques dealers in the centre of London. ‘I might just do that,’ Matty said thoughtfully.

‘Just make sure, though, that Mr Percival doesn’t swindle you. And you’ll come to us later on for your supper, won’t you? Then...’ Bess hesitated ‘...maybe we can have a little chat. You see, we’ve been thinking, me and Daniel, that maybe you should stop this travelling about on your own. You’ve got an education, and this just isn’t the life for a girl like you.’

Matty faced her steadfastly. ‘But this is the only life I know. The only life I want , Bess, truly—’

It was with a sense of relief that Matty realised two of Bess’s children were running towards their mother, one of them carrying a kitten. ‘Mama! Mama! Look what Joe the coalman gave us for looking after his horse for him! The kitten’s called Sukey and she’ll be as good as gold, Joe says. Can we keep her, Mama? Please , can we?’

And so Matty was able to escape Bess’s forthcoming lecture and seek the solitude of her own cabin again.

But she didn’t really feel any better for it at all.

Bess was probably right to say this was no life for a girl like her. But how could Matty abandon it, when she’d known no life other than this, ever?

She’d not expected her father to die so suddenly. Even now a fresh wave of sadness hovered close, but there was no time for grief or any other indulgence of emotions. Her father had taught her everything she needed to know to survive on the waterways—and survive she would. She would not sell her father’s boat, she would not sell Hercules. And she would never, ever abandon her father’s final dream.

It didn’t take Matty long to find her way to Mr Percival’s Antiques. Just as Bess had described, the sign was swinging lightly in the breeze; but her heart sank as she drew close.

She’d realised, of course, that Mr Percival was unlikely to resemble the antique experts her father had loved to visit in Oxford, but neither had she expected his premises to have such a general air of dereliction. Squashed in between a furniture maker’s and a bakery, it would in fact have escaped her notice altogether were it not for that faded sign. And as she drew closer to the grimy window, she could see a variety of junk—yes, that was the word, junk—littering every available surface inside.

Should she even bother? Yet her father used to tell her appearances could be deceptive. ‘You never can tell,’ he would say.

She could only hope so.

Since the door was already ajar, she pulled her hat down more firmly, pushed the door open farther, and squeezed her way in past racks of old brass pots and pans that clanked together as she brushed by. Inside, a single oil lamp cast its dim light over shelves that were full of dusty books and ornaments. On the walls were paintings, most of them hung crookedly. As for the counter, she couldn’t even see it thanks to a clothes rail full of old coats; but the sound of raised voices was hard to ignore.

‘You let go of my son Tommy’s jacket, do you hear?’ a woman was squawking. ‘You great brute of a thing. Why, Tommy’s not a quarter your size!’

‘Then,’ came a man’s calm voice, ‘your son should know better—madam—than to come in here and steal my goods.’

‘He wasn’t stealing, my Tommy wasn’t. He was just looking!’

‘Oh, was he?’ The man sounded interested. ‘A peculiar way of looking , to stuff those various items rather deep in those pockets of his, wouldn’t you say?’

Matty could see that the man who held a small, squirming lad by his collar was tall and dark-haired, maybe in his midtwenties. And she recognised him. He was the man who’d admired Hercules down by the wharf and he spoke in that calm, surprisingly educated voice that had so startled her earlier.

The woman was far from calm. ‘You leave my Tommy alone, you villain, or I’ll call the constables!’

‘You do that,’ the man agreed. ‘Save me the trouble.’ The woman hesitated. Meanwhile the man went on, ‘Tell your angelic little son to empty his pockets, will you?’

Just for a moment Matty wondered if the woman might try landing a punch on the man’s stubble-darkened jaw. Most unwise , Matty decided as she assessed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his coat. All in all his shabby attire concealed, she guessed, some rather powerful muscles—and clearly the woman thought the same, because she said, ‘All right, then, our Tommy. Clear out your pockets, you young fool.’