by Avi
Maura nodded. When Patrick—by way of atonement—grandly informed her that he would keep watch, she lay down on the straw. Within moments she was asleep. With a nod of his own, Mr. Drabble returned to his corner and—beneath shafts of faint light—continued his reading.
Just as he had promised, Patrick stayed by Maura. Staring into the gloom, his jaw clenched, his toes curled against the cold damp, he could not but reflect on their dismal circumstances. Anger filled him—anger with the deceitful Ralph Toggs and with himself for his own gullibility.
But what he felt even more keenly was fear, fear that they would, as Mr. Drabble had warned, be trapped in Liverpool. Oh, if only he could be like St. George!
At first Laurence could not remember where he was. All he knew was that his legs and arms were sore. His throat too. Then he recollected Liverpool, and a hotel. As for the man peering down at him, it was none other than Mr. Matthew Clemspool, the gentleman who had been treating him like a son—like a son, Laurence thought, should be treated.
“Awake, are you, Master Worthy?” Mr. Clemspool asked with unctuous kindness.
“Yes,” Laurence murmured, still luxuriating in cozy sleepiness. “But I feel tired.”
“Anything more than that?”
“I’m a bit sore,” Laurence reported. “And my throat hurts some.”
Mr. Clemspool reacted with alarm. “To put it precisely, Master Worthy, you are ill. I feared as much. You’ve been sleeping for hours. While you were in bed, I went to fetch you new clothes—I have them in my room—but came back to find you hot as a fresh loaf of bread. I tried in vain to waken you. Imagine my dismay when I could not! That is why I immediately sent for an apothecary to put you to rights. May I present Mr. Bungo.”
Laurence raised his head from the pillow. Next to Mr. Clemspool was a very small man dressed in an overlarge and frayed green frock coat. With his pasty pale face, dull gray eyes, and pug nose, there was something doll-like about him save for the fact that he was badly in need of a shave and smelled of beer.
“Mr. Bungo,” Mr. Clemspool said, “here is Master Worthy. We want him well enough to be able to travel to America soon.”
Without a word the apothecary stepped forward and stared hard at Laurence. “Sit up,” he commanded in a slightly slurred voice. Laurence did as he was told.
“Be so good as to look at my hand.” Mr. Bungo waved his small trembling hand in Laurence’s face. “Good. Now open your mouth wide. Yes. Tongue. Fine. Can you speak?”
“Yes, but my throat hurts.”
“Seriously?”
“Some.”
“Your pulse,” Mr. Bungo requested.
Laurence held out his hand. The apothecary took the wrist briefly, then dropped it. “It is my duty to report,” Mr. Bungo told Mr. Clemspool, “that rest and good food will revive him.”
“Might you have some kind of restorative?” Mr. Clemspool prompted.
“Of course!” the small man cried. “I almost forgot.” He swung a box upon the bed and flipped it open. The box contained three rows of bottles, labeled and corked, five to a row. The apothecary waved a finger over them like a vibrating magic wand until he found what he wanted. “This will do the job,” he announced. “Tincture of rhubarb. One spoonful every two hours.”
He handed the bottle to Mr. Clemspool and snapped his box shut. “When that’s gone, you may apply for more. No charge for me, just the medicine.” He extended a hand. “Two shillings, please.”
Mr. Clemspool took the bottle and dropped the coins into the hand.
The apothecary pocketed the coins with something of a thank-you, made a curt bow, and scurried out of the room.
“There you are, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool said, holding the bottle aloft as if to check its purity. “We’ll have you back in perfect health in nothing short. Tincture of rhubarb. No doubt it’s what the queen—God save her—takes herself.”
Laurence reached for the medicine.
“Not yet!” Mr. Clemspool cried. “I need to get a spoon.”
Laurence sank back upon his pillow.
“Exactly, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool crooned with approval. “Rest, to make my point precisely, is exactly what you need. And of course, this restorative. Let me just fetch that spoon.” So saying, he took the bottle and left the room.
Laurence looked around at the departing Mr. Clemspool just in time to see him pull the door closed with a snap. Once again he heard the lock click shut. For a time he stared at the door, trying to imagine why Mr. Clemspool should bother to lock it when he was going only to fetch a spoon.
As he lay there, he thought he heard voices coming from without. One voice he recognized as Mr. Clemspool’s. The other, he assumed, belonged to Mr. Bungo.
At first Laurence paid little mind. But when the conversation stretched on, he began to feel unsettled. Could it be, he wondered, that he was more ill than they had told him?
Unable to hear clearly from the bed, Laurence scooted his legs out from under the covers and stood upon the floor. For a few seconds he felt unsteady, but once the feeling passed, he moved softly to the door. Crouching down, he applied his eye to the keyhole. What he saw was Mr. Clemspool’s back. Only when he shifted did Laurence see a face. But it was not Mr. Bungo’s. It was the face of the man Mr. Clemspool had talked to in the Liverpool station, the man with an eye patch.
Greatly puzzled, the boy pressed against the door in an attempt to get a better look. What he observed was that the man’s lower lip was bruised and puffy, as if he had been struck recently. Seeing it, Laurence’s heart gave a tremendous thump. There could be no doubt: This was the man who had robbed him in London!
Reeling from shock, Laurence staggered back from the door. How could it be the same man? That was London. This was Liverpool. This man was dressed well, appearing for all the world to be a gentleman. His London man had been a common thief and looked like one. Then Laurence recalled that when the thief first appeared, he was bearded and leaned upon a crutch. But when he ran away with the money, the beard proved false and the man was in no need of a crutch at all!
Laurence returned to the keyhole. The man with the eye patch had moved out of view, but he and Mr. Clemspool were still talking. Laurence put his ear to the door and listened.
“As I told you, Mr. Grout, your good fortune—as you expressed it—has little to do with my affairs.” It was Mr. Clemspool speaking. “I’m settled upon what I do, and do well, and there is no lacking for employment. Why gentlemen have so many more younger sons than they want is beyond the scope of my imagination. But since they do …”
“Ah,” said the other man, “but yer could chuck it all and do the same show in the States.”
“Mr. Grout,” replied Mr. Clemspool, “my understanding is that things are not so arranged in America. No, sir, if you and I must end our partnership, so be it. I harbor no ill feelings. I wish you well.”
“Same for me, governor. We’ve ’ad a good trot, yer and me.”
“My only desire,” Mr. Clemspool said, “is that you fulfill your final obligation to me in this little matter I have at hand. Only a question of overseeing the boy—my son” he added sarcastically, “until his proper destination is reached.”
“I can ’andle it,” Mr. Grout assured him.
“Indeed, he likes being taken care of. He expects it. I tell you, these rich boys are spoiled brats. They presume the world spins for them. Want someone to take care of them. Of course, he treats me like a servant. I don’t complain. Makes my efforts so much easier.”
Laurence, enraged, jerked back from the door. How dare they talk about him this way! He reached for the door to protest when he suddenly remembered it was locked. Stymied, he stood there.
“Don’t yer worry none,” he heard Mr. Grout go on. “Long as me luck ’olds, with no black cats, spilled salt, or cracked mirrors comin’ along, I’ll do the thing.”
“Mr. Grout,” Mr. Clemspool said with some exasperation, “now that you have risen in th
e world, you’re going to have to put all these superstitions of yours aside.”
“Just the opposite, Clemspool,” he returned. “Now I’ve got something worth the ’avin’, you’ll see, imps, goblins, and ghosts will be tryin’ to trip me up all the more. But I’m man enough to keep free of ’em.”
“Good,” Mr. Clemspool said, “that will be a considerable comfort to all concerned. Now let’s go down to the lobby and send my bit of a message.”
“Yer pleasure,” Mr. Grout murmured.
The next moment Laurence heard the outer door closing. Quickly, he ran to his clothing and searched through the pockets only to discover that what had remained of his money was gone. Back he raced to the door and peered through the keyhole, then listened to make sure no one was there. Certain no one was, he yanked upon the door. It was indeed locked.
He had, in fact, become a prisoner.
In the lobby of the hotel, Mr. Clemspool, pen in hand, wrote a letter:
My dear Sir Albert Kirkle,
Sir, please be advised that the goods have arrived in Liverpool, have been secured, and will be shipped out on the earliest possible conveyance. Once in the States, all proper attention shall be paid.
Yours faithfully,
M. Clemspool
When he was done, he offered the letter to Mr. Grout. “Yer know I can’t read,” the man growled, pushing the hand away.
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Clemspool read the letter out loud.
“All fine and dandy,” Mr. Grout observed, “but ’ow do yer expect to keep that there laddie cooped up in a room all the time without ’is gettin’ suspicious?”
Mr. Clemspool smiled. “That’s right, I forget this part of my business is new to you. Suspicion often does become a problem. But, as usual, the boy is exhausted, frightened. Running away seems to tumble the tummy. I tell them they are not well. They are glad to be told so. I call for Mr. Bungo. Mr. Bungo never fails to prescribe something.”
From a pocket Mr. Clemspool produced the bottle of tincture of rhubarb. From a second pocket he took out another bottle. He held it up while glancing left and right to make sure they were not being observed. They were alone.
With care, Mr. Clemspool poured some of the potion into the tincture of rhubarb. “This mixture,” he explained, “will keep the boy sleeping until we get him on a ship.”
Mr. Grout lifted an eyebrow, giving Mr. Clemspool the full benefit of a penetrating single-eyed stare.
“No, no, it won’t harm him in the slightest,” Mr. Clemspool assured his companion. “I made a promise to the boy’s elder brother that nothing of that sort would happen to him—not, to make my point precisely, on this side of the Atlantic. For now I wish him only to sleep.”
“’Ow yer goin’ to get ’im to swallow it?” Mr. Grout asked.
Mr. Clemspool laughed as he held up a spoon. “My weapon of choice.”
“Yer think yerself double clever, yer do.”
“Clever enough. And well-spoken enough, I dare say.”
“What’s the matter with my speakin’?” Mr. Grout demanded.
“You may have money in your pocket, sir, but you still have the street in your mouth.”
Mr. Grout stood in anger. “Well then, I’m goin’ out to see the street,” he said in a huff, and strode away.
Mr. Clemspool shook the medicine bottle and smiled.
Maura O’Connell slept for most of the day. When she woke, it was to the harsh clanging of a stick upon a pot. The clamor brought the other people in the basement lumbering to their feet and straggling up the steps.
Mr. Drabble, a bowl and spoon in his hands, explained. “That’s Mrs. Sonderbye’s dinner chime. We’ll need to get in line. She will do the honors, so for heaven’s sake be careful. Don’t,” he admonished, “let the woman bully you. Above all, put no money in her purse!”
Maura and Patrick followed the actor up the steps. The hallway was crowded with people. In look and dress, they were no different from those in the basement, each and every one appearing depressed and defeated. There was hardly any talk, save guarded murmurs and mumbles.
“Who are they all?” Maura asked quietly as she, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble took their places at the end of the line.
“Mrs. Sonderbye’s esteemed boarders, waiting for their dinner,” the actor told them. “The lady herself presides. I urge you to take the basic menu. Your money will go farther.”
“What is the basic?” Patrick asked. He was very hungry.
Mr. Drabble—brown eyes smiling—put a thin finger to his lips.
The line moved slowly, snaking its way down to the front of the house, then around and back again toward the kitchen. As they drew closer, they caught the smell of something strong and not altogether pleasant.
At last they could see their destination. In a doorway, an old table had been set up. Upon it was a large pot. Directly behind the table, in a high-backed chair like a throne, sat Mrs. Sonderbye, overseeing the operation. The serving was being done by an old woman and old man, one of whom was ladling from the pot, the other dispensing small pieces of stale bread from a basket.
When Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble reached the kitchen door, Patrick eyed the contents of the pot suspiciously.
“What is it?” he asked of the woman serving.
“Cabbage soup,” she replied. “Two spoonfuls is what you paid for. Two spoons is what you get. After that, it’s a penny a scoop. Want it or not?”
“Of course they want it!” Mrs. Sonderbye cried from her chair. “They’ve just arrived. Give them as much as they’d like. And since you’re newcomers,” the large woman declared, “you’ll rent some bowls, won’t you? Or will you take your soup in your fingers?” She held out two bowls.
Maura and Patrick looked to Mr. Drabble for an answer.
“Dear, kind Mrs. Sonderbye,” the actor said, “we three have chosen to form a company. We shall all sup from my bowl.”
Mrs. Sonderbye’s red face turned redder. “Don’t do it!” she cried to Maura. “Take my word, as honest a woman as you’ll find in all of Liverpool, that man is touched in the head. You don’t want anything to do with him. I’d put him on the street if he didn’t come up with his rent. These are clean bowls I offer, and good food. Only thruppence to rent. As good a bargain as you’ll ever find.”
“No, thank you,” Maura managed to say.
“More fool you then,” Mrs. Sonderbye returned with a scathing look at Mr. Drabble. “But don’t come ’round and say I didn’t warn you about him.”
The woman servant took Mr. Drabble’s bowl and poured in six scant ladles of soup. Then the old man handed each a small piece of hard bread.
“There, you see,” the actor said, with a chuckle, when they were next to one another in a corner of the basement. “The woman would have flung me out a long time ago. But such is her greed, she’d rather have my irritating pennies than an empty hand.”
“Is there no other place to go?” Maura asked.
Mr. Drabble blushed. “There’s nothing cheaper,” he said. “And as Hamlet said to his friend, ‘Thrift, Horatio, thrift!’ May I remind you, my name is Horatio.
“But as for supper, we shall share. As the reigning beauty amongst us, my dear,” he said, offering the bowl and spoon to Maura, “you may start.”
Blushing, Maura took them. The soup was nothing but cloudy and tepid water with a few wilted cabbage leaves floating about. She made a face.
“It’s all we have, my dear,” Mr. Drabble reminded her gently. “In America you’ll eat much better. You know what is promised, gold in the streets. Cream in bowls. Blue in the sky. Consider this but the last bitter morsel of the Old World. It may weaken your body, but it will strengthen your resolve to go. May I suggest you dip your bread in the soup, to make it chewable.”
Maura took a portion of the soup, dipped her bread, then passed the bowl on to Patrick, who had much the same reaction as she. Even so, he swallowed a spoonful, glad for something. Then it was Mr. Drabble’s turn.
Around and around they went until—after each had had his or her small lot—the bowl was scraped clean.
“Tomorrow then,” Mr. Drabble said in his cheerful way, “we shall find your boat, make sure it’s sailing, then arrange your medical exams. Does that sound satisfactory?”
“I’m sure you know better than we do, Mr. Drabble,” Maura replied. She had decided to trust the actor.
“Good,” he said. “Now, I suggest you repose here while I go off to work. Perhaps I’ll earn a meager penny or two. One can only hope. I always do.”
“What work can you do tonight?” Maura asked.
Mr. Drabble touched his heart. “I think I informed you,” he replied with grave pride, “I am an actor. I offer the common people some touches of sublime art, which they might not otherwise expect to find upon the street. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Not a grand living, my dears, but so I live—perchance to die,” he added dramatically. “But it is my art, and for an artist, that is everything. So make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back by midnight.”
He stood up and brushed the straw from his clothing.
“Mr. Drabble, sir,” Maura said. “If you’d be kind enough to allow it, might I go with you? I’ve slept long enough, and I’d take pleasure in watching you.”
Mr. Drabble again put a hand to his heart. “You have touched my soul, my dear. Of course you are welcome. But I must warn you, it can be troublesome out there.”
“In what way?” Maura asked.
“The streets are full, the competition is keen,” the actor explained. “Not everyone appreciates art.”
“You’ve been truly kind to us,” Maura said. “If I could be of help to you …”
“I would be graced by your company,” returned Mr. Drabble, making a deep bow. “And you?” he asked Patrick.
