by F. M. Parker
CHAPTER 4
Patrick’s first memories of his life were at the orphanage on Turnmill Street in London. The orphanage overseer, Mr. Duckett, called him Patrick. He ate the meager servings of food seated and jammed shoulder to shoulder with the other boys on benches at a long wooden table. He slept on a thin straw pallet among them on the upstairs floor.
The orphanage was an ancient, two-story building of wooden frame construction. The interior walls of the upper story had been removed to create a large sleeping area. Tattered strips of rose patterned wallpaper still remained on the outside walls. The sleeping pallets were crowded together in rows on the floor along the long outer walls, leaving a narrow aisle down the middle for a passageway. A coal burning fireplace at each end of the dormitory struggled, and most often failed, to heat the space during the winter. A girl’s orphanage, of a like structure, was next door. The ancient buildings, badly in need of repair and paint, had once been the homes of wealthy Londoners, but this part of the city had fallen out of favor years before and was now a shabby, run-down part of the town.
One day when about five, Patrick heard other boys talking about their mother and father dying during one of the recent epidemics, or being deserted by them. Patrick wanted to learn about his mother and father, and so he went to Mr. Duckett and asked about them. Mr. Duckett told him he knew nothing about Patrick’s parents. That he had been found as a small boy barley able to walk on the steps of the orphanage. The name Patrick had been written on a piece of paper pinned to his shirt. Mr. Duckett had entered that name in the records and assigned the day of Patrick’s arrival as his first birthday.
He wanted desperately to know his parents, to know whose blood flowed in his veins. Who were they, what did they look like? Why had one of them, or perhaps both, abandoned him at the orphanage? Or were his mother and father dead and someone else had pinned the name onto him? He wanted to believe that whoever had done the frightening deed had been forced to do it and had not thrown him away because they didn’t like him.
This feeling of worthlessness was brought doubly galling to him that day in the orphanage when one of the larger boys began to abuse him by calling out in a loud voice to half a dozen others that Patrick was just half a human since he had but one name. Patrick could not stand the insult and charged at his heckler. The larger boy folded his fist and knocked Patrick down on the wooden floor. Patrick immediately sprang to his feet and again lunged at his tormentor. A second hard blow laid Patrick flat on his back. Patrick climbed to his feet with his nose bleeding and head ringing. As he made to charge his foe a third time, a hand caught him by the shoulder and halted him.
“Hold on, me bucko. Don’t go at him again for he’ll floor you like he just did.”
Patrick twisted his head to see who was holding him. He recognized Charley Scanlan newly arrived at the orphanage. He was taller than Patrick, nearly as tall as Patrick’s nemesis, and thin with a long, boney face and protruding ears. The story was that Charley had lived on the street for three years before the police caught him trying to steal a turnip from the cart of a street vendor. The judge, on one of his more forgiving days and considering the value of the turnip, had ordered the boy be sent to the orphanage instead of to jail.
“Don’t make any difference,” Patrick said and half sobbing with anger. “He can’t call me that and get away with it.”
“Let him loose so that I can bloody him right proper,” said the bully.
“He’s had enough,” Charley replied.
“I said let him go,” ordered the bully.
“Go fight somebody your own size.”
“Well you’re almost my size.” The bully gave all the boys around a broad smile showing the punishment he intended to deal Charley.
“You don’t want anything to do with me,” Charley said in a quiet voice. “I’m too tough for you.”
“Yeah? I’ll give you what I just gave that half human.”
Charley released his grip on Patrick’s shoulder, and without the slightest hesitation sprang with swinging fists upon the bully. Every blow was aimed at the bully’s face, and they landed with precise accuracy, on the nose, mouth and chin. The fight was short, cruel. After receiving half a dozen hard blows and never having a chance to give one back, the bully turned tail and ran with bleeding nose down the dormitory between the rows of pallets on the floor.
The group of boys stood dumbfounded by the suddenness of Charley’s attack and the quick ending of the fight. No one was more amazed than Patrick. He marked down his first lesson of how to fight. If there was going to be one, hit first and keep on hitting until you whipped your enemy and sent him running away.
“I warned him,” Charley said in a tone of apology and looking around at the boys staring at him. “You all got to tell the warden that very thing if he asks.” Charley continued to speak in a voice that had hardened with a threat. “Do you all hear me?”
None of the boys spoke. Some nodded. Then all of them moved away across the dormitory and leaving Patrick and Charley standing alone.
“I wish he hadn’t made me do that,” Charley said. “I don’t want to get in trouble here.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Duckett it wasn’t you fault,” Patrick promised.
“You be sure and do that.”
“Thanks, Charley, for standing up for me. Were you afraid?”
“Naw. I’ve fought enough not to be afraid of somebody like that. Were you afraid?”
“I wasn’t afraid. I was mad. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“On the street. You got’a always be ready to fight out there to keep what’s yours.”
A thought came to Patrick. He was reluctant to mention it, but just had to say it. “Charley, are all Scanlans as brave as you?”
“I don’t know,” Charley said, accepting the compliment with a proud smile. “I don’t know any of them very well. Not enough that they’d take me in. Why’d you ask?”
“Would you care if I used Scanlan for my last name? It’s awful bad not having a last name. You heard what the boy called me.”
Charley was surprised by the request, and pleased the little fellow wanted to use his name. Further he had proved himself worthy of using the name by fighting a boy much bigger than himself. “Sure, that’d be okay. If you want to. Let me know if he picks on you again.” He chucked a thumb in the direction his defeated foe had retreated.
“He won’t bother me again, not after what you did to him.”
Patrick knew this had been an important day in his life. Sadly that was the last conversation Patrick had with Charley. The following morning, Charley, the bully, and other larger boys totaling eighteen in all were shipped off to Derbyshire to work in the cotton mills.
Patrick went to Mr. Duckett and asked that Scanlan be added to his name. The overseer agreed that it was a fine name and so it was entered into the official record. Patrick asked to see it in writing. Mr. Duckett showed him the curlicues of the written name and Patrick thought it just great even though he couldn’t read.
Now that Patrick had two names, his feeling of belonging to no one lessened. Further he felt a small claim to belonging to the tribe of Scanlans. Over the next few days as his new name became a part of him, his black thoughts of being abandoned came with less force and this strengthened his natural instinct for survival. Like Charley, Patrick walked erect with chin up among the other boys to show that he was tough and would fight any one of them that dared hassled him.
*
On a rainy, windy December day of Patrick’s sixth winter at the orphanage, two policemen appeared with a group of seven raggedy and hungry boys they had found in an abandoned house. The policemen’s raincoats dripped water and the clothing of the boys was soaked through and through. Among the boys was a frail lad of four or so with a bad cough. Mr. Duckett entered the boys’ names in the records of the orphanage. He turned the larger boys over to his assistant and then came to Patrick with the small lad trailing behind.
“His name’s Alfie,” Mr. Duckett said and gesturing at the boy. “Alfie, this is Patrick.”
Alfie gave Patrick a look of a lost puppy and then quickly lowered his sight to the floor.
Mr. Duckett spoke to Patrick. “I want you to take him under your wing for he needs somebody to look after him and show him the rules here at the orphanage. See that no one runs over him. Go to the storeroom and find him some dry clothes. Get him a sleeping pallet and put it next to yours.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied. He really didn’t want to take care of the boy, but nobody dared to tell Mr. Duckett he wouldn’t do a task when ordered to.
The overseer nodded and walked away and Patrick focused on his new charge. Alfie had dark eyes set in a thin face with a scattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. At the moment he was holding both hands tightly over his mouth to stifle a cough. His shoulders heaved with the effort to bottle it up.
“It’s okay, Alfie, there’s always somebody coughing here.” Patrick said and gave Alfie an understanding look. He decided the task of looking after the little fellow would be all right for it meant the overseer believed him trustworthy. The feeling abruptly vanished as the realization of what the assignment foretold. Patrick was being looked at as one of the larger boys and that meant his stay at the orphanage would soon end.
“Let’s go and find you some dry clothes,” Patrick said. “It’s old used stuff people give to the orphanage, but it’ll be dry.” He led Alfie toward the storeroom.
In the evening, Patrick and Alfie holding their tin plates and cups lined up with the other boys and filed slowly through the kitchen to receive their supper rations of boiled potatoes and cabbage, and tea and bread. Carrying their food, they found seats on one of the wooden benches at the long table in the eating area. Patrick wished there had been meat with the meal. However meat was served only on Sunday for rations at the orphanage were short while at the same time it was overflowing with hungry boys. He thought of the now long ago vanished fresh vegetables of summer and the apples, pears and peaches of fall. Food was often on his mind.
The meal was a solemn affair with almost no talking. Patrick spoke to no one except Alfie, and then only to urge him to eat all of his food. The porridge that would be served at breakfast was many long, cold hours away. After finishing the meal, he climbed the stairs to the sleeping quarters, with Alfie, coughing raggedly, following close behind.
Patrick looked about figuring how he would find space on the floor for Alfie’s sleeping pallet that he had brought up from the storeroom. The dormitory was packed from wall to wall with beds for the boys, as it always was in wintertime when it was too cold for them to sleep on the street. Nothing to do but jam the beddings together. Ignoring the complaints of several boys, Patrick placed their sleeping pallets even closer and spread Alfie’s out on the floor close by his own.
“Take a rest,” Patrick said to Alfie and pointed down at the thin straw pallet and two blankets.
Alfie barely nodded as his eyes roamed over the dormitory only dimly illuminated by one puny gas light. Patrick saw Alfie was frightened by the throng of boys with their horse playing and loud shouts at each other and their voices echoing off the walls of the large room.
“You’ll be all right,” Patrick told the boy. “Just do what I tell you and you’ll soon have the hang of things.” Patrick wondered how Alfie had come to be here. Tomorrow he would talk with him about that.
The boy gave Patrick an appreciative look and sat down on his thin bed.
The winter darkness arrived early. The assistant overseer came up the stairs and into the sleeping quarters and turned off the gas light and went back below. The boys settled down for the night under their blankets. Patrick watched Alfie lie down and pull his blankets up over his head. He heard the lad hacking and coughing.
Patrick sought his own pallet, drew the blankets up to his chin and lay listening to the wind driven rain lashing the building. Though he had come to accept the orphanage, he often thought of the world outside its walls. What was it really like? Could he survive out there? One day soon he would leave the orphanage and explore that world.
CHAPTER 5
Patrick rubbed the scrap of cloth back and forth across the glass to remove the dirt and the soot from the smoky fireplace that had accumulated on the window at the end of the sleeping quarters. The January day held snow flurries and a stiff wind raced by banging the shutters and moaning as it was cut by the corners of the building. Overhead it rattled several loose slates on the roof. Patrick felt the panes of glass in the window frame quiver under the buffeting hands of the wind. The gloomy day made him dispirited and feeling low. He wanted to see outside, too see anything other than the walls of the orphanage.
Finishing the cleaning of the window as best he could without water and soap, he tossed the rag aside and looked out into the world of wind and drifting snow. To his great surprise, he saw a girl looking out the window of the orphanage next door. She was on the second floor level the same as he, and with not thirty feet separating the two buildings, he saw her quite clearly. Her forehead was pressed against the window pane as she stared down at the snow covered ground between the two buildings. Her face held a sad expression.
Patrick stepped closer to the window and stared intently at the girl. He had heard the assistant overseer and the delivery boys that brought supplies to the orphanage talk about these mysterious creatures called girls. He had seen girls of varying ages and heard their voices during those times when he was allowed out onto the street to run errands for Mr. Duckett. He recalled the odd smiles the fellows would get as they described a girl, how pretty she was, or not so pretty. Patrick had wondered about those expressions. Now he had the opportunity to study a girl without her knowing what he was about.
The girl was visible from the waist up above the window sill and Patrick judged her to be about his size. Her hair was black, shoulder length and tied back from her oval shaped face with a blue ribbon. Her skin showed startling white as contrasted against her black hair and the dark blue dress that she wore. He tried to make out the color of her eyes, but they were hidden by her head being tilted down to look at the ground.
The girl raised her head and her green eyes looked directly into Patrick’s. Startled at seeing him, her eyes widened and she flinched. She recovered quickly and stuck her tongue out at him for staring at her. Then she smiled a lovely smile to show she was just teasing him, and waved a greeting with a graceful motion of a slender hand.
The girl’s swift change of expressions amazed Patrick. But he couldn’t resist her smile and gave her one right back and even bigger. The words of the boys talking about whether or not a girl was pretty came to him. He wasn’t sure this girl was what they would call pretty, but he could not take his eyes off her. He felt the throb of his heart to the tips of his fingers. What a grand and delightful vision she was.
Though the girl’s lips smiled, Patrick was struck by the expression in her eyes. They were locked upon him with a questioning, measuring stare. What was she thinking? Girls were different from boys, this he knew. Did they also think differently from boys? Before he had time to mull the question further, her eyes joined her lips in the smile and Patrick knew she had made a decision. He believed she found the sight of him pleasing to her. Patrick knew she was pleasing in his eyes, and regardless of what some other boy might think, this girl was really pretty.
He wanted to hear her voice. He raised the bottom sash of the double hung window. The cold wind washed over him, but that didn’t matter. He motioned for her to do the same. She nodded and tried to lift the window sash. But it was stuck fast and would not budge to her most strenuous effort. She gave him a shrug and a look of disappointment. At that moment, Patrick knew that if he had been close he would have reached out and touched her. The urge was too strong to have been resisted by a daring fellow such as he.
The girl turned quickly to look behind as if somebody had called to her. She looked back at Patrick. He sa
w her lips form the words “Goodbye”. She gave him a quick wave and was gone.
During the remainder of the evening and for hours during the next day, Patrick stood in front of the window with the hope that the girl would once again appear. Once Alfie came up beside him and asked what he was watching. Patrick was short with the lad and told him to go rest on his pallet. Alfie left with a dejected look and this caused Patrick to feel a little sorry. But he had to see the girl again, and surely not with Alfie beside him.
After finishing supper in the evening, Patrick climbed to the sleeping quarters and went to the window. He had barely arrived when the girl came to her window. The quickness with which she appeared caused him to think she might have been standing back in the shadows of her room and waiting for him to show himself first. She gave him a broad smile and a wave. He smiled and waved. He marveled that she seem pleased to see him. His heart began to pound strongly against his ribs. She had become more beautiful since Patrick had first seen her.
He touched his chest and mouthed, “Patrick.” Then he pointed at her. “What’s your name?”
She understood and her lips formed a name. Patrick couldn’t make it out. His failure must have shown on his face for she smiled and made a little shrug as if to say it wasn’t important.
She blew her breath on a section of the cold window glass and created a mist covered area. On this she began to draw and before his eyes a galloping horse appeared on the frosted glass. Then she looked expectantly at him. He blew a breath on an area of his window and drew a bird as best he could; still he saw that his work was a poor effort as compared with her skill. He pointed at his drawing and laughed. She joined him with a toss of her head that showed she was not laughing at him but having a good time.
They played their silent game of artistry as the evening wore on, blowing breaths on the cold glass and drawing forms of animals and flowers and the sky and clouds and many other objects. Tiring of this, she made a fresh misted surface and drew the four crossed lines of the game of tick-tack-toe, and made an X in the center square. She peered past the misted zone and motioned for him to draw the four lines and play the game. Patrick did as bidden and quickly misted a portion of his window and drew another tick-tack-toe. On his game he put her x in a position comparable to its location on her game and added a 0 in a square he chose. She beat him at the first game and most of the others. However he didn’t care for his thoughts weren’t on winning. Each time she peaked around her misted area and looked at his window to check where he had put his mark, he laughed with pleasure at the sight of her lovely face. Playing the game gave him the feeling of being connected with her and that lifted his spirits mightily.
