The Lonely Voyage

by John Harris

  I gave him a dirty look and, picking up my receipt-book, followed him outside.

  He was leaning against the wall, whistling to himself, the same old Pat, confident to the point of getting on my nerves, a cigarette dangling from his lips, another behind his ear.

  He’d long since ceased to work for Minnie’s Ma at the Steam Packet. The pittance he received as a barman had soon become too small for his maturing tastes and even the attraction of Minnie hadn’t held him there for long.

  He’d tried his hand at various jobs – a bookie’s runner, a pawnbroker’s clerk; even, it was rumoured, a little bit of fraud. Finally, with his winnings from a day at the races, he’d scraped up enough to buy himself a small lorry and had gone into business as a carter at the station and was doing well at it. In addition, he helped his Ma at the lodging-house, his part of the business being to make sure that the old rag-tags who inhabited the place paid their rent on the dot or went out into the street.

  Despite all this, though, his tastes were such that he was always short of cash and not above borrowing five bob from me when I had it, a loan that had something of a threat in it for me, being younger and smaller,

  As I went out into the sunshine of the court, I treated him to a scowl.

  “Got my money yet?” I asked.

  “What money?” Pat pushed his cap to the back of his head and stared. “I got no money of yourn.”

  “What about that half-crown I gave you to put on a horse for me. It won.”

  “You never gave me no ’alf-dollar,” Pat said nonchalantly. “Come on, now, kiddo, let’s get this paper off. I got another job at the gasworks in a bit.”

  “I gave you half a crown,” I said, mad as a bluebottle in a window. “I wish I hadn’t now, and I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been at me for half an hour saying it was a cert.”

  “You’re imagining things. Come on. ’Urry up. Think I’ve time to argue with a kid?”

  “I wasn’t such a kid you couldn’t pinch half a dollar off me!” I shouted.

  “Listen!” Pat put a thumb in his waistcoat pocket and with the forefinger of his other hand tapped me weightily on the chest. “I got no half-dollar of yourn. Put that under yer little smock, son. Now let’s get this paper off my lorry or I’ll just ’ave to sort you out a bit. See?”

  He was taller than me by several inches and muscular, and he leaned over me and scowled.

  “Just ’cos I was a pal o’ yourn once, you don’t go accusin’ Pat Fee o’ bein’ a thief nor a liar. Get me?”

  I swallowed my anger and turned towards the lorry backed up against the swing doors that led into the works.

  One day, I promised myself, Pat Fee would pay for this. And for the half-crown he hadn’t paid back. And for all the others. And for all the times he’d baited me.

  All my life I seemed to have been under his thumb. He’d pinched my belongings as a kid and bullied me everlastingly. He’d walloped me at school and jeered at me after I left because I worked in an office. Everywhere I went, Pat seemed to turn up, too, claiming friendship till it suited him to become threatening.

  “Come on,” I said sourly. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “OK. That’s better,” Pat commented, pushing his cap over one eye. “Pat Fee’s not the one to stand for cheek, mister.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I said angrily.

  Pat grinned confidently, contemptuous of me. I only came up to his shoulders in those days.

  “Gettin’ cocky all of a sudden, ain’t yer?” he queried. “Proper saucy little bastard.”

  “I’m an honest little bastard, anyway,” I said furiously, goaded beyond endurance by his smooth smile and the jaunty air that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d swindled a hard-earned half-crown out of me.

  Pat turned at the words, his hands on his hips, his fingers like thick sausages over his leather belt.

  “Gawd,” he said, “you’re a cheeky little customer, ain’t yer? Two more words out o’ you and I’ll ’ave you over my knee.”

  I glared at him, and I could feel my distrust and dislike growing. Once I’d been proud to feel that Pat would include me in his poaching forays, but we’d grown up along entirely different ways. Perhaps because he’d once condescended to call me a friend, I disliked him all the more – and still more because Pat, who’d got a way with him, could twist Minnie round his little finger, while on the only occasion I’d shyly offered my heart to her she’d laughed at me and called me a “saucy little monkey”.

  My jealousy was like a scar on my mind.

  “Got that?” Pat was saying. “And don’t burst into tears, kiddo, ’cos you can’t ’ave yer own way. Blimey, you’ll be offin’ it up to Wiggins’ any time now and yellin’ for ole Ferigo to come and sort me out.”

  “You know jolly well I won’t.”

  “Wouldn’t be much good if you did,” Pat grinned. “I expect he’d be about as dangerous to me as he was to yer dad.”

  I didn’t get what he said at first. I thought I’d not heard him right. Then, when I realised I’d made no mistake, I stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “Go on,” Pat said contemptuously. “Don’t tell me you ain’t got the truth of that yet? When you arrived on the scene, old Ferigo just quietly shuffled off and said nothing. Somebody’d got a belting from me if it ’ad ’appenened to my wife. I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad nobody playin’ cuckoo round my missis.”

  The inference of his words staggered me. I still couldn’t believe I’d heard them correctly. But, even so, I knew somehow there was truth in them. I stared at him, my hands limp at my sides.

  “What do you mean?” I repeated. There was a chilly stillness inside me.

  “‘What do yer mean?’” Pat mocked me in a high-pitched voice and pranced in a half-circle with his hand on his hip. “What do yer mean? Don’t you know no other words, sonny? Ain’t you learned the facts of life yet? If you don’t know that old Digby Ferigo ain’t yer dad, then you ought to. Everybody else does.”

  As he spoke, the words burst like an explosion inside my brain. Until he had actually uttered them, I’d been numb, almost stupid, but now that they were said, without waiting to weigh up chances I flung myself on him.

  “’Ere. ’Ere.” He picked me off like a troublesome fly and held me at arm’s length, my overall bunched in a great fist.

  “You don’t want to go off like that when you ’ear things,” he said, “or you might get ’urt. If you want to set about somebody, pick somebody yer own weight. Give me ’alf a mo,’ and I’ll get our Katie down ’ere to spar a couple of rounds with you.”

  He gave me a shove that sent me reeling away, to land on my behind in a puddle of muddy water among the cobble-stones, feet sprawling, papers scattered, smouldering with resentment.

  Dismissing the incident, he turned and walked towards the swing doors that led to the works.

  “Now, come on,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s get this job done, or I’ll ’ave to take yer pants down.”

  He’d just put one hand on the door-handle when I got him. I flung myself with all my power at the jaunty, sneering figure that completely disregarded me as a potential source of danger.

  As the doors burst open under our weight the two of us stumbled through into the machine-room, crashing into the compositor at the nearest linotype. His chair promptly skated away and deposited the lot of us on the floor.

  Pat scrambled to his feet, more startled than hurt, and rounded on me. I was just as dazed and more startled than he was at what I’d done.

  “You little twerp!” he yelped furiously. “Put yer fives up.”

  I scrambled to my feet, my receipt-book and papers forgotten, and closed with him while the compositors left their work and crowded round.

  “Back there,” I heard someone say. “Give ’em room.”

  “Fists up, little ’un,” a voice bawled in my ear. “You’ll not do much good with ’em down there.”

>   I’d never been much of a scrapper and Pat was having a rare old time with my face. Blood was running down my chin from a split lip, and he was dancing round me, well on his toes, with all the airs and graces of the Fancy, tapping my nose repeatedly with his left hand. I couldn’t have stopped him any easier if he’d been Joe Louis.

  “Come on, Jess. Let’s ’ear from yer.”

  “’Es down! By God, ’e’s down!” The excitement welled up to a crescendo.

  I didn’t notice much of it. I was sitting in a litter of wastepaper half underneath one of the benches. I shook my head, dazed by a crack between the eyes and barely conscious of the din going on around me.

  “Up, Jess. Up, you little devil, and give ’im the old one-two.”

  “Shut yer row!” Someone was yanking me to my feet and his voice was shouting in my ear. I could feel his breath on my skin. “You’ll have the boss round in ’alf a shake.”

  The noise penetrated gradually into my dizzy brain, and as my eyes began to focus once more I faced Pat again, fists well up. But my legs were wobbly and I was squinting through only one good eye. The other was already closed.

  I moved more cautiously this time, watching Pat warily. But all the time that great brown fist of his was right in front of my face and, no matter which way I dodged, I couldn’t get past it.

  “’Ad enough, young ’un?” Pat grinned.

  “No. Not likely,” I said. But I didn’t feel half so hearty as I sounded. I wanted to sit down and cry.

  “’Ark at ’im. ’Ark at ’im talk.” Some wag pushed forward with a bucket. “’Ere, do the job proper. ’Ow about some sawdust to soak up the blood?”

  There was a guffaw from the crowd that hurt me as much as Pat’s fists. No one was taking the fight seriously, and to me just then it seemed a matter of life and death.

  “Seconds out!” shouted the Wag, thoroughly enjoying himself watching me getting a hammering. “Come on, Butch. Let’s be seein’ yer!”

  It didn’t take long to realise I’d get nowhere trying to box. Pat could do the job twice as well as I could. So I decided to make a rush and take a chance on getting in a few blind swipes before I was stopped. One would almost have been enough. One good one, with my arms whirling the way they were.

  “Whoa, mare!” shouted the Wag, and if I hadn’t been too occupied with Pat I might have had a go at him, too. “Sails away like a flippin’ Derby winner.”

  I’d forced Pat backwards between the benches and we were brought up sharp by a galleyful of type which teetered and overbalanced. It landed in a shower on the floor and was immediately scattered by the shuffling boots.

  “God!” someone yelled. “It took me all the bloody morning to set that lot up!”

  “Never mind, mate,” said the Wag, having the time of his life. “Small price to pay for a fight like this!”

  “Oh, my word, ’e’s tapped ’is claret!”

  More by luck than judgement, I’d started Pat’s nose bleeding. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and stared at it, startled, just long enough for me to land another one.

  “Again, Jess, lad! Again!” Everybody was enjoying himself but me. “Don’t stand looking at him!”

  Pat was backing away hurriedly now, the sneer of contempt gone from his face. I followed him, hitting out wildly, blind with rage, able to see from only one eye.

  “Now, lay off, young ’un,” he was muttering as he pushed me off. “Don’t be so soft. It was only my kid.”

  His words ended abruptly as I sent him sprawling to his knees among the scattered type. The crowd yelled.

  “Now, Jess. One in the eye as he gets up.”

  As Pat staggered to his feet again I landed another wild swing at the side of his head that sent him reeling back. He was still more startled than hurt.

  “Leave off, young ’un,” he panted. “Can’t you see I was only joking!”

  I was too berserk with rage to hear him, and I landed one or two more on his head and shoulders that jarred my arms more than they did Pat.

  He was becoming irritated, by this time, though. At first he’d regarded the fight as exercise, but now that the blood was running from his nose he was ready to stop. He wasn’t hurt, but his dignity was suffering. As for me, I was aware of only one thing – the desire to knock seven bells out of him, and Pat began to get furious.

  “Leave off, you little fool,” he roared, “or I’ll give you one!”

  He shut his rattle sharp enough as I clipped his mouth to with one full on the jaw just as he was backing away. I must have caught him off balance, for he staggered back against a bench and sprawled there for a second. As he groped to regain his feet I saw his fingers close over one of the rollers the compositors used for pulling proofs.

  “Look out, Jess!” a voice screeched in my ear. “Lookout!”

  From my one good eye I caught a swift glimpse of the roller coming over Pat’s shoulder and I ducked. The roller missed me and flew over my bent back. It got the Wag right in the bread-basket.

  “Christ!” he gasped, changing his tune. “Everybody’s gone bloody barmy!”

  This was a new and vicious shift of events. But I was as good at it as Pat. I grabbed for the nearest thing to my hand. It was a tub of printer’s ink that had been upset on the steel bench.

  “Look out, boys!” The onlookers scattered. “It’s getting dangerous!”

  Just then the door opened on the works manager. He was back from lunch and sniffing like a bloodhound to discover the cause of the shouting that had disturbed him.

  Pat ducked.

  “Oh, Gawd!” someone muttered, the awe in his voice tempered by ecstatic delight. “Smack in the clock!”

  The uproar died as suddenly as it had started. The flush went out of everybody’s cheeks. There was a sudden hurried scuffling and the crowd melted away like smoke in a breeze. The waste-basket was righted and the scattered type was hurriedly kicked out of sight under a bench.

  Pat and I stood staring, struck dumb, gaping at the works manager. He was staggering and spluttering and spitting by the door, groping with grimy fingers at the sticky ink that dripped from his face and over his waistcoat. Then Pat had vanished, too. There was a crash of gears and the roar of an engine outside, and I was alone, panting, my lips bleeding, one eye closed, my knuckles raw, still staring at the clawing figure in the doorway.

  Then someone held out a piece of waste rag and slid away hurriedly. That helped a bit but not much. All you could see were two wild white eyeballs and a face livid with fury underneath the coating of ink.

  Suddenly the breath filled my lungs with a rush. I’d been standing paralysed, and movement came into my limbs. While the Old Man was still glaring round for me I walked calmly past him towards the office. There was no feeling of panic in me. I wasn’t hurrying from anybody’s bad temper. It was just that I knew suddenly that my life at the printing works had ended – completely and utterly, as if it had been cut off with a knife. Silently, and without a flutter of hesitation, I took my jacket from its hook and left the building.

  Five

  I must have walked for hours. I’d no idea where I was going. I was unaware of any feeling except freedom. I only knew I was never going to the printing works again. I was finished for good and all with newspapers and type and ink. I could have been forgiven, I suppose, in spite of the enormity of the crime, but, somehow, something inside me told me my life among the grimy buildings and the narrow streets with their hurrying crowds was finished, that there was no longer any place in the town for me.

  I walked slowly through the light rain that was falling. I had my head down, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts that were racing through my mind, my hands deep in my pockets, my hat on the back of my head.

  “Hello, youngster.” A friendly bobby stopped me as I passed. “Been in the wars?”

  I stared, unhearing, then, as I realised what he’d said I shook my head and pulled my arm free.

  “It’s nothing.” I said.


  I’d forgotten my split lips and my closed eye and raw knuckles. I never noticed the pain in them – any more than I noticed the people around me. I made my way slowly through the shopping crowds, never feeling the baskets I joggled or seeing the vans and buses that nearly ran me down.

  I was shocked and dizzy. Not so much because of the walloping Pat had given me, nor the sight of the boss clawing the air as he struggled to free his eyes of the ink, as Pat’s words. Back there, before the fight started, I’d known there must be truth in them. I don’t know why I bothered to start the fight even. I knew Pat wasn’t lying. As I thought about it, I remembered a thousand and one things which had seemed in the past to have no explanation but which were laid bare in one second by Pat’s insult: Dig’s vagueness towards me; the shy relationship that was never quite fatherly; Ma’s sullen grievance against life. All the questions that had never been satisfied in my life seemed to have found their answer in the rough challenge Pat had thrown out.

  I suddenly felt lonely. It wasn’t a solitariness but a loneliness of the spirit. The streets seemed oddly unfamiliar – as though I were in a strange town. Even the crowded mariners’ shops, jam-packed with oilskins, seaboots, soap, needles and everything the sailor needed, appeared to be different. The hurrying traffic, the sailors ashore in dungarees, the few Lascars in tarbooshes and a shuffling Chinee, all seemed to be something from another life that gave me a sense of unreality, a sense of being in a dream.

  Straight down the High Street I walked, down towards the river. My eyes were on the pavement, and I was conscious only of a desire to throw off the cheerless memories of the printing works. Straight on I went, scowling to myself, having a fine old sorting-out of things.

  I don’t know how long I’d been walking when a familiar voice caught my ear and I halted reluctantly. “Now then,” it said, “what you been doin’, eh? Giving people a fright with a clock like that.”

  It was Minnie, and I realised I must have walked miles. I was outside the Steam Packet and Minnie stood on the front step, polishing the brass handles of the swing doors.