Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  Barely inside the threshold and the yelps and whoops coming from the kitchen were enough to make you want to run back out. The littleuns were home. The hallway’s huge wardrobe doors were open and clothes leaked from drawers and gathered in cloth puddles on the floor.

  ‘What a mess.’ Perry picked a shirt from the floor - maybe his, maybe not, he could hardly tell anymore - and tossed it back into the wardrobe.

  ‘I’ll make us a brew boys.’

  ‘Thanks Perry,’ Rodney said, hopping on one foot as he tried to prise off a shoe.

  Peter barged past him, bumping shoulders.

  Fine, Perry thought, have your mood. They had to get along; he knew it and Peter did too. Six boys called this place home. All slept in the front room on the ground floor; their mattresses positioned strategically to allow a narrow square walkway around the room. The tight space encouraged infighting amongst the boys as much as it stifled it. Arguments were frequent but short-lived and it need be no different on this occasion. A cuppa and a night’s rest and Peter would be his friend again come morning, he’d soon see to that.

  He went into the kitchen and immediately wished he hadn’t: it was bedlam. The much-prized tin bath was out, full of steaming grey water and in it cowered the youngest, Dicken. Sat on a stool, Mrs Donnegan scrubbed the boy’s back vigorously with a brush. The two other littleuns were naked, slipping and sliding around the kitchen while swordfighting with twisted towels.

  ‘En guarde!’

  ‘Yield!’

  ‘Evening boys,’ Perry spotted the kettle on the kitchen table. The scrubbing stopped.

  ‘And where the devil have you lot been? The littleuns have been back from school for hours!’

  He gave Mrs D his most pacifying smile. She looked fraught, more so than usual. Her filthy grey ringlets sprouted miserably from her bonnet, half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of her sharp nose – normally so formidable and severe – made her look naught but old and haggard. He had to remember that she was old; he’d asked her years once and got his ears boxed for his trouble.

  ‘Trying to get another pretniceship wasn’t I? No one will take me on.’

  She pointed the scrubbing brush at him. ‘They probably heard what a mess you’d made of your last two. Your name’s mud by now.’

  She returned to scrubbing Dicken skin red raw, the lad was clearly in pain but they all knew better than to complain. Perry was glad he no longer had to endure one of her ‘thorough’ baths.

  ‘We supped without you three,’ she said and cuffed Dicken around the head, ‘come on child don’t just stand there like a spare spud,’ she handed Dicken a sponge, ‘wash behind your ears while I scrub!’

  Perry filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow!’

  One of the swordfighters hopped up and down.

  ‘Has our brave knight of the realm stubbed his toe?’ Perry said.

  ‘For Christ’s sake child, how many times must I tell you?’ Mrs Donnegan roared, taking Perry aback. He couldn’t remember seeing her in such a foul mood. Both the swordfighters looked like they might cry, Perry stepped across and put a hand on each of their shoulders,

  ‘Come on boys, time for bed now. Get into your jimjams.’ He coaxed them out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. Rodney and Peter were sat with their backs to the wall poring over a tattered Penny Dreadful.

  ‘Stick some clothes on boys, blinkin’ hell,’ said Peter.

  ‘Intimidated by their size are ya?’ Perry couldn’t resist. Peter’s face flushed red and he clenched his fists.

  ‘Tea’s on its way,’ Perry soothed.

  Mrs Donnegan was towelling Dicken, rubbing the poor lad’s head like she was trying to scour the bark off a tree.

  ‘There,’ she said, satisfied.

  Dicken’s ears were as bright as candles.

  She turned to Perry with a weathered look, ‘Can you see them all to bed tonight son? My head’s splitting like an axe through a log.’

  So that’s what was eating her. ‘No problem.’

  ‘There’s barely cracker in, must go to the market tomorrow, help yourself to whatever you can find.’

  ‘Will do.’ Perry mussed up Dicken’s damp hair, transforming his black mop into a fluffy matchstick. ‘Come on. Say goodnight.’

  ‘Night night,’ the boy said meekly, but Mrs D was already heading out of the kitchen, her hands in front of her like a blind person as if worried she might fall. He waited, listening to the creak of the stairs and the sigh of her bedsprings. Was this what happened when you got old?

  Perry put the three littleuns to bed, snuffing out the candles on the window ledge. He busied himself, taking the tub water out to wash down the privy. He blotted the kitchen floor with tea towels and poured out more tea. It was too early to sleep for the three eldest so they sat around the kitchen table, trading stories while playing a hand of Whist. Perry, contriving to finish last, underplayed his hand as convincingly as he could but still ended up beating Rodney.

  Rodney was next to bed. Perry and Peter stayed up a while longer playing a subdued game of Beggar-My-Neighbour in which Peter thoroughly deserved his win. By then, they were both yawning and retired to bed themselves, tiptoeing to their mattresses amongst the soft sputter of sleep.

  ‘Night Peter,’ he whispered.

  A long silence.

  ‘Night Perry.’

  Friends again. Perry smiled, he hadn’t even needed to wait for morning.

  Peter was a light sleeper and Perry always found it hard to tell if he was out for the count. After half an hour, Peter’s breath lengthened and as quietly as he could, Perry slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. Moonlight bathed it in an eerie jellyfish light; he didn’t even need to light a candle. He reached into his pocket and carefully lifted out a knotted handkerchief, untied it and smiled at the coins glinting within. They clinked softly in his palm as he scooped them out and laid them on the table. He scooped Mrs D’s wooden stool up and placed it at the foot of the dresser. He got on and reached to the top and grasped the old cookie tin. He gathered it to his chest and put his fingers to the lid.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Perry froze. It was Peter. Candle in hand, the flame flickering on his stony face.

  ‘Nothing.’ The word slipped out unconvincingly and he gave a guilty glance at the coins on the table. He cursed himself. How could he be so stupid? Leaving the coins there like that! Peter rested the candle down.

  ‘That’s the money from the wood isn’t it, you did sell it didn’t you?’

  Yes Peter I scammed you, you fool, didn’t seem the best thing to say.

  ‘No it ain’t.’

  ‘Liar!’ Peter lunged and rugby tackled Perry to the floor. Peter’s speed had surprised him and being sprawled out on the floor was not his idea of a good scrapping stance. A thick punch caught the side of his head and his ear rang. Perry squirmed for position but Peter grasped a clump of hair and yanked.

  ‘Evil rat!’

  ‘Ow! Gerroff!’ his head burnt like fire, ‘stop fighting like a girl!’

  ‘You’re just like your Pa!’

  The words struck as hard as the punch, ‘I’m nought like him!’ Enraged, Perry went on the attack. He slithered into position and dug his elbow hard into Peter’s ribs and palmed Peter in the face, avoiding his chomping, gnashing teeth.

  ‘WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON HERE?’

  They instantly rolled apart.

  Mrs Donnegan had an oil lamp hanging from her hand. The other four boys were gathered behind her gown like woodland creatures.

  ‘He-’ Peter began, but Perry knew he wouldn’t tell, it would mean admitting what they’d spent their day doing.

  ‘We had a game of cards and Peter accused me of cheating,’ Perry caught his breath, ‘only I’m no cheat.’

  ‘Are too!’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ she levelled a finger first at Perry and then at Peter, ‘the two of you shake hands right this instant or I’l
l throw you out into the cold.’

  Perry didn’t need to be told twice, he offered his hand. Peter took it and squeezed as hard as he could. I can play this game too. Perry squeezed back harder and Peter let go with a whimper.

  Mrs Donnegan turned to the boys behind her, ‘You lot get back to bed or I’ll make you stay in all day tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’s Saturday,’ Dicken whined, ‘the six of us is going fishing at the wharf!’

  ‘I don’t care what you boys are scheming to do tomorrow, if you’re not in bed at the count of three….’

  While her back was turned, Perry quickly swept the coins from the table into his tin.

  ‘One,’ Mrs Donnegan said. The boys scampered. She never got to three.

  Peter shook his head. ‘Soon as we go back to bed, I’m telling them all what you done.’

  ‘See if I care.’ He tucked the tin into the crook of his arm. He would need to find a new hiding place for it now. Peter would turn the house upside down looking for it.

  Peter caught a cuff from Mrs D on his way out, Perry bowed his head and readied for the same. As the weak blow skimmed of the back of his head, he caught a whiff of Mrs D’s stale sweat. He held his breath and made a show of rubbing his head so Mrs D would feel satisfied with her justice.

  In the bedroom, Perry stuffed the tin safe under his pillow. He could smell the Irishwoman’s unique perfume of chicken and mushroom soup. She’d be waiting outside the door, hovering so she could burst in on them if there were any shenanigans. Maybe the boys should give her a thorough bath. Perhaps he’d say it aloud when the coast was clear, get a laugh and ease the tension a bit… that was if they were still talking to him of course. Peter would tell them what he had done. There was no avoiding it. It was regrettable, but Rodney and the littleuns would all learn soon enough where trusting people got you. It was just a pity that they had to learn it from him.

  The stairs creaked, the old crone was returning to her lair. Perry closed his eyes and waited for the chatter amongst the boys to begin.

  3

  Perry stirred, stretched out long and yawned like a lion. As he rubbed sleep from his eyes he was already thinking about breakfast and hoped it would be bacon, bacon burnt so perfect it would snap like balsa wood between his fingers. Then, he remembered the tin. His hand shot under the pillow. It was gone.

  ‘Bugger!’ he punched the pillow, wishing it was Peter’s head. He pushed himself up - the other five mattresses in the room were empty, just a tangle of blankets. That damn sneak, bet he got Rodney to filch the money tin, there was no way that oaf could’ve done it. Perry reached over and felt Dicken’s mattress. It was cold. They were long gone. Probably snuck out at first light, silent as cats at the behest of Peter and gone fishing without him. If he wasn’t so angry he might even have been impressed at their stealth - but the tin wasn’t just yesterday’s haul. It was all his savings.

  Perry measured his position. He’d have to let the boys have their share of yesterday’s take. Fine, he could cope with that, but he’d be damned if they were going to get their grubby paws on the rest of it. He’d give Peter a chance to give the tin back. And if he didn’t, the boy would get a larruping the likes he’d never had before.

  He got up and drew the curtains. It was a grey day. A horse and cart ground through the April mud outside. No sign of the boys on the street, not that they’d be stupid enough to be out there, probably at the wharf by now. He straightened his sheet and blanket and left the others in their messy state. Mrs D would give them all a cuff but him if she saw the room. A small victory to be sure, but satisfying nonetheless.

  In the kitchen there were no eggs on the boil, no smell of bacon in the air and no oatmeal on the table. The pantry had little else to tempt: a couple of dusty jars of jam, a pack of flour and a jar of pickled eggs. A bread crust lay in a curl on the table. Odd that Mrs D wasn’t down, clanging around in the kitchen. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t woken.

  A faint splutter came from upstairs.

  ‘Mrs Donnegan?’ he called up. There was no reply.

  Perry hesitated - the boys weren’t allowed upstairs. Then the sound came again, louder this time, as if choking. Alarmed, he creaked up the first step and paused, expecting a reprimand. It didn’t come so he raced up the rest. At the top there was a small landing. One of her blankets hung over the bannister. The fabric was damp between his fingers. He rapped on her door.

  ‘Mrs Donnegan?’

  A muffle came from the other side. He couldn’t make out the words but it didn’t sound so bad. He relaxed a little.

  ‘Sorry to bother. I heard… I was just checking.’

  Then that sound again. A thief throttling her? Was she choking on her breakfast?

  ‘I’m coming in!’ He barged the door open, his fists ready. Mrs Donnegan was alone, sat upright in bed. Her grey and dreadful face poked out between a white gown and bonnet. A rancid, sour odour bored into his nostrils.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he gagged, catching the bile in the back of his throat. He caught a tiny movement under the bed and chased it late, like a shooting star almost seen, and caught up with it as it patted onto the floor. There was a small puddle of…he didn’t know what. He didn’t even want to know what. Another drop. He followed its trajectory back up to a sheet, untucked and bowing from the mattress, grey where it had once been white, moisture collecting on it as if it were a bottom eyelid brimming with tears.

  He was going to be sick. He slapped his hand over his mouth and fought the stench seeping through his fingers, curling in waves and churning up his empty, acidic stomach. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this, it was Mrs Donnegan who looked after them, brought them soup when they had colds and rested cool flannels on their foreheads when fevered, not the other way around.

  Control yourself. He slid his hand off his mouth and gulped. He brought himself, made himself, look at her square in the face. Wild panic glistened back at him. Soup and flannels were not going to be enough.

  ‘I…’ he bunched his hair in his fist, ‘what do I…?’

  Mrs Donnegan nodded frantically at him and pointed at her neck. She couldn’t speak, was that it?

  He motioned that he understood, ‘I’ll-,’ he backed out the door, ‘I’ll go and get help.’

  She nodded and flung her hands out, shooing him away. He flew outside, desperately looking up and down the street, somehow expecting a doctor would just be happening to pass at the perfect time. No luck, two coachmen smoking, a washerwoman and two wretches dancing outside an opium den. Think! There was an apothecary he’d fetched once when two of the boys had chicken pox.

  He sprinted through the alleyways and side streets. A small crowd of people were gathered outside St. Michael’s, chatting to the Reverend. Perry considered him. Prayers could come later. She needed real help now. He weaved through the group of church folk and sprinted down Bugle Street to the door of a narrow townhouse. He banged twice and the door flung open.

  ‘Mr Hampton?’ Perry gasped, holding his sides.

  The apothecary was dressed in a fine purple suit and looked like he was about to leave.

  ‘It’s Mr Brumpton. What is it boy?’

  Perry tugged him out onto the street. ‘Sorry mister Brumpton, it’s Perry, I’m one of Donnegan’s boys- you’ve got to come quick, there’s something wrong with her – real awful, we-’ his words tumbling over one another in his haste.

  The apothecary pulled up short and checked his watch, ‘Can you even pay?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t worry,’ Perry replied, worried. His tin was gone and the way the other boys scrounged around, there wouldn’t be a farthing under the floorboards. All that mattered was getting someone to see Mrs Donnegan.

  When they got to the house the apothecary shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, all business.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  Brumpton wrinkled his nose, ‘That smell.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘S
tay down here for me will you Perry?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Hungry and restless, he waited in the kitchen, anxious about Mrs Donnegan. What would happen if she needed to be taken away to hospital? He told himself to wait, not to get ahead of himself. It was probably just a bad cold or something. He chewed on the crust of bread. It was dry and tasted bitter, but it was all he had. By the time the apothecary came down, not even the crumbs remained. Brumpton filled the doorway, a white handkerchief covering his mouth.

  ‘Perry. Listen to me. Stay downstairs.’

  ‘Is she alright?’

  ‘I need a second opinion. I’m going to fetch Dr Fairbanks.’

  ‘Well I could –’

  ‘-No!’ he said firmly. ‘You must stay here. Don’t let anyone in. Not the other boys, no-one! Do you understand? In fact-’ he said, not letting Perry answer, ‘-I’ll just take these.’ He grabbed a set of keys off a metal peg and locked the kitchen’s back entrance.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just a precaution. I’ll be back within the hour.’

  Perry heard Brumpton lock the front too, but tried it anyway just in case. He was trapped. It bothered him that Brumpton hadn’t even brought up payment, which normally he’d have been pretty happy about. It led him to think that whatever Mrs D had, it was serious. If something happened to her, where would he and the boys live then?

  Throaty coughs, louder than before, carried down the stairs.

  Perry was weeing into the washtub when keys clattered into the front door. He finished, yanked up his trousers and hid the tub under the table and let himself hope that Peter would be next to use it. Lunch had long passed, surely the boys would be back soon and he wouldn’t have to deal with this all on his own.

  In the hallway, Mr Brumpton was easing a short gentleman out of an expensive looking coat.

  ‘Don’t hang that coat anywhere Brumpton, hold on to it for me would you?’