Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  Perry cleared his throat. The doctor met his eye.

  ‘Is this the boy?’

  ‘Yes Dr Fairbanks.’

  ‘Good,’ the doctor started up the stairs, ‘see to it that he stays down there while I examine the patient.’

  Brumpton locked the front door and pocketed the key. ‘You heard him.’

  Perry nodded, feeling a tad better now a proper doctor was here.

  ‘Mr Brumpton, my effects?’ the doctor called from the landing.

  A half hour passed. Perry went from the kitchen and into the bedroom and back again, keeping an eye out the window for the boys. He played solitaire, couldn’t finish and swept the cards onto the floor. He checked every cupboard and shelf for food again. Nothing. In the pantry he scooped a layer of mould of one of the jams and managed a spoonful before deciding he couldn’t stomach it. He went next for the pickled eggs and sat cross-legged on the pantry floor. With the rows of empty shelves around him, it almost felt like he was inside an abandoned hive. He fished out one of the white balls and sucked off the sour film. He popped the whole egg in his mouth and let it collapse slowly, barely chewing. Hardly a feast, but at least it was something.

  As he sat, he noticed one of the floorboards was loose and prised it up without too much trouble. He blew the dust and cobwebs away and found the hollow was just big enough to have housed his tin. Typical. Now I find the perfect hiding spot. It was a poor substitute for his money tin, but the pickled eggs fitted neatly in the cache. He replaced the floorboard; there was scant food in the place and who knew how long it would take Mrs Donnegan to get back on her feet, let alone buying groceries and cooking.

  Floorboards creaked above. The light chink of glass. He imagined test tubes, pipettes and instruments being laid out beside her bed.

  Another hour or so passed and the men appeared in the kitchen, grave and sombre.

  ‘How old are you young man?’ The doctor examined him with severe and precise eyes.

  ‘Not far off six and ten,’ he answered truthfully.

  ‘I shall speak to you like a man then, for that’s what we need you to be. Your mother, she’s-’

  ‘She ain’t my mother,’ Perry crossed his arms, ‘she just looks after a few of us, you know.’

  ‘Orphans?’ offered Brumpton.

  ‘Oh good,’ said the doctor, ‘very good indeed.’

  ‘Good? What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Oh,’ the doctor checked himself, ‘only that this will be less traumatic if the patient isn’t your mother. But first, I need to know all your names, you and the other boys who live here.’

  Perry resented this, ‘We’re not boys. Young men is what we are here, tough fellers.’

  ‘Fine, young man. What are their names?’

  He’d do in order of eldest, ‘Well I’m Perry. Perry Scrimshaw. Then there’s Peter Collins...why you writing them down doctor?’

  ‘Just give the rest of the names boy,’ Brumpton cut in sharply.

  After Dicken Matthew’s entry, the doctor snapped the notebook shut and slipped it in his pocket.

  ‘So have you given her some medicine? Will she be alright?’

  The doctor removed his glasses and breathed on the lenses. ‘Perry,’ he rubbed them with a cloth, ‘I’m afraid I must take Mrs Donnegan away for disinfection at the Sanatorium.’

  ‘Disinfection?’ Perry straightened up. ‘What’s that? Does it hurt?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replaced his glasses and gave him an earnest look, ‘it’s just so we can treat her.’

  ‘So she’s going to be alright then?’

  The two men quickly nodded in unison.

  ‘Can I stay here for now? I’m old enough to look after myself.’

  The doctor and Brumpton exchanged a glance. There was some conversation they’d had upstairs, deciding what they would and wouldn’t say to him, he was sure of it.

  ‘We think you should go too. In case you’ve been…exposed.’

  Perry nodded slowly, ‘And yourselves? You’ll have to go as well seeing as you’ve been exposed too?’

  ‘No, Mr Brumpton and I are immune. I don’t expect you to understand young man, just know that it is in your best interest.’

  ‘Fine,’ Perry nodded at them, ‘It makes sense.’

  The doctor smiled to Brumpton, visibly relieved. ‘I knew he was a sensible lad, moment I saw him.’

  ‘Just before we go, I’ve been busting for the toilet for ages,’ he gripped his crotch with both hands, ‘and it’s in the yard.’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ Brumpton pulled the key out of his pocket. ‘Poor lad, holding on like that.’

  ‘I didn’t think these sorts of places had proper toilets,’ the doctor said, impressed.

  Brumpton let him out into the tiny yard. Dusk was settling, making it seem like the brick water butt, the coal shed and the privy were huddling together against the impending darkness. He crossed to the battered outhouse. Weeds sprouted through the rotten holes in the door, black green and evil looking. He swung it open and turned. Through the kitchen window, he spied the doctor and Brumpton talking.

  Mrs Donnegan would be fine, the doctors said so themselves. He’d be damned if he was going to the Sanatorium, there was nothing wrong with him. He gripped the roof of the outhouse. It felt sodden, but sturdy enough to climb.

  4

  Moss softened his landing. He batted back brambles and tore through nettles, feeling the burn of the evening air in his lungs. The passageway ended at Castle Way where fingers of sea mist hung amidst the dusk. Perry caught his breath and checked back, hearing no alarm being raised or shouting. He gave his knees a quick scratch and stepped onto the road.

  ‘Oi! Don’t you come any closer!’

  He halted and traced the voice to a plump woman, a white cloth tied over her mouth and a baby jiggling in her arm.

  ‘Miss, I’m not meaning no harm,’ he took a step towards her.

  ‘I said no closer!’ the baby wriggled and kicked.

  ‘Look, I don’t know wh-’ Perry took another step.

  ‘No! Keep away!’ she hobbled away from him.

  ‘Freak!’ he hurled the word after her, stupefied by her reaction.

  He didn’t have many options. Ahead, the notorious Blue Anchor Lane mingled with the dusky darkness. It was the gateway to the Ward and its maze of backstreet passageways, where the poorest of the poor lived, slum town some folk called it. It was avoided by the law; not even the commission chasing School Attendance Officers dared venture in. And because of this, the Ward offered the poverty-stricken labourers, the whores, street urchins, the rotten-toothed witches and gaunt opium-slaves alike its ugly protection from the authorities. Perry headed for it. One thing was sure; nobody would look for him there.

  He stepped in; the first tumbledown houses arched unevenly like huddled mushrooms. The way was then blocked with a pile of decaying vegetables, hay and splintered crates. He covered his mouth and stepped onto the rotting heap. His foot squelched in, the foul mulch wetting his ankles. He shuddered and leapt down onto the other side. The stench seeped through his fingers; rot, decay, piss, shit. It was as dense as a wall and it was all he could do to not throw up. The lane was used as a public latrine but it was ten times worse than in Mrs Donnegan’s sick room. He muttered a prayer for her and urged himself on, covering his mouth with his arm.

  It was slippery underfoot. Lamplights and candles glowed in the windows; halos in the foggy gloom. He cleared a grubby window with his sleeve and counted nine mattresses cramped together in front of a fireplace. The room was even smaller than at Mrs D’s. He gave a thought for the boys, though they didn’t deserve it. He’d look for them on the morrow, but he needed to get out the cold and hunker down before darkness truly turned the thieves and slashers out into the night. Someone surely would take him in. Perry banged on the next door he came to.

  An old hag stuck her head out of a window, ‘Piss off!’ she yelled, revealing a mouth with barely any teeth.
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  Rubbing his arms as he went, he passed a tramp too old and too drunk to pay him any mind. He looked to be adding his own contribution to the sodden walls and cobbles. Perry was getting used to the smell and that was no good thing. A little further along he came to the Southampton Gospel Mission, one of the few attempts to seed goodness into the area. It was barred shut with a wooden plank and padlock. He gave it a rattle anyway, but it didn’t give.

  ‘Thanks God,’ he said to the sky with all the sarcasm he could muster. A passageway, barely shoulder-width apart, meandered off to the right. Teeth-chattering, he took it, tracing his hands against the walls to steady himself, ducking under a low beam - one of a labyrinth above him that braced the houses together or kept them apart. The passageway ended in a narrow square of mud, surrounded on all sides by the backs of crooked houses. Apart from a few windows, only one of these houses had a door. A gaunt rat scurried between his feet and sniffed the air.

  ‘What a palace.’ Perry knocked. As he waited, he realised what a state he must look, clothes caked in mud and torn by brambles. Mrs Donnegan would no doubt be licking her finger and smudging the mud off his face. He took off his cap and combed his hair with his hands and hoped it would improve his appearance. The door opened. A woman thrust out a candle and sized him up. He tensed, ready to run.

  ‘You’re a bit young aintcha?’

  ‘Fifteen ain’t young,’ he replied mechanically.

  She moved the candle back in from the rain. A messy nest of hair, but a fine, almost pretty face.

  ‘I don’t often get door knocks. Can you pay?’

  ‘Depends really. How much for the night? And food?’ he’d almost forgotten how hungry he was, ‘have you got any food Miss?’

  ‘Where do you think you are? A bleedin’ Inn?’

  ‘Just that I’m starving, if you had anything to spare, anything at-’

  ‘- I got pie scraps. But it’ll be thruppence for the lot.’

  Perry could explain about the tin if need be, he was good for the money providing she didn’t want it now. He followed the woman through into a hallway. It was chilly and smelt of mildew and fish. It would have to do, just for a night.

  He followed her into the kitchen. At the table, a boy, he guessed a year younger than himself, was scraping out a tin into his mouth.

  ‘Your lad?’ Perry asked.

  The boy dropped the knife and blinked at him.

  ‘Blimey no! That’s just Joel,’ she grabbed the tin off him and handed it to Perry.

  ‘Hey Ma! I was eating that,’ Joel protested.

  ‘Ma’s what all the boys call me,’ she explained. It was a much smaller space than at Donnegan’s, how many boys were there?

  ‘Well then,’ she nodded to the tin, ‘have at it. My bed’s upstairs. Come up when you’re ready.’

  ‘Oh Miss,’ Perry was taken aback at her kindness, ‘I couldn’t kick you out of your own bed!’

  She gave him an odd look. ‘You ain’t.’

  The silence hung for a second or two and was broken by Joel.

  ‘Ha!’ he looked from Ma to Perry. ‘He didn’t come here for that! He just wanted somewhere to sleep is all Ma.’

  Perry, sudden understanding flooding his mind, flushed with embarrassment.

  ‘The floor’ll do me.’

  Ma looked miffed, ‘suit yourself, that’ll be tuppence then.’

  ‘On my word you’ll have it on the morrow.’

  She scowled, weighing up the likelihood of him paying against the hassle of throwing him out.

  ‘Fine but let me warn you. You cheat Ma, you live to regret it.’

  There was enough to regret about the day already, and he didn’t plan on adding this to his growing list. Ma went upstairs and he was relieved to be left alone with the boy. In the flickering light it was hard to gauge his features. Joel had small dark eyes and a straight shock of black hair that put him in mind of a scarecrow. He was a wiry lad, thinner than Perry, but on the whole seemed a darn side more normal than Ma.

  ‘Go on,’ Perry motioned to the pie scraps, ‘let’s share. No point both of us going hungry.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Joel set upon the food again. Joel chiselled a thick bit of crust from the corner of the tin and offered it up.

  He took it with a nod and popped it in his mouth and chewed. It was crunchy, burnt and soggy all at the same time. Certainly not the best thing he’d ever eaten, but he was so hungry he didn’t really care.

  ‘Good?’

  Perry nodded, ‘It’s alright. Did Ma cook it?’

  ‘Bought it more like, she’s hopeless,’ Joel was shaking his head disapprovingly, ‘a bleedin’ nightmare. Lucky escape you had there.’

  Perry licked his fingers, ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  The following day brought a great many steamships on the morning tide; Royal Mail, North German Lloyd and Brazil & River Plate Company had all their charges docked, nodding with the swell. Pulleys hefted bales of cargo over the gunnels and eased them gently onto the jetties. Carriers swarmed around the quay; dockers, blackened coal-porters, corn-runners, shipping agents, and messenger boys everywhere, wriggling like maggots over rotten meat.

  At the foot of the bell tower steps, a small crowd gathered awaiting the end of the church service. An inky paperboy rested on the stone balustrades, cap pulled casually over his eyes as he kipped. Perry and Joel sat on a stone post, their feet dangling down, poring over the front page.

  ‘What’s it say, what’s it say?’ asked Joel.

  ‘It’s con-ta-gious.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a type of illness, you know like consumption,’ Perry mumbled and read on.

  ‘The Sick’s what everyone’s calling it, no feller going to call it con- whatever it is…’

  Perry stopped listening, his eyes danced from line to line until he saw it. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  Perry’s jaw went slack, ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Your Irish Ma?’

  Words caught in his throat, he nodded, yes. He picked the paper up and read it again just in case he’d been mistaken: The sanatorium list over two dozen infected and the county coroner lists five deceased; Gavin Straker, Terence Colestaff, Billy Cudgill, Drew Fletcher and the first female, Norma Donnegan.

  His throat tightened, and he suddenly wished he were alone. He barely knew this boy and didn’t want to cry in front of him. He looked away, focusing on the crowd on the bell tower steps. He would not cry.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He felt Joel’s hand upon his shoulder but couldn’t bring himself to say that he’d miss her sing-song Irish voice, or that she was the closest thing he’d had to a mother since…. he couldn’t remember when. He had to pull himself together. He was no softie. He was the eldest. He had to be tough.

  Perry cleared his throat, ‘It’s not like she was my mum or anything but still…she was fair to us boys.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll stay with us for good now?’

  Joel was likable enough but he couldn’t imagine a worse place to stay.

  ‘Maybe.’

  A clergyman emerged from the bell tower, a crucifix held aloft and shaking in his hands. He bellowed something in a deep and hollow voice and the group of waiting townsfolk bowed their heads, murmuring a prayer for The Sick. The clergyman flicked water out on the crowd and the people jostled and elbowed for a drop on their faces.

  ‘Idiots, what’s holy water going to do?’ Perry shook his head, ‘I should go to the wharf to see if any of her boys are there. Only fair they hear it from me rather than some stranger.’ Perry rolled up the newspaper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Course,’ Joel hopped down, ‘then I’ll take you somewhere guaranteed to cheer you up.’

  Being cheered up was the last thing on his mind, but he might as well have company as not.

  The wharf was busy; it was as if a deck had fallen from a ship and land
ed perfectly in the water, complete with iron wrought benches and well-to-do folk taking a stroll. Perry paced the wharf, squinting to spy the outline of the littleuns, Peter or Rodney.

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Let’s go to the end anyway,’ said Joel.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘At least then you’ll know they’re not bobbing face down in the drink.’

  He shuddered, such a thing hadn’t even occurred to him and he found himself walking faster. At the end of the wharf there was an old fisherman sitting on a stool. Perry ran to his side and looked down into the milky green water below. It was dirty; corks bobbed, a fish skeleton, a constellation of sawdust and a couple of bottles but no sign of the boys. His chest unknotted in relief.

  ‘I wasn’t being serious about them being in there,’ Joel said, ‘it were a joke. Just trying to lighten the mood.’

  Irritated, Perry took a breath and looked for calm in the fold between sea and sky, ‘Early days between us Joely, but your sense of humour is your twos, not your aces.’

  ‘Alright, alright.’

  Perry checked both sides of the wharf, just to make sure. The fisherman was whistling a tune. If Perry knew anything, he knew fishermen; they were superstitious folk that tended to have their favourite beats and kept to them regular.

  ‘Excuse me mister, you happen to be here yesterday?’

  The old man looked up from his stool, his eyes were cloudy blue, white stubble frosted his cheeks.

  ‘I was,’ he said in a gap-toothed whistle.

  ‘Did you see some boys fishing down here?’

  ‘Hmph,’ he stretched his woolly hat a little further down his forehead, ‘Yesterday aye. Not today and a good thing too. Bleaters were so damn noisy I reckon they scared away the mackerel. Barely caught a thing, if you see ‘em tell them to stay clear of here. Now Shhhhh,’ he said softly, his finger placed on his lips and turned back to the water.

  Perry turned to Joel, who was stifling a giggle and he found himself grinning as they walked back down the wharf. Joel pulled down his cap, walked as if he had a peg-leg and puffed his face up like a seadog, whistle-speaking, ‘Ssssay ssssonny, don’t you go making facesss and ss-ss-sscaring the fishesss away!’