Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  She grunted, his logic stumbling into place somewhere in her head. Perry reached into his pocket.

  ‘I owe you for last night, and here’s payment for tonight too, go on take it.’

  Ma examined the coins.

  ‘I’m fine. Promise,’ he attempted a smile, ‘and there’s more where that coin came from if you let me stay for a bit.’

  Ma stared him down for a moment, weighing his words. Then, she stepped back from the doorway. Money talks. Water dripped off his nose, earlobes and fingers and pattered on the floor. Ma didn’t seem to care; the floorboards were rotten anyway. He couldn’t believe he had to beg to stay here. In the bedroom there was no sign of Joel. My first bit of luck all day, he thought wryly. He hung his sopping clothes over the door to dry and wrapped himself in a bundle of old blankets on the floor. The day couldn’t end soon enough.

  In the morning, he woke with his hair still stinking of smoke. Joel was asleep on the other side of the room. Perry hadn’t heard him come in but it must have been late; there were an awful lot of notes to deliver. Guilt prickled at him. Things were far adrift from even his most modest hopes and it was up to him now to make the best of it. He got up quietly and went to the kitchen. There was no sign of Ma, probably asleep upstairs. Joel’s clothes were gathered in a soggy bundle in front of the unlit hearth.

  Perry brushed the ash and spent coal from the fireplace. From the coal bucket, he tossed a scattering of black lumps until there was a decent pile and stuffed paper and kindling in the gaps. He struck a match off the wall and lit the paper. The fire smoked, but wouldn’t draw properly, so he covered the fireplace mouth with a sheet of old newspaper, holding it in place until he could see the lick of flame shadow through the paper. Once it was going he dusted his hands off and set the kettle. While he waited for the water to heat, he wrung Joel’s clothes out into a bucket and hung them on the line above the mantel. He supposed it was the least he could do.

  Two slices of bread rested on the table. Ma playing at innkeeper was she? Laying on a breakfast spread for her two young guests? Perry claimed his stale slice and gnawed on it until it was soggy enough to bite off and chew. At least there was something to eat. The kettle whistled and Perry grabbed a towel, took the kettle off the heat and poured the scalding water into a dented metal teapot. He heard movement in the bedroom.

  ‘Morning,’ he called, swilling the water round the teapot.

  Joel shuffled in, red-eyed and in his nightclothes, his head down. He reached the washing line and felt his shirt and trousers.

  ‘They’re still a bit damp,’ said Perry, ‘I only just got the fire going.’

  Joel nodded, but wouldn’t meet Perry’s eye.

  ‘When the fire settles we can lower the line a bit, make it dry quicker. I made you a brew,’ he poured out the tea and offered the steaming mug to Joel.

  Joel stared at the fire. He wants to throw my head in it, thought Perry.

  ‘I was thinking of guddlin’ some trout later in the Itchen. Not had a proper meal in a few days. You could come if you like, hold my legs so I can reach deeper in the water.’

  ‘Perry,’ Joel faced him, his jaw was clenched. ‘You said we was friends.’

  Perry held out the mug again. ‘We are…it’s just, The Sick…those prisoners…’

  ‘You left me to deliver all them notes on my own, I wouldn’t have taken ‘em all if it was just me! It took me half the night!’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry Joel. It was mean. And wrong. Mean and wrong. It’ll never happen again. Promise. Friends again?’

  Joel took the offered mug and sat. He sipped at his tea and poked a finger into the belly of his bread slice.

  ‘Alright then Perry.’

  Out from the clutches of Blue Anchor Lane, Perry and Joel hailed the driver of passing cart. The driver reined up and his horse stamped to a halt.

  ‘Hey mister, you going out Bishopstoke way?’

  The man gave Perry a look. ‘Might be. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Gives us a ride and I’ll catch you some fish.’

  ‘Think I’m daft?’ the man laughed, ‘boy like you catch fish?’

  ‘Honest mister, it’ll be trout.’

  ‘I’m hardly going to wait by the side of the road while you two frolic about in the Itchen. I’ve got important lambing business to tend to near Winchester.’

  ‘So you’re coming back to Southampton today?’

  ‘Aye, around three,’ the man said guardedly.

  ‘All the better then,’ beamed Perry, ‘we’ll wait for you by the road when you come back, give you an extra fish or two for the ride home and all.’

  ‘And if we’re not there, you’ve not lost much have you?’ Joel chipped in.

  ‘Cheeky beggars. Come on then, get up.’

  They sat, legs swinging as the horse plodded up the road, Perry tapping a beat on the bottom of a bucket they’d brought. The ride there and back would afford them an extra couple of hours fishing, Perry reckoned he could bag an extra half-dozen trout in that time on a good day. He drank in the clean air of the countryside and pointed to the hedgerow.

  ‘See that white blossom? That’s wild cherry that is,’ Perry was enthusiastic, ‘and if you look through that bit of woodland up ahead, you’ll likely see the bluebells,’ he glanced sideways at Joel and saw his companion wasn’t really interested and said no more.

  It took a little over an hour to reach Bishopstoke and the boys hopped off the cart at the Old Anchor Inn and thanked the driver. Perry assured him of his fish and they arranged to meet in the same spot later.

  Perry led Joel along the winding Itchen, keeping to the trees along the bank. He’d forgotten how much he liked it here; so different from town. The flowing water trickled peacefully rather than the harsh splash of slops on cobbles. There were no shouts here, just the birdsong rising from the willows. He remembered his father taking him here for the first time and teaching him the names of the plants and flowers on the way. A man who taught his son such things was surely a good one, deep down, wasn’t he? Perhaps once this business with The Sick died down, he would go and see his Pa, find out a bit more about it all.

  Joel blew a high-pitched whistle.

  ‘What the-’ Perry covered his ears and saw Joel had a slingshot ready-loaded with a stone. Before he could stop it, the startled birds exploded from the trees like black fireworks. The stone spat, sliced the air and cannoned harmlessly off a branch.

  ‘What are you doing? Put that thing down, you’re not firing at cans on a wall Joel. They’re birds, living birds!’

  Joel pulled a face. ‘So what? We’re about to go guddlin’ for livin’ fish, what’s the difference?’

  ‘There’s no purpose to it. Fishing is for us to eat. We aren’t about to eat blackbirds are we?’

  A sly smile appeared on Joel’s face. ‘Thought you were a tough ‘un but take you out the town and it’s all birds and flowers. It was just a bit of sport is all, but if it gets your dander up then I’ll put it away.’

  Perry didn’t know what to say to that. He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and turned to face the river.

  ‘Come on, we’re nearly there.’

  They traced a few more bends of the river and came to a flint bridge.

  ‘Here we are,’ Perry scurried down the bank and rolled up his sleeves, ‘I swear this is the best spot in Hampshire, I always do well here,’ he leant over the bank. ‘In summer I just get in the water, I used to do it in springtime too, don’t know how I did it - the water’s too cold now.’

  ‘What do I do then?’

  ‘Hold on tight to my legs, then just do what I say,’ Perry dropped to his knees and leant over the edge. Pebbles speckled the bottom and shadows lurked under the ledge of the bank. Joel held his ankles.

  ‘Hold me tighter,’ Perry said, and dangled upside down from the bank. He plunged his hands into the icy water,

  ‘Oh it’s freezin’! A bit lower, don’t let go now,’ he sunk to the elbow, then
deeper still until he felt his hair flopping into the stream. He felt underneath the bank’s overhang. He stayed still, leaving his palms open and cupping his fingers. The Itchen trickled past, numbing his arms with cold. Blood thumped in his head. His palms tickled, he didn’t flinch. This was the hardest part. He began to whisper:

  ‘What are you-’

  ‘-Shhh,’ Perry hushed, and slowly moved his forefingers until they made contact with slick fish skin. He circled his fingers on the trout’s belly, gradually widening out a touch firmer each time until they were under the gills.

  ‘I got him,’ Perry whispered, ‘pull me back up.’

  Joel was pulling him back with ease; he was stronger than he looked. Perry’s clasped his hands around the prize.

  ‘He’s in your hands!’

  ‘Pass the bucket,’ Perry said calmly, getting to his knees.

  Joel grabbed it, ‘Right o’, put him in.’

  But Perry threw the trout onto the ground where it writhed and flicked.

  ‘It woke up,’ Joel said, ‘why didn’t you…’

  Perry snatched the bucket from Joel and smashed it down on the trout’s head, once, twice, thrice.

  ‘Oh.’

  The trout gave a final twitch of the tail and was still.

  ‘We’ll load up the bucket at the end,’ said Perry.

  A trickle of blood ran across the brown sheen of the fish and mingled with the wet mud of the bank.

  ‘How do you make em sleep?’

  Perry smiled mischievously. ‘I’ll show you. Want a turn?’

  ‘Too right I do. Looked easy to me.’

  Poor fool had no idea.

  The sun warmed Perry’s back on the walk to the Inn. They passed old cottages and spied farms in the distance. He glanced at Joel, struggling with the weight of the bucket, but smiling. He wished they lived out here and didn’t have to go home to Southampton.

  In the village he took a different route, passing by his old house. It looked good, the chimney was firing out smoke and the roof had been redone. He was glad the home was being put to good use and wondered what his Pa would make of it.

  While they waited, Perry gave Joel some tips about where his guddling was going wrong although he had to admit it was impressive that Joel had managed it once. Fair success for a first attempt.

  It was an hour before the cart trundled into view.

  ‘Well, well, so you got your fish.’

  Perry glowed with pride. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’

  The Sick’s menacing undertow could be forgotten in the countryside, but in Southampton it was a different story. As they clopped through the busy streets, people were frightened. He could tell by their panicked eyes and covered mouths. People could carry on about their business, but he wasn’t fooled. They were scared shitless, would it be them next? Perry couldn’t blame them. It was rotten meat, this town, and rotten meat didn’t tend to get fresh again far as he knew.

  When they got back to Ma’s, he wanted to keep the momentum of the day’s good feeling going.

  ‘I’m ready to put my feet up with a mug of brew,’ said Perry.

  ‘I think not,’ Ma came into the kitchen wearing a dingy red gown, ‘thought I heard you two scamps coming back. What’s that?’

  ‘Oh this?’ Joel put the bucket down on the table.

  Ma looked at them both in disgust. ‘You’re both filthy. Is that blood on your clothes?’

  ‘Only fish blood.’

  Ma peered inside the bucket. ‘Slimy critters. Well I suppose you can sell some of them at the port later.’

  ‘Not tonight!’ said Joel. ‘We’ve been fishing all day.’

  ‘Yes, tonight,’ Ma snapped, ‘passenger liner in from the Cape.’ She looked at Perry, ‘If you’re thinking of staying here for good you’ll damn well be earning your keep.’

  Annoyed, Perry pointed at the bucket. ‘What do you call that if it’s not earning our bloody keep?’

  Ma’s features darkened. ‘That’s enough lip from you. Don’t think I won’t throw you both out on the street!’

  He held his tongue.

  ‘Joel will show you what to do. I’m going to bed, need my rest.’

  They didn’t speak until they heard the creak of her footsteps upstairs.

  ‘You were right. She is a bleedin’ nightmare,’ said Perry.

  ‘Come on, we better eat and get cleaned up. We’ll need our wits about us if we’re going down the docks.’

  Perry grunted, irritated by Ma’s lack of appreciation for their catch. He took a trout from the bucket and laid it lengthways on a chopping board. He grabbed a knife from the drawer, it looked blunt but it’d have to do.

  ‘That’s a thought,’ said Joel.

  ‘What is?’ Perry followed his gaze to the knife.

  ‘Nothing. Let’s eat this up real quick; we better get down there before it gets too late. I’ll tell you what you need to do while we eat.’

  6

  After supper, Perry wrapped up the rest of the fish and headed to the harbour. It was already black as pitch when they left the house, but on the way, Perry stopped a street hawker and managed to agree a fair price for the fish, gaining a slice of mutton pie each in the bargain, which they pocketed for later. Although Joel had only caught one fish, Perry gave him a couple of farthings of the take.

  At the harbour, three huge passenger liners were docked under a starry sky; their lights shimmered in the water’s mirror. Perry had never really been down here at night, it felt like a different place; the sailors that spilled outside The Bell & Mast tavern seemed larger than the men of daylight somehow, they poured beer down their throats and clapped one another on the back and bellowed out jokes. It was the women too, a group of five walking to the docks were no daytime washerwomen or maids, but rouged of face and wearing frilly dresses with plunging necklines. Even the tavern’s sign - a bell, painted a stormy dull gold, angled on a mast with flecks of rain flashing past – looked the more menacing for the night. All in all, it was as welcoming a sight as a rotten tooth.

  ‘You’re older,’ said Joel, the taint of nerves in his voice put Perry on edge. ‘You do the tavern, I’ll try the crew over by the boat.’

  ‘The tavern?’ he eyed the group outside again, their breath fogging like smoking coals. ‘Maybe I should try the crew?’

  ‘No Perry, the crew is the terrible job, awful. They’re all cranky and irritable. You need your wits about you in case one of them snaps. In the tavern they’re all having a drink and a good time - listen to that lot, they’re laughing their heads off.’

  The manic laughter coming from the group outside the tavern was not putting him at ease. Whichever way he looked at it, he had never done anything like this before and if Joel reckoned he’d do better in the tavern, then surely he must…and he did still feel a tinge of guilt for the prisoner notes.

  ‘Alright then.’

  ‘Great!’ Joel reached into his pocket, ‘here, you take this,’ he handed Perry a switchblade and showed how it sprung open. Surprised by its weight, Perry ran his hand over the steel face down to the wooden handle where a carp had been ornately carved on either side. It looked dangerous, like it could skewer the hull of a ship.

  ‘I’m starting to worry about you,’ said Perry, eager to take the knife’s appearance in his stride, ‘first the slingshot, then the knife…what else have you got?’

  Joel gave him a toothy grin.

  ‘According to you, the tavern’s the safer location, how come I need a knife and you don’t?’

  ‘It’s a question of experience Perry, not location. You never know when you might need it. Best to have it just in case.’

  ‘Ever had to use it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How do you mean, “not really” Joel? You’ve either had to use it or you haven’t. What is it you’re so scared of that you’d need a knife?’

  Joel looked offended, ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘Then you take the knife and do the tavern.�
��

  Joel chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Fine, I’ll tell you. It was a couple of months back. I was in there for Ma, talking to these three sailors, big lads, think they was from Scandinavia. But they said they weren’t interested in no women, so I asked what they was interested in. Now thinking back I should’ve kept my trap shut, cos they start grabbing at me, just playful stuff at first-’

  ‘-then what?’

  ‘Well I gets the bad feeling and I ran out of there. Thing was, they came out too! I then started running and they started running after me, laughing like goons they was. I go as far as Alexandra docks, look back and they’re still bloody chasing after me, lumbering like bloody giants, whooping and yelling. Problem is, I was reckoning on them getting tired of it, but they were fast and strong and there I am running in the wrong bloody direction, straight to the end of the dock- which is a dead end.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well it’s but thirty seconds and I’m at the end of the dock. I yell but there ain’t no-one else about. It was late see. And they’re coming for me fast as three cannonballs. And behind me is just the sea, black and oily as a fish eye, and I just know I’ll freeze if I jump in but I don’t see what option I have. Then I remember the knife in my pocket and I pull it out. They’re nearly on to me and I yell at em, “Back away or I’ll rip you to shreds!” and I pull the knife and it somehow catches the moonlight and looks meaner than ever. And I lunge it forward, swishing the air, cutting the night to pieces like some wild beast,’ Joel mimicked the movement, ‘and then their feet stops pounding on the dock and they’re right in front of me. Them Scandinavian chests is heaving, gulping air and sizing me up, seeing if I’m serious. So I yell at ‘em “I’m serious!” and I give ‘em a few more air strokes of the knife for good measure.’

  ‘So they just let you go?’

  Joel sunk into himself and stuffed his hands in his pockets, ‘No,’ he said meekly, all his bravado and performance dissolving. ‘One of ‘em brings out a knife twice as big as mine and they start laughing like dogs.’