Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  ‘And then what?’

  Joel shrugged, ‘I put the blade away and dived into the sea.’

  ‘What? Bleedin’ heck Joel!’ Perry laughed, ‘so the knife didn’t help you at all?’

  ‘Brought me some breathing time before my swim!’ he said defensively, ‘and you shouldn’t laugh, I got so ill from the cold I was sick for weeks!’

  Perry let his laugh slip to a smile, ‘Joely, pal, it sounds like a close escape to me and a brave one at that.’

  Joel crossed his arms, ‘Aye, it was. So you hold on to that for now. I never seen those fellers around since, but just in case.’

  ‘And you? What will you have to protect you?’

  ‘Tsk,’ Joel dismissed him with a hand, ‘I got my smarts and my bravery. It’s your first time at this. Take the blade.’

  It was true; he hadn’t done anything quite like this before. Had never wanted to and still didn’t. Perry nodded to his friend and slipped the knife into his pocket.

  When Joel left him to try the crewmen by the docks, nerves flooded Perry once more. He took a deep breath and met them the only way he knew how. He pulled up his collar, mussed up his hair and hoped it made him appear a bit dangerous.

  Inside, a set of stairs to his right led up into darkness but the main bar was full to the brim, a jumble of conversations and laughter ringing under a fug of smoke. He looked around uneasily, not sure exactly where to try. Six stocky men sat around a bench by the window, a woman with fire-red hair sat on one of their laps, giggling. Not there. Perhaps he should buy a drink first, try and fit in, but people were packed in so tight he doubted he’d make it to the bar without elbowing his way through. Then, in a nook under the stairs, he spied three men around a circular table gripping tankards with no woman in their company. Sailors, he guessed by their thick jackets. Lonely, perhaps, from time at sea with no woman warming their beds. Sailors were his best bet.

  He strolled over as confidently as he could, ducked into the nook and cleared his throat.

  ‘Scuse me misters…’

  They stopped their conversation and his confidence drained at the sight of them. Close up, the one on Perry’s left was bald as a fly-rink with a nasty scar on his cheek. The next sailor was smaller, bearded, with ginger hair sprouting from under his cap. Small black eyes and a hooter nose poked through the undergrowth. Between them was a wide man, with a mop of greasy black hair and a jaw that looked like it could crack walnuts.

  ‘What is it boy?’ said Jaw, his accent strange.

  ‘Sorry, right. Yes,’ Perry regained his composure, he was here now, he’d best try. ‘Well, I was wondering if I might interest you gents in the company of one of Southampton’s finest…er…d-dames?’

  The three sailors exchanged confused glances.

  ‘Dames?’ Fly-rink said.

  Perry felt hot and tugged at his collar, ‘Er- women. Well, a woman.’

  Jaw smiled, ‘Tell me, this “dame” of yours, can we see what she looks like?’

  Perry scratched his head, he hadn’t counted on being asked such a thing, ‘Well it’s a bit of a walk see. I’ll take you there myself.’

  Ginger-beard let out an odd high-pitched titter and shook his head. Fly-rink narrowed his eyes, ‘What sort of fleabag must she be eh? Sending a boy like this.’

  ‘A boy like what?’ Perry said, ‘and she’s no fleabag. She’s lovely,’ he lied, ‘and cheap.’

  ‘Cheap?’ Jaw slammed a fist down on the table. ‘She sounds like a mud rat. Clear off.’

  ‘Cheap wasn’t the right thing to say… what I mean is that she is so pretty, that what you’re really getting is proper value for-’

  Jaw snatched his collar. Perry winced at the smell of stale beer on his breath. ‘You want me to throw you out on your face boy?’

  Perry thought about the knife. Should he make a grab for it? Something told him it would only get him in more trouble. He held up his palms, ‘I’ll leave you to it, sorry to bother you fellers.’

  Shaken, he retreated outside, hoping Joel had better luck. He would get there eventually, surely it was just like selling wood or agreeing a good price for your catch - he just wasn’t used to hawking women, or more accurately, hawking Ma.

  Joel turned up ten minutes later and to Perry’s relief had a scrawny wretch of a man in tow, a sheepish grin on his face.

  Joel cocked an eyebrow, any luck?

  Perry shook his head no.

  Joel clapped his hands together, ‘Right then, looks like you’re our best price Pietersen, you deckhands are a clever lot, always getting bargains.’

  Pietersen smiled, revealing long crooked teeth.

  Perry followed, listening to Joel’s patter. He was a good talker and when he thought about what Joel must have done to set up his note delivery racket in the prison, it was pretty impressive. They could make a good team, two freebooters scratching together a crust.

  They stopped outside St. Michael’s, the windows orange with candlelight. A nun walked out of the church and lit a candle either side of the entrance. Angelic singing soared from inside.

  ‘See that,’ he heard Joel say to the deckhand, ‘them nuns are holding a vigil every night until The Sick disappears.’

  ‘What’s The Sick?’ asked Pietersen.

  ‘You ain’t heard?’ Joel continued on, but Perry stood transfixed. The nun who, only a moment earlier had been lighting the candles, was shooing a beggar down the path away from the church.

  ‘Away with you!’

  The beggar scuttled over the road towards him. He couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Aren’t you people of God supposed to help the poor and needy?’ he yelled.

  ‘Pah!’ the nun turned on her heel and headed back inside.

  The beggar approached, face shadowed by a tightly wrapped shawl over head and shoulders.

  ‘Nice to know someone still understands charity in this filthy place. I only wanted some food, or money for food.’

  There was something odd about this beggar, the high voice perhaps, but no matter how a beggar conversation starts there is always the inevitable question of what you are willing to give. His fishing spoils were a long way short of replenishing his lost tin money- he’d be damned if he was giving away the little he had. He started to walk away, to catch up with Joel and the deckhand.

  ‘Wait,’ the beggar approached.

  Here we go. He prepared the excuse on his lips.

  The beggar unwrapped the shawl, revealing a stream of long gold-yellow hair that curled at the bottom. Perry stood transfixed, it was a girl, and beautiful at that, with perfect almond-shaped eyes and skin that looked so soft he wanted to reach out and touch it.

  ‘I doubt you do, but…’ she looked down at her feet.

  And he remembered the mutton pie he had been saving in his pocket, ‘Actually yes, I bought this earlier, swapped it for some fish I caught,’ he unfolded the napkin, ‘go on, take it. I ate earlier.’

  The yellow haired girl took the pie from his hand and sunk her teeth in, smiling with bliss as she chewed, eyes glancing up to the heavens.

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Amazing,’ she muffled, ‘I’m Eva, by the way,’ she offered him a hand.

  He took it, ‘Perry.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she lifted up the remainder of the pie, ‘very pleased indeed. You know what? You should try a bit.’

  Eva broke off a bit and posted it straight into his mouth. The pastry was soft and buttery, the mutton chewy and heavily salted.

  ‘Perry! Hurry up will you?’ Joel had come back, an irritated look on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to Eva, ‘I best go, but here take this,’ he took a few coins from his fishing spoils, ‘don’t know if you have somewhere to stay but that should get you a night in a lodging house or something.’ he scratched the back of his head. ‘Will I likely see you round these parts again Eva?’ he heard too much hope in his own voice and blushed.

  She placed her hand over her mouth as she ch
ewed, but nodded and then swallowed, ‘I hope so Perry. Thank you, again,’ she tapped the side of her dress where she’d put the money, ‘you don’t know how awful these last days have been, you’re a true saviour.’

  She smiled and it was dreamlike. Glad to have done her a good turn, he dragged his reluctant feet after Joel and Pietersen, repeating the name Eva in his head.

  7

  Late April showers smothered Saturday in a cloak of rain. Perry wondered if Eva had found somewhere to shelter from the deluge but resisted the urge to go and look for her. Bored and restless, he played a lethargic game of Beggar-My-Neighbour with Joel and drank enough tea to induce a headache.

  By evening, the rain still hadn’t stopped, but Perry’s lethargy had grown as heavy as an anchor round his neck and he couldn’t face the prospect of having to go out working again with Joel. He lay on his nest of a bed and wrapped the pillow round his head.

  ‘It won’t take long, we’ll be back before you know it,’ Joel said.

  ‘I…’ Perry sighed.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘You ain’t got The Sick have ya?’ Joel laughed uneasily.

  If he were going to get The Sick he surely would have already gotten it by now. He’d troop through the evening if he had to. He reached for his coat, ‘Just a headache is all. I’ll come.’ He threaded his arm through, his muscles aching as he stretched through the cuff. He sensed Joel’s eyes on him.

  ‘Listen, you stay here, I’ll go on my own tonight.’

  Perry paused, and it was hesitation enough.

  ‘You weren’t much good yesterday anyway,’ Joel said with a cheeky grin, as if sensing Perry’s dilemma.

  ‘I’m learning.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell Ma we both done it.’

  ‘It’s not-’ Perry felt flushed, ‘I don’t mind coming, honest.’

  ‘You can cover me sometime.’

  ‘I promise I will. But you should take the knife if I’m not going.’

  ‘Keep it. I got me a new one in town last night.’

  Immensely grateful, Perry fell back onto the bundle of blankets and rubbed his temples.

  He registered Joel returning later in his half-dozy sleep, the rain still pattering on the roof. When he woke on Sunday, he felt like he hadn’t slept a wink. Joel spoke to him, telling him about some Frenchman he’d brought back for Ma and Perry did his best to listen, but his head was throbbing something dreadful. By evening he was no better and the door in his mind that was closed to the idea of him having The Sick, was now ajar.

  Joel came in with a mug of tea and lantern, the low glow shot rays of pain direct into Perry’s head.

  ‘Ma’s asking questions.’

  ‘Tell her I’m just sleepy.’

  ‘If she thinks you’ve got The Sick she’ll chuck you out – or worse.’

  ‘I’m fine, just tired is all,’ Perry tautened the blankets around him.

  ‘You’ve been in bed all weekend, how can you be tired? You need to see a doctor.’

  ‘Not happening.’

  The steam from the tea rose between them in the amber light.

  ‘You best rest then.’

  ‘Joel. I am! Right now I’m going to sleep,’ Perry turned over. He could feel Joel watching him, considering him.

  ‘If you ain’t better by morning, I’m going to fetch a doctor.’

  ‘Just a headache, that’s all. Nothing a bit of sleep can’t fix,’ he murmured and shut his eyes.

  Perry woke as if struck. His head felt full. What time was it? Joel was asleep in the other corner of the room. Rain lashed against the window so loud it might have been the side of his head. He wrapped the pillow around his ears. It didn’t help. His throat was so dry, swallowing cut like knives. He kicked off his blanket and sat up. Clammy with sweat, he peeled off his nightshirt. A cool draft engulfed his sweat-soaked body. He shivered and coughed, flooding his throat with mucus.

  The cough. It was guttural and clogged, just like Mrs Donnegan’s. Scared and panicked, he grabbed the lantern and grew the flame. Perry tiptoed across the hallway into the kitchen and riffled through the drawers, finding the biggest knife he could. He grabbed a rag and rubbed the blade’s surface. It was obvious; staring back at him in the strip of metal was a different person, a goblin version of himself.

  The knife fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. It was nearly a week since he’d left Mrs Donnegan’s. How was this possible? He looked about him at the rotting damp cold of the kitchen and despaired. Not here, not in this house. This was no place to die.

  He didn’t want to expose Joel any more than he already had; his friend had been kind to him. Perry threw on his clothes, picked up his blanket and tucked it under his arm. The window slid up easily. He swung a leg out.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered to the bundle of sleep that was Joel. Perry lowered himself onto the coal shed and jumped down to the ground.

  Rain lashed across his face and hair, the cool air soothed his fiery cheeks. He slid down the muddy alleyway, steadying himself on the houses either side. He was so thirsty. In front of the Mission he paused at a puddle, spiked with rain. He stooped and cupped his hands into the freezing water and slowly brought them up to his lips.

  A black rat scurried past; its dark sheen glistened in the slimy light. Perry let the brown liquid seep between his fingers and back into the puddle, he couldn’t drink that, no matter how desperate. He tilted back his head and let the arrows of rain hit his raw throat instead. It was scant relief and only made him thirstier.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers and tried the Mission door, wondering if it was ever open. His eyes welled up and his head filled with regret. He suddenly wanted to see his Pa again, to look upon Eva once more and to find the boys. He wanted to see how the littleuns would turn out, and whether Rodney became a master sweep. But all that was left for him was what he was surrounded by; mud, rain and rats. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘Argh!’ he kicked the puddle in anger, the water splaying up on the Mission steps, soaking his trousers. ‘What a pile of shit!’

  His yells scorched his throat. He touched his Adam’s apple with his thumb and forefinger and tried to massage the pain away - but it would not abate. This, he realised, would not be a painless death. He had no control over that. But he could decide where to confront it. At the very least, he would have this final thing.

  The fence to Mrs Donnegan’s back yard was blackened and damaged in places. Perry found a hole and crawled through, the wet mud soaking through his trousers and the tattered fence snagging at his clothes. It hardly mattered now.

  The yard looked much the same, only blacker. He rushed over to the water butt. It was full! Like a cat he lapped at it at first, but it wasn’t quick enough, he plunged his muddy hands into the cool water and scooped handfuls into his mouth. He drank deep and long and kept drinking until he could fit in no more. The rain, crawling through the mud and his sloppy drinking had left him soaked to the bone. Drowned from outside while this fire ate him up from within.

  Mrs D’s place looked like it might collapse at any moment, but it was his place. The kitchen door was barely an ashen frame and inside, the old place was naught but soot-haunted walls and ashy rubble. The memories of the times he’d played cards with the boys or helped Mrs D with the cooking prep or celebrated Christmas in that kitchen hit him with a warm glow. He was glad that this would be his resting place.

  The pantry was miraculously untouched by fire and he gauged it was just long enough, so he rolled out his blanket, stripped and wrung out his soggy clothes. Drowsy, he hung the clothes over the shelves and finally lay down. His skin was hot and fiery and he rested his hands on his chest. With the pantry door open, a gentle breeze drifted over him. If he lifted his head he could see a small triangle of sky, his destination perhaps.

  Perry came to. Head hot as fire. He staggered through the darkness and found the water butt, dunked his head into its depths, g
ulped and drank. The water was oddly warm and bubbling around him. He yanked his head out. Some creature breathing in its depths?

  The water rumbled, then bubbles sizzled and popped. Steam rose into the night air. He dipped his finger in.

  ‘Argh!’ he quickly drew it out and sucked but it wasn’t burnt. He staggered back to bed, the hissing water seethed behind him. Sleep came, some friend.

  Birds woke him. Crows cawing. Perry felt too tired to open his eyes and see how close they were. On the back of his eyelids he imagined a beak on the other side, about to strike.

  Bright sun in the window. Too weak even to brush away flies crawling around his lips.

  Cold. Stars. Pin pricks of light.

  Bells.

  He was cold now. Freezing. His clothes were dry and crisp. He tugged them down from the shelves and pulled them on. In the yard. It was dusk. Or dawn. It didn’t matter. The water butt was still and calm again and he drank, though he could barely swallow. His fingers ran over his throat, raw and swollen. Everything went black.

  He woke again, slumped against the water butt. The sky was pitch black, like the house itself. Drizzle, feather light and gentle, spotted down around him. He took another drink and returned to the pantry. He was hungry and tired and had no energy. He tried to think, to focus on something good. The littleuns. Joel. Good, kind-hearted Joel. How pointless it had all been. Then his mind rested upon Eva, the girl with the yellow hair. It warmed him like an inner sun.

  8

  Light leaked in to the pantry, lancing his eyes. He was exhausted and weak, how long had he been asleep? Two whole days? Three? He could explore the grooves of his ribs with his fingers. God he was thin. At least he was hungry and that had to be a good sign.

  There was no point checking the dusty shelves, he already knew there was no food. If he could make any grub in the world magically appear, what would it be? Mutton stew and fresh bread. Leek and Potato soup perhaps. No, it would have to be a fry-up stacked with burnt bacon, fried bread, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pud and three fried eggs.