by Chris Hannon
His stomach gurgled, oh God. Fantasising about food did him no good when he hadn’t the strength to stand. Something stirred in him though, a faint memory. It was something important, in the periphery, so close he could almost grip onto it. What had made the memory resurface in the first place? All he’d done was daydream about food.
‘Oh my giddy aunt!’ he yelled, ‘It’s the bloody eggs!’
His clumsy fingers scrambled for purchase around the floorboard, up it came and there, unmarked by the smoke of fire was the jar of pickled eggs. He let out a gasp. How could he have forgotten? He hugged the jar to his body and kissed the dusty glass.
He gave the lid a go, but it was stuck fast. He cursed his own diligence; he’d obviously been concerned the jar might have leaked while stored on its side and automatically over-tightened it. No matter.
Perry half-crawled, half-clawed his way into the kitchen. A squirrel scampered along the windowsill. Outside, the sky was bright and blue. Come on, you can do this, just a bit further.
He made it to the water butt. He let the sun’s rays cascade upon his face and then, using both hands, launched the jar against the wall. The glass smashed with a satisfying crack. Vinegar glugged to the ground and five eggs rolled freely in the dirt. Perry cleaned the first egg in the water butt and popped it in whole. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
An hour later, thirst quenched and eggs eaten, he had the strength to stand. In the hallway, he found a black mound of old coats hanging from a peg. He unhooked it and the pile collapsed to the ground, landing with a whoomph, kicking up soot and dust, making him cough. The outer layers were brittle and disintegrated easily, but in the core, he found something familiar and unscathed by the fire, protected by the outer coats that hung over it.
It was one of Mrs Donnegan’s cardigans, dark blue and woollen. He remembered she used to wear it sometimes when she did her knitting in the kitchen of a morning, thread wheels sagging her pockets down. He sniffed the musty thing and slipped his arms through the holes. It felt warm and snug around him.
What was left of the front door hung open and Perry fell out into the street.
‘Look Mum!’ a boy was pointing at him. A woman was leading a horse a little further down the street.
‘What day is it?’ Perry asked him.
‘What you say?’
Perry realised his voice came out in a croak.
‘What day is it?’ he managed, a little louder.
The mother stopped and took Perry in.
‘Simon! Get away from him!’ she cried. ‘Simon, quick, come ‘ere! Now!’ she beckoned her son over, but the boy was looking at Perry like he was some freak unloaded at the docks for the London shows.
‘It’s Saturday,’ the boy said.
Of course it was, Perry thought, the boy wasn’t at school and the horse was laden. It must be market day. He had been gone for six days.
In the Ward he stopped at the bakery.
‘Spare some grub miss?’
‘Get out of it! You lot think we’re-’ she trailed off when she saw him.
‘Flamin’ heck, here take this,’ she threw him a cob.
Perry caught it and sunk his teeth in. With each bite, a smidgen of life returned to him. It seemed like he’d beaten The Sick, but he was too weary to feel any joy.
Perry staggered through the Ward to Ma’s alley. He leant on the wall for support and banged twice.
Joel opened, ‘Perry! I thought you was dead,’ his voice was strained.
They threw their arms around one another.
‘So did I.’
9
A week later and Perry was nearly back to full strength. While he had been recovering, things with Ma had deteriorated considerably. Joel had failed to bring her a punter for five days running. Their value to Ma was dwindling by the hour. A miserable wretch of a woman she most certainly was, but she was all that stood between them and a life on the street.
It was early evening, Joel was out and Perry was resting in his room. Ma had taken to occupying the kitchen and was singing old sailor songs. She had no sweet voice, but Perry guessed it might keep the rats away. A few minutes later he heard snoring and took it as his cue to see if there was any food to swipe. Ma’s forehead was planted squarely on the kitchen table, an empty bottle of gin in her lap. Her wiry bunch of hair rose and fell with irregular snores. He felt a pang of sorrow for her. Any future he could imagine for her was only an ugly one.
The Ward was full of more of the same; the man with boils on his face who pushed the cabbage cart down French Street or the shoeless urchins of Blue Anchor Lane. Ma, Joel and him…their ugly futures were all intertwining, infecting one another, spreading like The Sick. The sooner he could untie his fortunes with this place, the better. He had survived The Sick, been given the chance to make something of himself and he intended to take it.
‘Cursed boy!’
He jumped. Bloodshot eyes took him in. She tipped the bottle and a few drops landed on her tongue. She shook the bottle like it might magic up some more.
‘Useless, the pair of you!’ she pointed a shaky finger at him. ‘If you’re not bringing me punters what use are you?’
Perry didn’t know what to say, he supposed she was right, but his silence only made her angrier.
‘And you! I take you in and look after you and what do I get? An empty bottle of gin!’ She gazed into the bottle and then hurled it at him.
He ducked, just in time. It smashed against the wall, glass splinters showered down on him.
‘Shit! That nearly hit me!’
‘You bring me a punter tonight or you’re out, both of ya!’
Perry backpedalled into the hallway.
‘And bring me another bottle of gin!
Under a full moon, the quayside rippled with drunken laughter. From where he stood, Perry made out the silhouettes of bulky men and the frumpy dresses of the ladies of the night.
He found Joel sitting on a crate holding a cup of steaming soup.
‘You should still be resting.’
Perry recounted his run-in with Ma.
Joel shook his head. ‘I can’t do much more of this. Out here with a cup of tripe soup trying to talk to this lot,’ he gestured over to a bearded man staggering into a giggling prostitute.
‘I know,’ Perry put his arm on Joel’s shoulder, ‘whatever happens we need to get some money together right? But let’s worry about tonight first.’
Joel nodded and handed Perry the cup. ‘I’ve tried that lot over there.’
Perry let the tripe slide down his throat, lukewarm and over-salted. ‘Then it’ll have to be the tavern, or we’re out on the street.’
Perry went alone, determined to succeed this time. The streetlamp glowed like the moon.
Inside, he was met with scraggy faces, heavy-eyed with work and booze. It was hard to know where to begin, no sailors this time, someone drunk maybe. The table in the nook under the stairs was clear, so he squeezed in, grateful to be able to look for likely people from the shadows. There were a few tables at the back, full of corn runners, laughing loudly. Some dockers leant on the bar, talking to a pair of coal porters judging by the black smudges on their cheeks.
A flash of white went past. It was a woman in a smooth cream dress, yellow hair pinned up, shuffling towards the back of the room. She was short, her neck slender and perfect. The noise of the room seemed to lessen.
‘Any of you gents looking for some company this evening?’ he heard her say, her voice low and sweet. Perry stood up to get a better view and banged his head. The men declined and without fuss she moved on to the next table. As she did so, her face turned enough for him to get a look. It was the beggar girl from the church. Eva.
He pushed his way over.
‘Remember me?
She smiled. ‘Course I do ‘andsome. You looking for-’
‘-No, I’m er…doing the same thing as you.’
She looked him up and down with puzzlement. ‘Well I never. I’m
kind of new to this. Don’t really know how it all works. So this lot like boys do they? Explains why I’m not-’
‘-No…not me. My landlady. I bring ‘em to her,’ Perry said, keen to clear up any misunderstanding. God she was beautiful. He couldn’t bear the thought of her turning into Ma. ‘Eva, you’re too young for this. Don’t spoil yourself.’
‘Spoil?’ Her eyes were cold blue and angry. ‘I ain’t got no choice. Who are you to tell me otherwise?’
A gruff voice came from behind her. ‘Oi, how much?’ it was one of the coal porters, jagged teeth sneering under his blackened cheeks. Her dazzling smile returned in a flash.
‘Hello sweetheart.’
‘Don’t,’ said Perry, quietly, ‘please. There are other ways.’
She shot him an angry look and sidled up to the coal porter. She certainly didn’t look new to this game.
Perry watched the exchange helplessly, a sick feeling in his stomach, the coal porter led her through the bodies in the bar. He had to stop them. He could take care of her somehow. He lurched after them, but his foot caught on something and he fell, landing hard on his knees and hands. He pushed himself up. A man with a bulbous nose and crooked hat smiled at him wryly and theatrically removed his tripping boot. A great heave of laughter rolled around the tavern. Fingers pointed and beer slopped on the floor as the laughter jogged tankards. Perry scrambled up to his feet and darted outside. He looked left. Then right. No girl, no coal porter.
‘Perry?’
Joel looked at him curiously. ‘I couldn’t find anyone. Any luck?’
Perry was too angry with himself to speak. He thumped the lamppost with his fist, sending a crunching pain through to the bone. Above him, moths head-butted the glass panes of the lamp.
10
The forehead of the sun was beginning to breach the eastern horizon. It was a fresh, cold morning with a thin veil of white mist hanging over the sea. The tide was out, exposing the slipway tracks. A weathered rowing boat glowed in the whisky dawn, slumped against a pile of rocks. Perry’s feet crunched through the pebbles, his head down, stopping every now and again to pick one up. At the shore he waited for the breaker and then launched, wincing at the pain in his bruised hand as he unfurled the skimmer. The stone skipped five-six-seven times, its short-lived footsteps subsumed in the ghostwater.
He searched for more stones, nudging them this way and that with his toe to find the smoothest, flattest skimmers. Amidst the suck and splash, the lapping and wood creak, he heard voices above.
A group of dockers trudged towards one of the quays, lunch packs tucked under their arms.
‘Unbelievable Taf, the whole of the Western Quay at a standstill!’
‘By jingo, they don’t half have some cheek do they eh?’
Their voices carried off, Perry rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet. The day was beginning.
He didn’t feel tired for staying up all night, he was too angry for that. He’d sent Joel back. After a week recovering, Perry felt he owed a great deal of effort to Joel and stayed up half the night trying to get a punter while simultaneously looking for Eva down alleyways and outside the brothels. In the end, he had no punter for Ma, no Eva and no sleep for his trouble. All that waited for him back at Ma’s was the prospect of being kicked out and why rush back for that pleasure?
With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the rowing boat and perched, feet dangling. Inside were a couple of battered oars, some broken, tangled netting and a screwed up blanket. And then, the blanket moved.
‘Ah!’ Instinctively he leapt away from the boat and landed hard in the damp shingle. He scrambled to his feet, regaining his composure.
What the devil was that? He crept back to the edge of the rowing boat. The blanket was covering somebody, he was sure of it. Tentatively he prodded at the shape. It groaned. A bunched up swollen face appeared, wrapped like a Russian doll. It squinted and wriggled. A lock of yellow hair ran over her bruised forehead, his mouth went dry. Eva.
Mrs Drew’s café did a brisk trade at the harbourfront. Condensation fogged the windows and Southampton’s workers were loading themselves up on toast, eggs and bacon. A podgy-cheeked woman came from behind the counter with two mugs of tea and hot-buttered toast and placed them on Perry’s table.
‘Thanks.’
She wiped her hands on her stained apron and looked from Eva’s bruised face to Perry with a shake of the head. He wanted to say something like, ‘It wasn’t me who did that!’ but he didn’t want to draw attention to them and instead slouched further into his seat and gave his tea a brisk stir.
‘Sugar?’
Eva shook her head and lifted the cup to her split lip, winced and put it down again.
‘Was it that coal porter?’
She nodded.
‘Did,’ Perry cleared his throat, ‘did he-‘
‘No,’ she said softly. A tear rolled down her bruised cheek and dropped into the cup. ‘Just beat me up some.’
Perry squeezed the bruises on his knuckles until they oozed with pain. ‘Apes. Why would they do a thing like that to anyone?’ he felt embarrassment flush his skin and lowered his voice, ‘let alone a beautiful young girl.’
Eva blushed, and dipped her head. ‘I think it must have been a racket, he told me to stay away from the tavern, that it wasn’t my territory. How was I supposed to know that?’
A shoal of sprats wriggled down his spine. The tavern was controlled turf. It explained why Ma sent them rather than going herself. He wondered if Joel knew.
‘I shouldn’t have let you leave with him. I could have stopped it.’
Eva ducked her head submissively.
Perry wished he could beat the coal dust from that thug’s face, and as he swallowed the last of his tea found himself imagining going back in time and pulping him right there and then in the tavern.
‘Perry, what are you thinking? Your face is all twisted up.’
‘I’m thinking we should get those cuts seen to.’
After a short walk past the Castle walls, they arrived at a fine looking town property, painted a rich cream, with stone steps and black railings.
‘What? Here?’ said Eva.
‘He’s supposed to be the best in town. I’ll be here when you come out.’
‘You ain’t coming in with me? Look at me Perry, I can barely talk proper my lip’s so fat!’
He considered it. Dr Fairbanks wouldn’t bother trying to drag him in for disinfection if he had survived The Sick, surely?
He led her inside and they’d barely passed the mat when a man bolted out of his seat and said:
‘No, no, no. Away with you. This isn’t some back street hovel, no, no.’ He gave Eva a look of disgust and shooed them away.
‘We need to see Fairbanks.’
‘You cannot see Doctor Fairbanks.’
‘I know him.’
‘I care not a jot who you think you know,’ his moustache bristled with annoyance.
‘We could just wait on one of them chairs.’
‘Out!’ he yelled.
A door opened and Dr Fairbanks came out.
‘Cecil! I am trying to read! ’ he waved his spectacles.
Perry noticed Cecil stiffen and made a face as if to say, now look what you’ve done.
‘My sincere apologies Dr Fairbanks. I am just throwing this vermin out of the waiting room sir.’
‘You,’ Fairbanks cut him short and came closer, ‘you were one of Donnegan’s boys weren’t you?’
Perry got ready to run.
‘By God. You’re alive,’ Fairbanks’ tone was gentle, his face astonished.
‘You know this boy?’ Cecil couldn’t hide the disapproval in his voice.
‘I’m sorry I run away from you sir, I was just scared of being disinfected,’ the words tumbled out desperately, ‘I caught it. I caught The Sick but I survived it, so you don’t need to worry about me anymore – I just need your help with my friend here, she’s had an awful time of it.’
&nb
sp; Fairbanks followed his nod to Eva. ‘My,’ he gasped, then, ‘you’d better come through’.
Fairbanks’ room was about twice the size of Ma’s kitchen and tiled white with a dark green line around the room’s midriff. Fairbanks sat behind a heavy looking desk, his hands steepled on a dark green rectangle of leather. Perry helped Eva to sit on a narrow bed, under the window, her arms crossed and head bowed.
‘She might have broken a bone or something.’
‘Possibly,’ Fairbanks opened a drawer, glass bottles rattled. ‘Where are you hiding …’ he trailed off, ‘remind me, what’s your full name boy?’
‘Perry Scrimshaw.’
‘Scrimshaw!’ Fairbanks looked startled.
Perry exchanged a glance with Eva. ‘I’m sure I told you my name before.’
‘Oh, maybe you did, I am getting old,’ Fairbanks ran his hand over his whiskers and returned to the draw, clinking through some more. ‘Ah. Here it is!’ Fairbanks held a small bottle to the light.
‘About time,’ Eva murmured.
‘Doctor, did you and Mr Brumpton find any of Mrs Donnegan’s other boys?’
‘Eventually. Yes.’
His heart jumped, ‘What happened to them?’
‘All dead,’ Fairbanks was very matter of fact. He stood up from behind his desk. ‘Taken by The Sick.’
Perry felt like he’d been thrown off a horse. ‘Dicken? Rodney? All of them?’
Fairbanks looked at a paper on his desk. ‘Yes them, a Peter too - I’ve got a list somewhere.’
Perry was stunned. An image of the littleuns swordfighting with towels skidded into his mind.
Fairbanks gave Perry a curious look. ‘But you. A Survivor. Miraculous no?’
Perry could have cried had Eva not been next to him. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but he had suspected. He would surely have seen them around. The loss was enormous. He felt a hand on his wrist, squeezing him softly.
