Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  The furnishings could have been from some English manor house somewhere - or at least his vision of what that might look like. All told it was about the size of Mrs Donnegan’s kitchen - pantry included - with two single beds either side of the cabin and a dresser with stool in the middle. Tucked against the sea-facing wall, under a porthole was a red leather armchair with table.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Just leave the bag on the bed.’

  The porter looked blankly back at him.

  ‘La maleta, por favor – en la cama,’ he dragged Englishness into his Spanish again, not that it would have mattered much on the porter, but it was good to practice this mode of speaking, to keep in character.

  The porter left with a not unreasonable tip, in Perry’s opinion anyway, though the chap had looked a bit miffed. His money would need to stretch beyond the voyage home and profligacy - as Mr Greaves would have said - was no good here.

  Confident in his new character, Perry went on deck and leant on the railings. The morning shone bright and the queue of Steerage passengers had only grown since he had boarded the Olinda. They stood, brown and tattered as leaves, so this is what we look like to them. He looked to the horizon. Buenos Aires, a nascent city waking.

  Shortly after ten the Olinda set sail with a long draw on her horn and plumes of smoke rising into the sky. Hundreds waved them off, shaking handkerchiefs and scarves. He couldn’t remember feeling happier and he waved at the crowd,

  ‘Chau Martín!’ he shouted. ‘Chau Ricardo, Chau Osvaldo!’

  The other passengers were looking at him a little strangely, but he didn’t care. He yelled at the top of his lungs.

  ‘Chau Santi!’

  ‘Chau Niels!’

  ‘Chau Argentina!’

  36

  The Olinda charged through unsettled seas. Couples bunched together, trying their best to take a pre-dinner stroll on the tilting deck. The dip and rise of the ship was most keenly felt at the prow where foamy spits of spray kicked up onto the deck and tickled Perry’s face. The first stars gleamed above, hasty for the night and somewhere, over that darkest blue horizon, was England, waiting for him. He closed his eyes and savoured this moment of ecstasy, filled his lungs with the salty air and rubbed the drops of sea into his skin. He was on his way.

  Later, he received an unexpected visit to his cabin. The fat Englishman who had boarded in front of him, turned up in a smart dinner jacket with a silk scarf draped around the neck. His thinning hair was slicked tight against his scalp.

  ‘I heard there was another Englishman in First. I didn’t see you at lunch?’ his accent was northern.

  ‘Lunch?’ Perry shook the man’s hand, wondering where he should have been for lunch…chances were, staying in your cabin and scoffing half the fruit bowl were not First Class behaviours.

  ‘Where are my manners? My name’s Roebuck, Charles Roebuck.’

  ‘Joel Turner.’

  ‘Well don’t be a stranger Joel, why not join Marjorie and I for dinner?’

  He knew he had to try to fit in, though he felt uncomfortable, unsure of exactly what to do. He groped for the words to accept, and wondered how much the restaurant charged for a meal, but to ask would be to completely slit the throat of his pretence.

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said instead. ‘What time?’

  Roebuck looked embarrassed. ‘Well, now actually. Marjorie is holding a table for us, a slight presumption on my part I confess, but-’ he gave Perry a once over, ‘perhaps I should give you a moment to change and you can meet us down there Mr Turner?’

  Perry looked down at his clothes. He was wearing his frock coat still - his only outfit. Niels hadn’t been able to stretch to a second suit; the cost of the ticket and the one suit had been almost ruinous as it was. Mr Roebuck, for his part looked dapper indeed with his suit gathered as symmetrically as curtains around his paunch. A white bow tie tucked under his sagging double chin smartened him up further.

  ‘My dinner suit,’ Perry said finally, ‘I…had a few suits in for adjustment at my tailor, but unfortunately there wasn’t time to collect them before the voyage. Do you think I might accompany you tonight in this?’

  ‘Why of course, Marjorie and I are no prudes! Come, let’s go and eat, my stomach is growling like a lion.’

  As they walked down the deck, the evening air ran pleasantly through him and he realised how hungry he was. He’d snacked on fruit in his cabin but Mrs Saldrup had cooked his last proper meal.

  ‘So who was your man in the B.A?’ said Roebuck.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your tailor, who’s adjusting your suits?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Perry. ‘His name’s Martín Santilli, he does excellent work.’

  ‘You must pass me on his address,’ Roebuck said jovially.

  Perry imagined what reaction he’d get if he gave the address: National Penitentiary, Las Heras Street.

  ‘You hardly need a tailor Charles. That dinner jacket is sublime.’

  Roebuck beamed in delight and Perry almost laughed. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad evening, all he had to do was flatter and charm his way through it and they would gloss over his shortcomings.

  The restaurant was exclusively for First Class and as Perry followed Roebuck down the grand staircase to the restaurant he had to hold the bannister rail at the sight of it. The room positively effervesced; chandeliers sparkled, candles flamed brightly and the many mirrors adorning the walls reflected it all back to the eye twofold. On a cosy stage, a violinist played a soothing melody. He had never seen anything as grand as this.

  ‘Are you quite alright Mr Turner?’

  Perry regained his composure and rocked his feet into the carpet. ‘Yes, quite fine. I was just thinking how much this reminds me of the interior of President Pellegrini’s Casa Rosada.’

  ‘You mean to say you’ve been inside?’

  ‘Oh yes, just this week in fact, with the President himself.’

  ‘Charles!’ a woman was waving at them at the far end of the restaurant.

  ‘Ah there she is. But I must hear more of your meeting with Sr. Pellegrini!’

  Perry followed round the candlelit tables and passed a small army of Hamburg waiters. They all had white gloves and slicked back hair and stood ready to dote on their every need.

  ‘Good evening Mrs Roebuck,’ Perry bowed.

  ‘Charles, did you not give the lad enough time to change?’ Mrs R gave her husband a fretful look. ‘Always in such a hurry to make new friends.’

  While Roebuck explained about the tailor, Perry glanced around. All the men on the other tables were wearing dinner suits, with bow ties instead of cravats. Embarrassed, he slid into his seat.

  Over a starter of melon and the thinnest cold bacon he’d ever eaten, the questions began:

  ‘So what brought you on your travels Mr Turner?’

  Perry offered up his story: of visiting Buenos Aires to sort out the affairs of a deceased Uncle – the inheritance and whatnot.

  ‘My condolences,’ Mrs Roebuck offered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Perry daubed his lips with his napkin – something Mrs Roebuck had done twice already. Mr Roebuck took up the baton of conversation, talking about his business chartering ships to export steel. His South American ‘jaunt’ was to scope out extending their North American business South, to places such as Rio, Buenos Aires and Montevideo. ‘Not sure it’ll cost in,’ Roebuck said in conclusion.

  After the starter, Mrs Roebuck went to powder room, leaving him and Mr Roebuck alone at the table with a bottle of red wine. It was going well. Perry took a gulp of wine, the warm buzz flowing straight to his growing confidence.

  ‘So,’ Mr Roebuck leant back casually, ‘what did you make of the escape from the National Penitentiary?’

  Perry went rigid and Mr Roebuck leant forward onto the table. ‘Surely you’ve heard about it?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, of course… It was in all the newspapers. Ghastly stuff.’ Perry beckoned over a waiter. ‘More
wine please.’

  The glasses were topped up and Mrs Roebuck returned to the table.

  ‘Think I’ll visit the powder room myself,’ Perry said getting up, and at this Mr R let out a great bellowing laugh. Perry wasn’t sure what was so funny.

  He muddled through the main course, a steak so bloody he doubted it had been cooked properly. He found comfort in the wine though, smooth as bedsheets and pushed Roebuck’s question of the escape to the back of his mind. He was making conversation - that was all.

  After dinner he declined the offer of a walk on deck with the Roebucks.

  ‘I prefer to walk alone of an evening,’ he said rather grandly but in truth he’d had enough of the Roebucks and their questions for one evening.

  ‘A troubled young man soul-searching under the stars,’ Mr Roebuck said, ‘sounds quite romantic doesn’t it Marjorie?’

  Perry clung on to the word troubled. He liked Mr R less and less as the evening went on.

  On deck, the walk was doing him good. Dinner sat heavy in his stomach and the wine thick in his skull. The Atlantic breeze lightened him as if thinning the leaves on a tree. He opted to head for the stern this time and as he strolled down the deck, he caught desperate voices carrying over the smash of surf and the drone of the engine.

  Curious, Perry went to investigate. It was from the entrance to the stairwell for Steerage class. A Hamburg employee was blocking the exit to the deck.

  ‘Look, she can’t come up here while the First Class passengers are having their evening walk.’

  ‘Please, she’s been sick all day! She’s with child, for pity’s sake! Let her get some air will you?’

  Perry peered past the Hamburg crewmember. A man in tattered workman’s clothes had his arm around a pallid woman, her head bowed, snivelling. The sight of her affected him greatly, here he was pretending to be rich, eating in a fine restaurant and enjoying the luxury of a cabin while this poor pregnant wretch had to put up with the filth and squalor of Steerage. He caught a whiff of the foul stench rising up the metal stairwell – or perhaps it was them. He knew just how awful it was from his trip over the first time round.

  Noticing him, the Hamburg employee smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about this sir, I hope you weren’t disturbed.’

  ‘Disturbed?’ Perry repeated to the Hamburg employee. ‘Only by your lack of warmth. This poor lady clearly feels sick, let her up this instant. Can’t you see she needs some air?’

  The Hamburg man looked baffled, ‘But sir, I-’

  ‘If it gets you into trouble I am happy for you to say it was at my request.’

  The Hamburg employee clenched his jaw and turned to the two Steerage passengers. ‘Five minutes and I want you back,’ he let them pass.

  The man shepherded his wife onto deck, she had an awful drained pallor.

  ‘Thank you young sir, very kind,’ the husband said to Perry.

  Perry couldn’t say a word in return; he felt that it was barely a kindness at all. He watched the couple a moment, the husband patting her gently on the back and her, grasping the railings with both hands, bending forward, taking deep breaths. He couldn’t watch any more.

  ‘Give them a half hour would you, if they want it,’ he said to the Hamburg man and continued his walk towards the stern.

  White water frothed in the wake, disappearing into the oil black sea; the constancy settled his heavy stomach.

  ‘Ah there you are!’

  He looked up and his heart sank, it was Mr Roebuck. No Mrs R in sight. Just the one to deal with then.

  Perry stared out onto the water.

  ‘Mind if I join you for a moment?’

  He did as it happened, but he knew he couldn’t very well say so, they had paid for dinner after all. ‘Go ahead.’

  Mr Roebuck stood by his side and took a deep breath. ‘Wonderful stuff,’ he said, ‘shame for Marjorie to miss it, she doesn’t travel well you see - like a box of eggs she is. I’ve packed her off to bed.’

  Perry nodded, hoping that he’d soon leave him alone.

  ‘So, I’m intrigued Mr Turner. How did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Escape from the penitentiary.’

  Perry looked at him horrified.

  ‘Really boy, your table manners are appalling. And then of course, there’s this,’ from his pocket he drew out a folded section of newspaper and handed it to Perry.

  Perry straightened it out and saw two sketched faces: unmistakably himself and Santi.

  ‘Dear God no, not now please.’

  ‘Perry Scrimshaw, I say, what a thrill having a fugitive aboard. I take it the other one’s not on board? I’ve not seen him. Or is he in Steerage?’

  Perry shook his head and looked out to sea, conspiring and treacherous in the dark; he wasn’t a bad swimmer, but they were probably hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles from land. He wouldn’t stand a chance, swallowed by a whale within a day. He frantically looked around, expecting to see the Hamburg employees waiting to take him to the ship’s hold.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well I could inform the captain and he would see to it that you are held until we make berth in Santos tomorrow.’

  Perry wondered, if he grabbed Roebuck, whether he’d have the strength to tip him overboard. But something in his soul told him no, it wasn’t in him. He gulped.

  ‘Haven’t you already?’

  Mr Roebuck puffed his cheeks out. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he said.

  Perry felt something snap within, ‘Fun? Fun? You haven’t got the faintest idea about what I’ve been through.’

  ‘Well now’s your chance. I should quite like to know just how you came to be here. An English fugitive hiding in First Class no less! May I suggest we repair to the bar area, I am quite in need of a drink.’

  The bar lounge was below deck. Perry couldn’t get his head round the fact that rich people enjoyed this sort of place; the opulent velveteen reds, the dark wood tables and brass fittings shrouded in pipe and cigar smoke. It was lifeless. The taverns he knew could be rough, but at least they had an edge to them, some laughter and music. He took a sudden dislike to these post-dinner gentlemen and their tittering wives. They owned too much already. And now one of these types had him over a barrel and he hated it. He had no choice to play this pathetic man’s game, to be his prisoner.

  A Hamburg waiter brought them a decanter of whisky, a jug of water and some tobacco for Roebuck’s pipe.

  ‘So,’ Roebuck stuffed the tobacco in his pipe. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Perry couldn’t bear to look at Roebuck and stared instead into the amber depths of his glass. He’d fought so hard to get here, to finally feel safe, and now it was gone. Perhaps he’d never know what safety truly felt like. There were just traps, traps everywhere trying to get him and all he could do was manoeuvre and adapt to each in turn. Roebuck was a bored man looking for excitement. If his story wasn’t enough for Roebuck, Perry didn’t doubt that the drama of copping a fugitive and getting him dragged to the hold would be currency for a year’s worth of dinner parties.

  Perry took a sip. Smoky warmth licked the back of his throat like a flame. Make your move.

  ‘A little over a year ago I was living in an orphan house with a lady called Mrs Donnegan…’

  Perry talked about The Sick, about meeting Eva and Joel and how he’d blackmailed his way into money – causing the Southampton dockers to riot. As he talked, he realised how good it was to say some of these things aloud – to hear his deepest hidden thoughts admitted to himself (and to a stranger). How he blamed himself for the Donnegan boys all dying. How he wished he’d gone to see his Pa in prison earlier.

  Mr Roebuck listened intently, only interrupting when Perry told him about being knocked unconscious at the dock, on his way to meet Eva.

  ‘But you didn’t see who did it at all? You have no ideas?’

  Perry gripped his glass so tight he thought it might smash. ‘Ideas yes. The doctor. Possibly
Maxwell.’

  He related the awful voyage over, how he’d had to clean the engine room daily and how he’d had a cough for six weeks after. Then his months of toil working on the docks in Buenos Aires, being framed by Campi and then, the bit Mr Roebuck had been waiting for; how he’d escaped.

  ‘What a clever little rascal you are!’ Mr Roebuck declared. When Perry got to President Pellegrini’s, he was interrupted again:

  ‘You weren’t serious? That’s poppycock surely? There’s no mention of that in the paper.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t,’ Perry replied, suddenly tired and woozy with liquor, ‘do you really think they’d allow common folk to know about that? Imagine the embarrassment.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Roebuck conceded, ‘but few commoners read the paper.’

  Perry told of his last few days hiding out at Inspector Saldrup’s, and all Mr Roebuck could say was: ‘I’m amazed you didn’t throttle the man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have got on this boat if it weren’t for him.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments. ‘And well, you know the rest.’

  The portly Englishman shook his head; his rosy cheeks wobbled a little as he did so. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  Perry leant forward in his armchair, his lips loose from the alcohol. ‘Whatever you think of me - an imposter? Yes, a fugitive? M-most definitely. But I’m not bad, or at least I’m trying not to be…I just want to get home and see the few people I care about.’

  ‘There’s good in you boy, I see it,’ Mr Roebuck said, ‘you gave that Hamburg man a dressing down so the pregnant lady in Steerage could get some air on deck. I thought to myself, what kind of a man does such a thing?’

  ‘What kind of man?’ Perry asked back.

  ‘What kind of man?’ Roebuck said again, letting the question hang. The big northerner wiped his eyes and sniffed.

  ‘Well!’ he said smacking his hands down against the armrests. ‘I must be off to bed.’ He got to his feet and swayed a little on the spot. ‘I wish you a good night young man.’