Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

Perry felt wrong-footed. ‘Wait a second! I just told you my bleedin’ life story! What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he let out a little belch and patted his stomach, ‘I’m going to bed.’

  And with that, Perry was alone in the bar.

  He wanted to stand and yell for Roebuck to come back, but he was too drunk, too slow. If Roebuck was going to get him collared, he’d have done it by now, surely?

  Dumbfounded, he stared into his empty glass. Perhaps Roebuck was going to sleep on it. He returned to his cabin, hating that he didn’t know for sure and lay in bed, half-expecting the sound of footsteps and a knock on the door at any moment. Eventually, the alcohol came to his aid and he fell into a deep sleep.

  37

  The next morning, Perry skipped breakfast and with it a possible encounter with the Roebucks. He could blame his foggy hangover but the truth was he was going out of his mind with worry. It was only when he heard the first mate yell: ‘Santos! One hour, Santos!’ that Perry stirred himself. The prospect of seeing land with its places to run and hide was too appealing. By the time he was on deck, the sprawling bay of Santos filled his vision like a painting.

  ‘Part of the Brazilian Republic.’

  Perry jumped at the sound of the voice, it was Mr Roebuck.

  ‘Sorry for creeping up on you like that.’

  Perry checked that Mrs R wasn’t there, hoping at the back of his mind that Mr Roebuck was keeping the secret to himself.

  ‘So? Come on,’ Perry whispered, ‘are you going to give me up or not?’

  Mr Roebuck rapped his fingers on his chin. ‘Hmm.’

  Perry bit his tongue to stifle his anger and took a breath. He hated being toyed with.

  ‘You could at least give me the chance of a head start if you’re going to dob me in. I’m a fast swimmer you know, could cut across the bay and clamber up in those forests in no time.’

  Mr Roebuck broke into a grin. ‘Like a damn swimming monkey! I like you boy. I admire your pluck. Your secret’s safe with me. I spotted you though, remember that. You must be careful. There are eyes enough aboard a ship.’

  Perry stupidly looked about him, like eyes might be watching him at that very moment, but everyone was looking and pointing at the approaching port of Santos. He sighed, partly with relief, partly with gratitude.

  The Olinda docked and walkways were lowered for the passengers. The port looked like a magical place. A thin carpet of mist hung over brilliant blue water, giving Santos an air of the wild. The Penny Dreadfuls he’d been fond of as a younger lad, depicting Brazil as a place of jungles and savages were perhaps not so outlandish after all. Ships swayed with the rhythm of the tide, green hills settled into the water at the harbour’s edge and the dockworkers, all muscle and dark skin, heaved sacks from wharf to ship. There was an odour like faintly burnt fruit cake in the air.

  ‘It smells amazing, what is that?’ Perry asked.

  ‘Coffee beans,’ Roebuck clapped him on the back, ‘Queer looking place isn’t it? Marjorie is a little prudish about exploring, fancy stepping ashore for a while?’

  Perry was desperate to go ashore and see this place for himself and could hardly deny Mr Roebuck, even if he’d wanted to.

  The quayside was a maze of wooden jetties accepting anything from small fishing skiffs to giant steamships, some bigger even than the Olinda. Fishing nets, crates and sacks were heaped on the edges of the walkways and copper-skinned men prowled up and down – yelling at one another in a bizarre tongue. Three black-haired boys sat with their feet dangling off the edge of the jetty bunched around a makeshift fishing rod each fighting to hold it. Along the shore, steam rose from a line of food stalls, the fragrance of something sweet and coconutty reached his nostrils. God, he was hungry.

  As Perry strolled the jetty, he indulged Mr Roebuck’s penchant for pointing things out with his cane. Mr Roebuck could name the tonnage of every ship in Santos bay and seemed glad of the company to share this knowledge with.

  ‘Four thousand at least, that one,’ he pointed to a yellow funnelled Screw Steamer much larger than the Olinda, ‘and that one there must be three seven fifty.’

  Perry followed with mild interest, keeping a half-eye on the Olinda. They only had an hour and he was wary of being left behind. The largest vessels in the bay categorised, Roebuck pulled out a purse, attached to his pocket by a chain.

  ‘Fancy some coffee and oysters?’

  Perry was more of a tea man and he’d tried oysters before and wasn’t fussed, but he was hungry and Mr Roebuck looked hopeful.

  ‘Why not? Is that local money?’ Perry asked.

  ‘Yes, from my stopover in Rio on the way over.’

  At the stalls, Roebuck handed Perry a cup of black and a plate of oysters to share. The coffee tasted incredible, deep, rich and satisfying, the steam rising up into the morning sunshine. Together they shucked oysters.

  ‘Like a couple of buccaneers!’ Roebuck declared and Perry actually found himself laughing with his new companion. Perry squeezed fresh lemon all over his oyster and tipped it down his throat while Roebuck bellowed about how delicious they were and the uncomprehending oyster-seller beamed, revealing a mouthful of stray teeth. They had no common tongue, but Perry knew a happy seller when he saw one; getting a top market price he reckoned. Perry shuddered after each oyster, like he’d been tickled inside out. Funny tasting things they were, the lemon zing was pleasant but he recalled the ones he’d tried in Southampton were smaller and had a fresher taste.

  Soon it was time to board and the Olinda pulled out of Santos harbour. On deck, Perry undid the first few buttons of his shirt, let the sun beat on his skin and enjoyed the wind whipping against his face. He was headed for Eva a free man, he’d made a new friend and for once had a little money behind him. He smiled at the sun, squinting and wrinkling up his face as the rays warmed his cheeks. He hadn’t felt so happy in years.

  Three hours later, Perry had a cramping stomach pain and felt so nauseous he had to lie in bed. It was as if an octopus were inside his belly, writhing around and flicking its tentacles up his gullet. The sweats came and his stomach lurched and rolled. He had a fancy bin in his room, with flowers painted on its side. It was now a sick bucket. When it came, it was violent, muscle straining and unrelenting. He barely had time to breathe before the next wave of sickness hit him.

  Once there was nothing left inside him and the retching died down, he lay on his back, groaning while the ship rolled and lulled, listening to his vomit splash and plop against the bucket’s metal flank. The smell was nearly enough to start him off all over again, but he couldn’t face standing up to deal with it.

  He must’ve drifted into a sleep for a rap on the door woke him. Marjorie Roebuck, came in, her face pinched in disapproval.

  ‘Well, Mr Turner! I see you’re in about as good a state as my husband. Buccaneers indeed, eating those oysters on that filthy dock!’

  Those damn oysters, he knew they weren’t quite right. Mrs Roebuck shook her head disapprovingly at him and snapped into an efficient motherly operation: adjusting his sheets, dealing with his makeshift bucket, pouring him a glass of water and placing a cool flannel on his forehead.

  ‘Take these,’ she put two white tablets on his bedside, ‘chalk tablets, for the acidity.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Perry groaned, reaching for one of the tablets from the bedside.

  ‘I shall come and check on you later. Foolish boy.’

  His sickness and diarrhoea rendered him bed bound, and he spent the six hour scheduled stop at Rio de Janeiro drifting in and out of sleep. He’d heard Rio was a dreadful place and was quite keen to see it for himself, but he could not bring himself to get up. In the end he had to make do with Mrs R’s abrupt review of the place; ‘Abolished or not, I swear the place is still teeming with slaves.’

  On the third day of his sickness, his seventeenth birthday passed. His gift was to vomit slightly less than the day before. On his fourth day in bed, Mrs Roebuck came in
and drew the curtains back with a determination that seemed to say right you’ve been sick long enough now, as if he had any choice in the matter.

  ‘My husband is better, prancing around the deck strong as an elk, so you must be better by now too.’ She yanked the covers off him. She’d seen and dealt with his vomit, he didn’t much care if she saw him in his nightclothes.

  ‘Get up! Time to look up and forwards. We’re heading home, to an English springtime.’

  He lifted his head from the pillow to protest but did not have the strength to argue. The woman was undeniable. Perry was soon dressed and on deck, taking the sea air. He was reluctant to admit it, but the fresh air was making him feel like a human being again.

  Still a little grey around the gills, he joined the Roebucks for dinner that eve, sitting down to fine silver, pristine table cloths, chandeliers and white-gloved waiter service as if he’d been used to it his whole life. Perry politely thanked Mrs R for her kind nursing and gave Mr R a polite nod. In return Perry received a conspiratorial smile. What a couple of rascals we are, it seemed to say.

  Mrs Roebuck for her part seemed indifferent to having them back at the table but made a point of ordering a dish called Freedom Air, which turned out to be a stomach-churning plate piled with winkles, cockles, oysters, shellfish, crab and langoustines. Both he and Mr Roebuck plumped instead for the vegetable soup with a bread roll and kept their eyes firmly on their dinner throughout.

  The Olinda ploughed ceaselessly on, cutting through the North Atlantic. On the tenth day they were said to be passing the Azores on the port side and Portugal on starboard. Perry could see on the map where this put them, but when he looked out to sea there was no land on either side, just blue grey horizon. How vast the world was.

  On the twelfth day, the sea became leaden grey and a chill set into the air. Mr Roebuck joined him on deck.

  ‘We’re nearly home,’ he said and handed Perry a card, ‘I wanted to give you this before Marjorie and I head up to London.’

  It was most odd, a small piece of card with Roebuck’s name on it, an address in London and one in New York.

  ‘Thank you, I’m sorry I don’t have one to give you back.’

  Mr Roebuck laughed and clapped a hand on Perry’s shoulder.

  ‘I like you young man, you remind me of myself at that age, in only a couple of respects of course.’ He pointed to the card. ‘I’m sure we’ve some apprenticeships if you’re keen?’

  ‘Yes, maybe, thank you.’

  Mr Roebuck patted it away like it was nothing and pulled up straight,

  ‘Look! There she is.’

  Perry saw it. The flotilla of ships in harbour, the houses speckled in the distance and a low spire needling into an overcast sky. Southampton. Home. His heart pounded in his chest, so unexpectedly excited to see this place again, already feeling its familiarity like an old face. The streets, thick with mud and the smell of baked bread, of the bells ringing in the air on a crisp spring Sunday morning. Eva, Joel, his father. He found himself at the bow of the ship, whooping and jumping up and down as it pulled into the harbour. When it was close enough, he squinted at the shore at the spot he’d found Eva sleeping in a rowing boat one morning. Of course she wasn’t there - it’d been a year after all.

  ‘Well, I must check we’re all packed up,’ Mr Roebuck said, offering Perry his hand. Perry took it and they shook warmly. He returned to his own cabin to pack up his few effects and made ready; he wanted to be the first passenger off the boat.

  38

  Was it always April here? The drizzle outside showed no sign of letting up. The inn was a couple of roads down from the train station and his room was gloomy, with dark wood furniture and cheap tallow candles. Perry had no clothes particularly suited for English weather and dressed quickly in tweed trousers, shirt, braces and a green woollen jumper - donated from Niels Saldrup’s wardrobe.

  He looked around the room for a mirror and not seeing one, went over to the cheap wooden wardrobe in the corner of his room and opened the door. The mothy smell of damp wood hit him but he was rewarded with a mirror on the back of the door. He took a step back. He was taller now and broader from his months of toil on the docks. He was tan, healthy-looking with a shadow of hair above his lip. The maid had left out shaving water, but he had nothing to shave with. Perhaps he’d let it grow. He flattened his hair with his palms. It was still golden but cut short before the curl, his prison hack job had grown into something tidier.

  He counted out his money (hastily exchanged the night before into shillings and pence). It would do him for a few weeks with a bit of luck. The drizzle looked to be incessant and in the end there was nothing for it, he went outside in the rain and trotted to a cheap harbourside café, Mrs Drew’s. It was the same place he’d taken Eva when he’d found her beaten on the shingle beach. It was on the slimmest hope she would be there. The windows were steamed with condensation. A bell jangled as he entered and he was enveloped in warm welcoming café air. His eyes darted from a small group of dockers smoking pipes to a scruffy businessman reading the Southampton Times. No Eva. He saw how ridiculous this hope was, as stupid as thinking she’d be waiting on the beach waving his boat in. He took a seat at one of the empty tables by the window and watched the blur of moving colours and shapes on the other side of the cloudy window.

  ‘What you having love?’

  ‘Fried bread, fried eggs, black pudding, bacon, mushrooms and a mug of the strongest tea you can muster-’ he turned his head to face her ‘– and with milk please, in the tea,’ he added, out of habit.

  ‘Course you’ll get milk,’ she said as if he were crazy, and waddled away with his order.

  The food arrived, salty steam rising from plate to nostril and the very core of his hunger. He attacked it as if he’d not eaten in a year, the satisfying warmth of the fry-up sloshed down with hot tea and best of all, bread and butter for mop ups. It was like scratching an itch, so satisfying and fulfilling.

  He left the café, knowing it was time. There was something odd about Southampton, familiar yet different. It felt smaller somehow. As he walked, he scoured the faces of passers-by, expecting to see an old school chum or one of the lackeys from the wood yard but it was just the haggard maids, washerwomen and worker men of old. He detoured through Simnel Street to see what had become of Mrs Donnegan’s derelict abode and was pleased to see a new house with black painted wooden beams and bright red brick. It looked like the best place on the street. Mrs D would’ve loved it.

  Blue Anchor Lane hadn’t changed a jot. He had to climb over a heap of rubbish to get in. Its stink was more soul-permeating than his worst memories of Steerage. In his relatively nice clothes he trod cautiously, hoping to avoid splashing the foul-smelling puddlewater over his trousers. He passed a tramp carrying a piece of board over his head as protection from the rain. Around the bend in the lane a small gang of barefoot boys - street urchins - leant against the angle of one of the crooked houses. One smoked a pipe, another was digging the ground with a twig. They looked sodden and miserable, but as he passed, they all stopped what they were doing to stare at him; their aggressive eyes all the whiter for their mucky faces.

  ‘You’re in the wrong part of town mate!’ One yelled. Perry got ready to run but kept walking, glancing behind him every few seconds. They stood together, cross-armed, predatory as a cat might assess a passing mouse but made no move on him. The lane twisted, taking him out of sight and he hurried down the alley to Ma’s door.

  He went to knock but the door swung open and a man wearing a cap, shirt, braces and trousers stepped out looking like he was off to do an honest day’s work. He pulled a face at Perry.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

  ‘Perry. Are you-’ he didn’t know how to ask, the word “customer” sounded wrong, ‘is Ma in?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘but what do you want her for?’

  ‘I used to live here see, with another boy Joel - he’s not here is he?’ Perry suddenly felt hims
elf getting excited. ‘I’ve not seen Ma or him in ages.’

  ‘Look, Perry. Ma doesn’t do that anymore. She’s just got me,’ he pointed to a ring on his finger.

  ‘You mean?’ he fumbled in disbelief, ‘that you and her? You’re married?’

  ‘One month ago. And we don’t need your sort sniffing round here anymore, so clear off.’

  Ma appeared at the door. ‘Perry? That you?’

  She looked different; her hair was straight, brushed down and tidy. He craned his neck to look in the hallway. It looked clean, new even.

  ‘All the floorboards have been done,’ he said dumbly.

  ‘I’m a carpenter,’ the man said.

  ‘I got married Perry,’ said Ma.

  ‘So I hear,’ Perry replied, still not believing the news. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Right, I’ve got to get to work, you kicking this kid out or what?’

  ‘Be nice to have a cuppa with you Ma, if you’re not too busy?’

  ‘Why not? There’s a brew just ready.’ Husband and wife exchanged a kiss on the lips. ‘See you tonight love,’ he said and headed up the alleyway. Perry shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Take them shoes off,’ Ma ordered, ‘not having you traipsing mud around my house.’

  Perry slid them off and stepped inside. The hallway had been transformed; new wood and shelves on the side showcasing a couple of china ornaments.

  ‘The place is looking great Ma,’ and he meant it.

  ‘I know,’ she led him into the kitchen, ‘so where’ve you been then?’

  ‘Long story,’ Perry said taking a seat at the kitchen table, ‘is Joel living here still?’

  Ma poured Perry a tea in a chipped mug. ‘Joel? Long gone him. He ain’t come back here since you left.’

  Perry’s heart sank. ‘And Eva?’

  Ma’s forehead wrinkled. ‘The girl?’ she shook her head. ‘Barely remember her.’

  ‘Do you know where Joel moved to?’