Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  The following morning brought the sun, Perry’s first glimpse of it since his return to Southampton. Still buoyed by the news of the Will, he paid up for another week at the inn and so as not to jinx this unexpected improvement in fortunes, he visited a stonemason on Foundry Lane and arranged for a proper headstone to be made for Samuel Scrimshaw. He couldn’t think of a good epitaph, but he was determined that the yard or two of England sheltering the remains of his Pa be a small patch of pride. He would think on it some more, of his father at his best. The Samuel Scrimshaw who taught him a little of the countryside and how to guddle trout, now that was the man he wanted to remember. He shook it away, there was time left for all this later, but for now there was the question of Maxwell. He paid a deposit for the stonework and went to Mrs Drew’s café for a late breakfast – the sort of breakfast Mrs Donnegan would’ve approved of - porridge, cream and a good heap of brown sugar. He could almost hear her voice in his head. If porridge is right enough for Scots to hurl lumber over their heads it’ll be the making of you scrawny lot! Whether it gave you any strength or not he didn’t know, but something told him if he was going to confront Maxwell today he might need to call upon every ounce of strength within his grasp.

  His first port of call was the Bell & Mast. It was barely open and already a scattering of red-cheeked reprobates were slumped at right angles against its outer wall. Inside it was much the same. It smelt of stale ale and wood, a couple of thuggish looking men leant on the bar having a drawled conversation. Perry felt good, strong and wasn’t afraid of this sort anymore.

  ‘Hey,’ he tapped the nearest one on the shoulder, the man slowly turned to face him, and Perry saw he had a glass eye. Not one to mess with then.

  ‘Sorry to disturb. I’m looking for Maxwell, do you know him?’

  The man sneered. ‘Everyone knows him.’

  ‘He don’t come in here no more lad, too good for us lot now,’ said his companion.

  ‘Why too good?’ Perry asked.

  ‘Well he’s off politicking now in’t he? Off with that Carten feller and that Gayton.’

  Perry had never heard of these men.

  ‘Doing good work he is too!’ the barman chipped in, Perry hadn’t realised he was listening. ‘Best to have someone on our side, helping the poor.’

  ‘Pah!’ Glass-eye said, batting the barman’s support away with his hand.

  ‘Where might I find him then?’

  ‘What’s it worth?’ Glass-eye said.

  Perry considered the two men and weighed up what an appropriate offer might be.

  ‘Some pork scratchings?’

  Glass-eye threw his hands up in disgust. ‘You playing me for a fool boy?’

  The barman however, had an amused expression on his chubby face, ‘I hear Maxwell has an office somewhere by the Watergate, close to the wharf.’

  Glass-eye grabbed a bar towel and hurled it at the barman. ‘What you go telling him that for? He would’ve paid!’

  Perry placed a ha’penny on the bar. ‘Much obliged, get yourself some scratchings on me barkeep.’

  ‘Bloody pig don’t eat his own kind,’ muttered Glass-eye.

  The barman raised a sausage finger and pointed across the bar. ‘Keep that lip up and you can get your drink elsewhere!’

  Glass-eye’s companion belched back at him.

  Perry withdrew from the argument, glad to get out of the tavern with the information cheaply acquired. It appeared Maxwell’s fortunes had perked up considerably since leading the dockers’ strike. He couldn’t imagine the thuggish Maxwell with his crooked hat and nose campaigning for the poor.

  Still a good hour until lunch, Perry did the ten-minute walk from the Bell & Mast to the wharves; seagulls chirruped overhead, soaring still as if stitches in the sky. Once in the area he asked in a few shops if they knew where Maxwell was based. It turned out he was renting an office above a wax merchant on the same road, a good view of the wharf and Southampton Water, certainly not the cheapest part of town. Perhaps what the drunks in the tavern said was true.

  Outside the wax merchant, two trolleys stuffed with packs of candles infused the air with their sweet soapy scent. A door displayed a poster asking people to attend a public speech by someone called Bicker-Carten, though the date was six months past. Hadn’t the tavern louts mentioned something about a man called Carten?

  The door was open and Perry made his way up the wooden staircase. The landing was sparse, just a single chair with stuffing spewing from the gaps in its tattered fabric. Down the corridor there were a few doors, all ajar bar one- he picked up the low murmur of voices inside. Perry pressed his ear to the door, three people at least he guessed, but he couldn’t grip onto any of the words. He wasn’t about to go bursting in there.

  Perry rested his back on the wall. He didn’t like it; the narrow corridor, the other voices he heard in the office. Perhaps he should go. He lifted his back from the wall and the door opened. A well-appointed man, in top hat and splendid suit blinked at him.

  ‘There appears to be a young man out here.’

  A second face, equally well turned out, peered from behind the first.

  ‘So there is.’

  ‘I’m here to see Maxwell, is he here?’ Perry said.

  ‘Well you’re in the right place and if I’m not mistaken the right time. The councillor and I have just finished our meeting with him.’

  ‘A boy?’ he recognised Maxwell’s growling voice from deep within the room.

  The two gentlemen stepped out into the corridor and allowed Perry room to pass.

  ‘Good day,’ they both touched the rim of their hats and clopped down the corridor.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Perry entered, leaving the door open behind him. The office was a fairly ratty place with frayed carpets and a functional desk. Behind it, with his badly tamed woolly hair, red drinkers face, sat Maxwell.

  ‘You here to join the union son?’

  Perry noticed newspaper clippings pinned to the walls and scanned a few of them; reporting pay rises for the fire service and dockworkers.

  ‘Son? The union? That why you’re here?’

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself I see.’

  Maxwell stood, slid his huge hands in his pockets and walked over to Perry in a couple of strides. He pointed at the wall.

  ‘That one there, I negotiated that. Time and a half for Saturday work.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Maxwell nodded in agreement, his breathing squeezed noisily through his nose. Perry felt uneasy, the sheer size of the man would be enough to frighten a bear, but he needed to know the truth.

  ‘You don’t recognise me do you?’

  Maxwell studied him under bushy eyebrows. ‘You’re familiar. Perhaps I know your father?’

  The mention of his father sprung something in him, ‘No. That’s not it. Remember the riot?’

  ‘Do I! The admiralty with gunboats in the bay, the army keeping the peace! A terrible time for this town.’

  ‘You talk about it as if it weren’t your own doing.’

  Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you boy?’

  ‘I tipped off the strikebreakers from Pompey.’

  ‘Blacklegs,’ Maxwell sneered.

  Perry took a pace away in case the big man lunged at him and walked over to the window.

  Maxwell crossed his arms. ‘I could’ve wrung your neck you little scallywag,’ his wheezing breath eased, ‘but a lot’s happened since then.’

  ‘For both of us,’ Perry said, ‘what would happen if everyone knew it was you who led the dockers to riot?’

  Maxwell laughed revealing yellow front teeth. ‘Everyone does know already. The riot was regrettable but it gave us some power too. Showed that we aren’t here to be bullied, that we can fight back.’

  ‘Listen to yourself, playing at politics. You’re nothing but a thug with some new posh mates.’

  ‘Bold is a boy who comes in here accusing me of being a violent man. There
ain’t nobody here, I could just toss you out of that window.’

  Perry couldn’t help checking the drop. It would kill him. He flipped the knife open in his pocket and pulled it out and held it to the light.

  ‘I am a bold boy.’

  Maxwell’s voice was flat. ‘You even know how to use that blade boy? Your grip’s all wrong.’

  ‘Blade’s sharp enough.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m here to ruin you. Those gentlemen that just left - Bicker-Carten I think and the other one, Gayton is it?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I’m going to tell them what you did to me, I’m going to tell everyone and any plans you have will be cut short enough.’

  Maxwell screwed his face up. ‘Listen you little turd, I don’t know who you think you are coming in here but that riot was a good time back, and I caused you no injury.’

  ‘Injury?’ Perry took a step towards the big man. ‘You’re the feller who attacked me, tied me, put me aboard the lifeboat of a steamship and left me to exile.’

  ‘You what?’ Maxwell’s face froze in amusement.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Ha! I never heard so much twaddle in the whole of my life!’

  ‘The politician again.’

  A storm blackened Maxwell’s features and in two paces he was onto Perry, twisting the knife from his grasp and hauling him up by the scruff of his collar into the air.

  ‘Let go!’ Perry bellowed, kicking his legs. ‘See you’re a thug, going to chuck me out the window are you? Thug!’

  ‘I’m not throwing you out the window you twerp!’ Maxwell carried him across the room to the doorway, Perry wriggling for all he was worth and gulping for air with the tightness of his collar on his neck.

  Before he knew it he was back on his feet facing the corridor, felt a shove in his back and fell into the corridor wall.

  ‘Now rake your accusations elsewhere!’ Maxwell spat and kicked the knife out into the corridor with Perry.

  But Perry wasn’t finished. ‘It was you, you damn liar, coward! To a boy!’

  ‘Idiot,’ Maxwell growled and slammed the door in Perry’s face.

  Perry banged his fists on the door. ‘Maxwell! I know it was you!’ he thumped and thumped until his fists smarted and stung. ‘My Pa died while I was away. You know that? And that was your fault too! You hear me?’ he sobbed, ‘Your fault!’ he slumped down to the floor feeling as wiped out as the drunks outside the Bell & Mast.

  A minute or two passed, Perry trembled there, with the anger, the sadness of it. He recovered the knife, and flipped it open and shut. Open and shut. The office door opened, Maxwell stared down at him. Perry sprung to his feet and chose fists over knife, taking up a boxing stance.

  ‘Put your dukes down lad,’ Maxwell’s voice was low now. ‘I’m sorry about your Pa. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But I didn’t do what you say I did. I just didn’t. Done some awful things in my time mind, worse than what happened to you even. If it’s blame and vengeance you want, you’re in the wrong place.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Perry sniffed.

  ‘No reason you should lad. But I’ve no reason to lie to you, you go tell Councillor Gayton and Bicker-Carten what you like – they know my past, and it’s because of my past that I’m the right man to help them call for change, to help the poorest in this city.’

  Maxwell rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You can let something like this eat you up inside out, but is this what your Pa would’ve wanted for you? I mean look at the state of you.’

  Perry lowered his fists, fighting away tears, suddenly ashamed of how he’d acted.

  ‘What’s done is done. But you can make his memory proud, what do you say?’ Maxwell held out his hand and Perry found himself shaking it.

  41

  Perry left Maxwell’s in a daze and walked thoughtlessly, ending up outside St. Michael’s Church. With his head dipped he entered and took a seat at the back and prayed. He asked for forgiveness for what he’d done to the doctor and for the way he’d behaved at Maxwell’s – like a damn child. If he could unburden himself of all this anguish…then what? He couldn’t think straight.

  He stepped out, blinking like an owl in the sunshine and felt lighter, better. An urge suddenly overtook him, to go out of town to the guddling spot where his father took him. Yes, he would go there now, to visit that place and throw pebbles in the river awhile and catch a trout or two for fun.

  Perry travelled with the coach window open, the afternoon air crisp as an apple. It was good to be out here once more, passing the vibrant green hedgerows and trees of England, its cottages billowing smoke. A heron guarded the bounty of a pond, its shoulders hunched like a Beefeater. The sight lifted him and it was as good as he’d felt in days. Of one thing he was sure, Southampton seemed to bring out the worst in him, he would find somewhere better; the countryside, perhaps even abroad.

  ‘Will you wait?’ Perry asked when they arrived in Bishopstoke. ‘I’ll want to go back in a bit and you can double your fare?’

  The driver agreed and Perry set off along the route he remembered well, picking through the trees and making his way along the bank of the Itchen.

  He neared the bridge, threading through a thick copse of alders and heard a high-pitched whistle. Wings flapped as an armada of woodpigeons spirited out of the trees. The twang of a catapult. The whistle of its shot through the air. A squawk, then the padding and brushing of something falling through leaves and branches, finishing with a soft thud on the earth.

  ‘Got him! Did you see me?’

  Perry knew that voice, couldn’t see him, but he was positive. It was Joel. His heart leap for joy and he pulled himself through the next lot of trees towards the clearing.

  ‘Well aren’t you as good as Robin Hood with that thing?’ a girl’s voice.

  He stopped. Eva? It sounded just like her. He rushed now, tripping over tree roots and stumbling through the last few trees to reach the clearing.

  He stepped from behind the tree and couldn’t believe his eyes. Eva and Joel were kissing! He gaped, paralysed at the sight of them. Their eyes were closed, Joel’s arm wrapped protectively around her. And then as if woken by a gut punch he jumped back to hide behind the tree. How long had this been going on? And here! This was his place, not theirs.

  He peeped around the trunk.

  ‘Come on,’ said Eva, ‘let’s go home.’

  They were living together? He kicked the base of the trunk with his foot, stubbing his toe something awful. He bit the air in pain, desperate not to make a noise.

  ‘Just one more,’ Joel said. Perry was preparing to have to endure another kiss but instead Joel had his catapult out, one eye closed and had it pointed at the copse Perry was in. Had he been seen? He didn’t think so.

  Joel whistled and a single pigeon flapped out of the tree, thwack.

  ‘Damn! Just winged the bugger.’

  ‘Come on now, that’s enough,’ said Eva.

  ‘Look I said one more.’

  ‘But you had one more, just then.’

  ‘I didn’t get it though, did I?’

  ‘Please Joely,’ Joely? Perry’s skin crawled, that’s what he used to call him, ‘I don’t like you hurting the poor birds.’

  ‘I don’t like you hurting the poor birds,’ Joel mimicked in a baby voice.

  Perry wanted to run out and clobber him one, talking to Eva like that.

  ‘Fine then, I’ll go back on my own,’ Eva marched off into the woods beyond. She looked more beautiful than ever.

  ‘Wait! You leave in that coach and I’ll see to it you’re sorry!’ Joel ran after her, his catapult hanging out of his back pocket. ‘Eva wait!’

  Surely she couldn’t really love him. Could she? Perry’s first instinct was to follow them, but they mentioned a coach. He wasn’t about to run after a coach all the way to Southampton when he had his own waiting. He quickly scrambled back the way he had come. He glanced up and down the road
for another coach, there was none; there were side roads plenty here, but one main route back to Southampton. He raced to the horse, a coal-black mare with blinkers and looked inside the cab. No sign of the coachman.

  ‘Where’s your master?’ Perry asked the horse. The mare’s breath frosted the air and she dipped her head to take a drink from a trough at the side of the road. Up the road, past a clutch of cottages Perry saw the inn, a boxy two-storey overlooking the river. He sprinted up the road and pushed inside. The coachman was at the bar with a glass of beer. It was full of locals, with a crackling fire, horseshoes and copper pots hanging from the walls.

  ‘We need to go,’ Perry said.

  ‘That was quick,’ the coachman replied, ‘I’ve barely touched me drink.’

  ‘I’ll pay for it. I’m sorry, something’s come up and I have to get back right now.’

  The coachman sighed and drained the rest of his beer. ‘I’ll add it onto your fare. Cheers Freddy,’ the coachman said to the barman.

  Once outside, Perry practically ran to the horse and stepped up onto the coachman’s seat.

  ‘Mind if I sit up here with you?’

  ‘Suit yerself.’

  ‘A good pace please.’

  The coachman clambered up and grabbed the reins.

  ‘Yah!’ and they were off. Five minutes down the Southampton road and a cab came into view. As they neared Perry caught a view of the two figures inside through the back window. Eva’s angel hair was unmistakable.

  ‘Let’s slow down now and just follow behind this cab.’

  ‘You’re an odd one you.’

  Perry ignored him, watching the rumbling carriage ahead, his mind flooding with questions. Did she love him? How long had it been going on after he left? Where were they living now?