Escape From Home (11 page)

I
t was almost eight in the morning when the
Queen of the West
eased its way into the wide and muddy Mersey River. A bell on the ship began to ring. Someone cried, “Liverpool!”

On deck, the cold, sodden crowd of passengers stirred in hopes that relief was at hand. Wherever they looked, they saw boats of every size, from modest steam tenders to many-masted clipper ships, from small coastal ketches to large Atlantic barks. Some ships had their rigging hanging loose. Smaller boats bore wind-puffed sails of red and tan. Steamers trickled smoke. Dories and skiffs skimmed the surface like nervous water bugs.

But the greatest number of vessels were moored within Liverpool's vast dock system of interlocking basins, each big enough to hold as many ships as fifty. Their masts and spars stood as thick as a forest shorn of leaves.

Just as extraordinary was the city of Liverpool itself, rising up on a hill beyond the docks.

Over the entire scene lay a thick, heavy air, rank with the smell of sea, tar, and decay. All in all, the Irish passengers found it nothing less than astounding. If Cork had seemed vast, Liverpool was twenty—fifty—times its size.

“Is it the biggest city in the world?” Patrick asked of Maura, his voice tight with astonishment at the jumble of wood, brick, stone, and marble buildings he saw.

Maura could only reply, “It must be.”

“And are all the people Protestants?” Patrick asked, making the sign of the cross over his heart.

“I believe most are.”

“Where will we go then?”

Maura put a comforting hand upon her brother's shoulder. “You needn't worry. Father Mahoney arranged for us to stay at a place,” she reminded him. “It's called the Union House. Something of a vast inn, he said, for emigrants such as we. Mind, we'll only be stopping for a couple of days before we sail.” She touched her dress where the packet of tickets and money was pinned.

“But where is the place exactly?” Patrick persisted.

“Ah, Patrick O'Connell, do you think I know? Look at the number of buildings, will you? But you need not worry,” she said, seeking hard to suppress her own anxiety. “We can always ask the way.”

On the
Queen of the West
, sailors raced about the deck. Shouts and commands seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Bells clanged. Whistles blew. The ship heaved back and forth by inches, creaking and groaning as though every timber were in agony.

Gradually, painfully, it eased past the other ships in Trafalgar Basin, threading its way through a maze of stone piers, turrets, open bridges, wooden piles, and brick warehouses, buildings so huge, they blocked the sky from view.

Then they were there. The ship's bell began to clang more furiously than ever. “All ashore!” came the cry. “All ashore!”

There was a rattle of chains as the gangway was run out. Patrick and Maura, along with all the other passengers, hastily snatched up their bundles. No one wanted to remain on the ship a moment longer than necessary.

“Stay close,” Maura cautioned her brother as they were pushed along.

Seeing what looked to be an opening in the crowd, Patrick squeezed forward only to find himself thrown back and cut off from his sister. “Maura!” he cried.

She made a half turn toward his voice but was pulled away. Battling with all his strength, Patrick thrashed ahead frantically. The next moment his legs were kicked out from under him. Trying to keep upright, he dropped his bundle, realized what he'd done, and attempted to grab it; but he saw it swept away, pulled apart, and trampled underfoot. Then he himself began to go under only to be lifted up and hurled forward until he found himself at the top of the gangway. “Maura!” he cried again.

From somewhere he thought he heard a shout. “Patrick!” Before he realized it, he had been propelled down the gangway and now stood on the stone pier surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Maura was nowhere to be seen. His heart sank. Thinking he saw her, he tried to follow but was held back by someone gripping his arm. Struggling to free himself, he swung around. There she was! She met him halfway, and they reached the edges of the crowd, where the press of people was not so fierce.

“I was sure you were lost,” Patrick panted when they were able to stop.

“I thought so too,” Maura whispered. She was pale, her hair in disarray. “But where's your bundle gone to?” she cried.

“I dropped it,” Patrick confessed.

Maura bit her lip to keep from rebuking him. She looked toward the mob of people. “Faith, I almost lost mine too,” she said. “As for yours, we'll just be traveling lighter.”

Patrick nodded, grateful for her forbearance.

They were standing on a stone-paved quay, part of an enormous rim of stone surrounding a pool of water in which many ships were berthed. On three sides of this basin rose five-story redbrick warehouses running the length of each side. The quay itself was crowded with the people from their own ship and hundreds more too. Never before had either Patrick or Maura felt so small, so isolated.

In need of reassurance, she reached for her packet of money and tickets and pulled it out.

“It's all here,” she said in response to her brother's look of concern.

As she was preparing to repin the packet, a voice broke upon them. “Well now, you look like you're in need of some help.” Maura hid the packet behind her skirt. Patrick grabbed up their bundle.

A few feet from them—arms akimbo—stood a ruddyfaced, bright-eyed young man. His wry smile was cockiness itself. He wore a seaman's tar hat at a rakish angle. Indeed, his loose striped shirt, his stiff wide britches, and his boots gave him the look of a sailor.

“Just in from Ireland, mates?” the young man asked. He touched the brim of his hat with his fingers to make a crisp salute.

Patrick took one look and knew whom he wished to be like.

Maura, however, hardly knew what to say or do. She was not used to being stared at by young men so brazenly, and this one couldn't have been more than her age. Even as she nodded, she looked down.

“And bound for America?” the fellow went on.

“Our father's there,” Maura murmured.

“Well now, that's good for you,” he said. “But even so, you'll need a place to stop until you sail.”

Maura forced herself to look up. “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “You're very kind, but it's all been done and arranged for.”

“Is that so,” the young man said. “Where are you headed?”

Maura, determined to say no more, simply looked away, tightening her grip on her money and tickets.

Fascinated by the young man, Patrick blurted out, “The Union House.”

At the mention of the hotel's name, the young man's face clouded. He gave a somber shake of his head. “I think you'd better let me see your passes.” He held out his hand.

Maura, taken aback, considered the young man with suspicion.

Patrick gave her a nudge. “Maura, show them to him. Surely he knows better than us.”

“The lad's right. Let's see what you have.”

Still Maura hesitated.

Patrick pulled on her arm. “Maura,” he whispered urgently, “show them. We don't know where to go.”

Against her better judgment, Maura sorted through her packet and handed over the slips of paper pertaining to the hotel.

The young man gave the papers a cursory glance. “I'm afraid I've bad news for you,” he announced.

“And what might that be?” Maura said.

“Just last night,” he replied in deep and melancholy tones, “this Union House of yours burned to the ground. These are useless.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, he tore the hotel papers up and flung the pieces into the breeze.

Appalled, Maura and Patrick could only stare.

“It's the truth,” the young man insisted, putting hand to heart as though the gesture itself was proof of his sincerity. “But you're in luck,” he went on quickly. “I know the perfect place for you.” He paused. “You do have some money about you, I hope.”

Maura hardly knew how to respond.

Once again it was Patrick who replied. “Yes, sir,” he said, “we do.”

“A good thing, mate,” the young man said. “It takes money to get about here. This is England. Nothing comes cheap. I suppose it's English money you have, laddie? Not yet American dollars?”

Maura put a hand out to restrain Patrick. She was not fast enough. “It's all English, sir,” he said. “And from a bank.”

The fellow grinned. “All right then,” he said with enthusiasm, “you're in luck. Toggs is my name. Mr. Ralph Toggs. And a good thing I found you. You can't be too careful in Liverpool. There are those who'd rob a blind man of his eyelashes if they could. But you can trust me. I'll treat you right.”

Ceremoniously he took the bundle from Patrick. “Just follow me!” he cried, and began to march off with great speed.

For a moment Maura stood her ground, holding her brother back. “Have you got to go telling our business to the first stranger we meet?” she whispered vehemently.

“Maura, you heard what he was saying. He's only being helpful. There's no call to be suspicious all the time!”

“We've hardly a choice to make now, do we?” she threw back. “Look at him. Off to a fare-thee-well, isn't he?”

They had run to catch up.

Toggs strode boldly through the crowd, pausing briefly now and again to make sure that Maura and Patrick were following.

“Where are we going?” Maura panted. They were crossing a bridge from one boat basin to another, passing a small castlelike turret that held the bridge-lift mechanism.

“A place for emigrants like yourselves,” Toggs called back. “The cheapest and best lodging in all of Liverpool!”

“We don't have that much money,” Maura returned.

Toggs halted. “Well then, how much, exactly, do you have?” he asked, looking squarely into Maura's face.

She drew herself up. “Not so very much,” she said.

Dissatisfied, Toggs looked to Patrick. “How much does she have, mate?” he demanded.

Flattered to be so addressed, Patrick told him, “Only a few pounds.”

The young man grinned even more widely. “A few blinkin' pounds, he says! Spoken like a rich man without botheration. Don't you worry. If you keep following me, you'll get by.” He started across yet another bridge.

All too aware that Maura was not pleased to be hustled along so, Patrick whispered, “Maura, he's being a friend.”

“By the Holy Mother, I'm praying you're right,” she snapped, and grabbing Patrick's hand, she rushed after Toggs.

For Maura and Patrick, the docks seemed to go on forever—Victoria Basin, Waterloo Basin, Prince's Basin, and more. It seemed impossible that there could be so many people milling about, so many ships. Heedless, Ralph Toggs pressed forward, never slackening his pace.

At last they moved out of the dock area—passing sentry boxes manned by the dock police—and crossed the Strand, a wide boulevard. Here were warehouses far surpassing in size anything Patrick and Maura had yet seen.

Not that Toggs paid them any mind. Once across the Strand, he headed uphill along Lord Street for half a mile, then turned down Paradise Lane into the much narrower Gradwell Street.

“Look!” cried Patrick, pointing to a group of dark men in turbans. They were wearing ankle-length robes.

“Heathens,” Maura whispered with a mix of fascination and alarm.

“What are they doing here?” Patrick wondered.

“I don't know,” Maura replied. “But for heaven's sake, you mustn't let them see you staring.” She pulled her brother along.

With the ever more congested streets came a roaring discord of shouts, cries, and calls, as people, horse-drawn wagons, carts, carriages, and barrows all jostled for passage amid the markets and liquor shops and dance halls. There was music. There were costermongers hawking their wares, vendors calling, children brawling.

Maura and Patrick were dumbfounded. It was hard to see. To hear. To think. Even so, they dared not stop. Ralph Toggs was pushing on.

Maura came to a dead stop. “Patrick!” she called.

“What is it?”

Maura was so alarmed that she found it hard to speak. “Blessed Jesus,” she managed at last, “I'm swearing I saw a building with a sign on it that read ‘Union House.'”

P
atrick stopped short. “Where?”

“Some paces back,” Maura cried, pointing. “Down that way.”

Turning pale, he asked, “Are you certain?”

Maura shook her head. She was not sure.

As they stood there not knowing what to do, Patrick saw Toggs halt and look their way. After a moment he sauntered back, Maura's bundle slung casually over his shoulder.

“What's the matter now?” he demanded.

“If it pleases you, sir,” Maura replied, struggling with herself to look up, “I thought I saw the Union House. The building you said had burned.”

“Did you now?” Toggs said severely. “I thought you were strangers to Liverpool. You seem to know it better than me.”

“Please, sir,” Maura felt obliged to say, angry at her own tone of apology, “I didn't mean to question you, but—”

“You're doing it all the same,” the young man replied as he dropped her bundle into the muddy street. “If that's the way you say thanks …”

“Wasn't I only thinking—?”

“Well, you might think less, missy,” Ralph Toggs said sharply, cutting her off, “and pay mind to someone who's offering help. Mr. Ralph Toggs is not one to force a lady anywhere. You're free to go off on your own.” He tapped the brim of his hat down, folded his arms over his chest, and glowered, challenging them to action.

Upset, Maura turned to Patrick. When she received a reproachful look from her brother, she felt further abashed.

“Forgive me, Mr. Toggs,” she said, bowing her head. “I don't mean to deny your kindness. In Kilonny we were rudely used and here in Liverpool are at your mercy. Surely you'll forgive the confusion of strangers.” She raised her face.

Her look of pain and sorrow caught Toggs unprepared. For an instant his own face softened. “Where in Ireland did you say?” he asked.

“Kilonny Village,” Maura replied, finally gaining the strength to look into the young man's eyes. “But they've tumbled it. And our mother—just as we were leaving—decided not to come with us.”

To which Patrick added bravely, “We're going to our father.”

“Mr. Toggs,” Maura said softly, “we do appreciate your kindness.”

Toggs blushed in spite of himself, then shook his head to be rid of troublesome thoughts, to shake free of Maura's soft look and blue eyes.

“Follow me,” he said gruffly, and picked up the O'Connells' bundle. Once more he set off, though no longer striding with his former energy.

It was not too long before they came into an even poorer district. Here, the muddy streets were narrower still and darker. Amid garbage, piles of ash, slops, and filth, people sat about in apparent idleness, slept, or staggered in drunken stupors. The stench was awful.

“And here we are,” Toggs announced after they had traveled a few more dreary blocks. “Just about the best place for folks to stop.”

Maura and Patrick looked to where he pointed. It was a decrepit three-story wooden building. Once it might have stood straight and tall, but no straight line was any part of its current posture. The windows—covered with paper, not glass—sagged dejectedly. The main door drooped. The steps to that door—five in number—looked like piled kindling, no two of them at the same angle.

Atop these was a ramshackle porch. The people sprawled upon it were a dismal lot, slumped like soldiers in defeat. It was hard to say which was closer to a final collapse, building or beings. They took not the slightest interest in Maura and Patrick.

“You can take my word for it,” Toggs said, though, to Maura's ears, he spoke with little conviction, “in all of Liverpool, you won't find a better lodging to stay in than this. Shelter, bed, and food for no more than four pence a day. What's more, you can stay as long as you need to or”—he nodded significantly—“as long as your money lasts.”

“We won't be staying long,” Maura said finally, as much to herself as anyone else. “We'll be sailing in a few days.”

“Then I'm sure you'll do well here,” Toggs said agreeably. He moved toward the house. “Step up now. I'll introduce you to Mrs. Sonderbye.”

“And who may she be?” Maura asked timidly.

“The kind lady who'll take you in.” Toggs mounted the rickety steps. “Are you coming or no?”

Maura and Patrick looked at each other. When Patrick gave a tiny shrug, Maura started up after the young man. At least, she thought, it was a woman in charge.

“Mrs. Sonderbye!” Toggs bellowed at the doorway. “Are you about?”

The woman herself emerged. She was as large and round as a boulder, with massive arms, stocky legs, and a face as red as raw beefsteak.

“Who's calling?” she shouted, blinking her bleary eyes as if she had not seen daylight for a week.

“Ralph Toggs of the Lime Street Runners Association at your service, Mrs. Sonderbye,” the young man announced, putting his fingers to his hat in salute. “I've brought some souls that need serving.” He held up Maura's bundle and gestured to sister and brother.

Mrs. Sonderbye shifted her head ponderously in their direction. Contemplating the newcomers with ill-disguised contempt, she nonetheless closed her fat fingers around Maura's bundle. “Room and board, four pence a day, each,” she announced. “Minimum stay, a week, payable in advance. You won't need no references.”

“There, you hear?” Toggs enthused to Maura. “No references. Didn't I say the lady was kind?”

“Might we see the room?” Maura asked.

Mrs. Sonderbye did not seem to hear the question. “Do you want it or not?” she demanded while giving a backward toss to Maura's bundle. It disappeared into the house.

“You won't get better,” Toggs pressed Maura. “You can trust me on that.”

Maura was not sure what she had expected, but this was nothing of the kind. It was not the poverty of the place that upset her. She was used to that. It was the filth she found horrifying. But what else were they to do? Where else were they to go? And all the while Patrick was gazing up at her, waiting for her decision.

“Yes or no?” Mrs. Sonderbye demanded again.

Just two days, Maura thought, for in just that time she and Patrick would be on their way to America. She nodded.

“Money first,” Mrs. Sonderbye sang out, “comfort second.” She extended a fat hand, palm up. “You pays by the week.”

“We're only staying two days.”

“You'll get a refund.”

Maura turned away, took out her packet, and extracted enough coins to pay the first week's bill. They were swallowed instantly by Mrs. Sonderbye's grasping fingers.

“Come on then,” the woman said. As she did, she reached out, and Maura thought she saw—though she wasn't certain—some of the coins drop into Toggs's hand. The next moment the landlady moved back through the doorway.

Just as they were about to follow, Maura turned to Toggs. “I thank you for your kindness,” she said, looking squarely into his eyes.

He blushed to the roots of his hair. “You'll—do—well enough here,” he stammered. “There are worse places. And—” Instead of finishing his words, he made an abrupt turn and ran down the street. Maura watched him go, then heeded Patrick when he tugged at her arm. Together, they crossed the threshold into Mrs. Sonderbye's house.

If the outside was in wretched repair, the inside was worse. Walls once plastered were pocked with holes, exposing lath and hair within. Even in the dim light, joists could be seen below the gapped and curling floorboards. The smell of refuse nearly caused Maura and Patrick to gag. As they made their way down the central hallway, they saw many rooms on either side. Each was crammed with people who appeared to be camping as they might in the open air.

Mrs. Sonderbye clumped to the far end of the hall. She yanked open a door. Having but one hinge, it barely clung to the frame. “Down the steps,” she said. “Make yourselves at home. The loo is out back.”

Patrick peered down the stairwell. It was too dark to see much of anything.

“And if you please, miss,” Maura said to Mrs. Sonderbye, “our bundle.” But the woman, paying no attention, was retreating ponderously along the hall.

Maura wanted to protest, but Patrick had already started down the steps. With the greatest trepidation, Maura followed. Halfway there, they stopped.

Thin fingers of light poked in from cracks through the ceiling above. Scattered about on an earthen floor were stuffed bags and pallets. A dozen people were stretched upon these, eight men and four women, most asleep. Those awake sat on sparse straw. Few wore shoes or boots. None appeared clean or even healthy. They stared at the newcomers silently. Only one person seemed alive, and he was deeply immersed in a book.

But as Maura and Patrick gazed downward in dread, the man who was reading looked up. “Ah, new neighbors!” he cried brightly. “Welcome to you both! As the bard said, ‘Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.' Come right along!” Given the abject dreariness of the place, his cheerful greeting had the feel and sound of madness.

It was too much for Maura. She turned and pressed her face against the stairwell wall, a wall oozing with rancid damp, giving growth to patches of mustard-colored mildew.

Feeling equally wretched, Patrick looked on helplessly. He had but two thoughts: that it was he who had brought them to this place, and that they would never leave it.