Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (3 page)

‘
What are you
doing?’

Perry froze. It was Peter.
Candle in hand, the flame flickering on his stony face.

‘
Nothing.’ The
word slipped out unconvincingly and he gave a guilty glance at the
coins on the table. He cursed himself. How could he be so stupid?
Leaving the coins there like that! Peter rested the candle
down.

‘
That’s the
money from the wood isn’t it, you
did
sell it didn’t you?’

Yes Peter I
scammed you, you fool
, didn’t seem the best
thing to say.

‘
No it
ain’t.’

‘
Liar!’ Peter
lunged and rugby tackled Perry to the floor. Peter’s speed had
surprised him and being sprawled out on the floor was not his idea
of a good scrapping stance. A thick punch caught the side of his
head and his ear rang. Perry squirmed for position but Peter
grasped a clump of hair and yanked.

‘
Evil
rat!’

‘
Ow! Gerroff!’
his head burnt like fire, ‘stop fighting like a girl!’

‘
You’re just
like your Pa!’

The words struck as hard as the
punch, ‘I’m nought like him!’ Enraged, Perry went on the attack. He
slithered into position and dug his elbow hard into Peter’s ribs
and palmed Peter in the face, avoiding his chomping, gnashing
teeth.

‘
WHAT THE DEVIL
IS GOING ON HERE?’

They instantly rolled
apart.

Mrs Donnegan had an oil lamp
hanging from her hand. The other four boys were gathered behind her
gown like woodland creatures.

‘
He-’ Peter
began, but Perry knew he wouldn’t tell, it would mean admitting
what they’d spent their day doing.

‘
We had a game
of cards and Peter accused me of cheating,’ Perry caught his
breath, ‘only I’m no cheat.’

‘
Are
too!’

‘
ENOUGH!’ she
levelled a finger first at Perry and then at Peter, ‘the two of you
shake hands right this instant or I’ll throw you out into the
cold.’

Perry didn’t
need to be told twice, he offered his hand. Peter took it and
squeezed as hard as he could.
I can play
this game too.
Perry squeezed back harder
and Peter let go with a whimper.

Mrs Donnegan turned to the boys
behind her, ‘You lot get back to bed or I’ll make you stay in all
day tomorrow.’

‘
But it’s
Saturday,’ Dicken whined, ‘the six of us is going fishing at the
wharf!’

‘
I don’t care
what you boys are scheming to do tomorrow, if you’re not in bed at
the count of three….’

While her back was turned,
Perry quickly swept the coins from the table into his tin.

‘
One,’ Mrs
Donnegan said. The boys scampered. She never got to
three.

Peter shook his head. ‘Soon as
we go back to bed, I’m telling them all what you done.’

‘
See if I
care.’ He tucked the tin into the crook of his arm. He would need
to find a new hiding place for it now. Peter would turn the house
upside down looking for it.

Peter caught a cuff from Mrs D
on his way out, Perry bowed his head and readied for the same. As
the weak blow skimmed of the back of his head, he caught a whiff of
Mrs D’s stale sweat. He held his breath and made a show of rubbing
his head so Mrs D would feel satisfied with her justice.

In the bedroom,
Perry stuffed the tin safe under his pillow. He could smell the
Irishwoman’s unique perfume of chicken and mushroom soup. She’d be
waiting outside the door, hovering so she could burst in on them if
there were any shenanigans. Maybe the boys should give
her
a thorough bath.
Perhaps he’d say it aloud when the coast was clear, get a laugh and
ease the tension a bit… that was if they were still talking to him
of course. Peter would tell them what he had done. There was no
avoiding it. It was regrettable, but Rodney and the littleuns would
all learn soon enough where trusting people got you. It was just a
pity that they had to learn it from him.

The stairs creaked, the old
crone was returning to her lair. Perry closed his eyes and waited
for the chatter amongst the boys to begin.

3

Perry stirred, stretched out
long and yawned like a lion. As he rubbed sleep from his eyes he
was already thinking about breakfast and hoped it would be bacon,
bacon burnt so perfect it would snap like balsa wood between his
fingers. Then, he remembered the tin. His hand shot under the
pillow. It was gone.

‘
Bugger!’ he
punched the pillow, wishing it was Peter’s head. He pushed himself
up - the other five mattresses in the room were empty, just a
tangle of blankets. That damn sneak, bet he got Rodney to filch the
money tin, there was no way that oaf could’ve done it. Perry
reached over and felt Dicken’s mattress. It was cold. They were
long gone. Probably snuck out at first light, silent as cats at the
behest of Peter and gone fishing without him. If he wasn’t so angry
he might even have been impressed at their stealth - but the tin
wasn’t just yesterday’s haul. It was all his savings.

Perry measured his position.
He’d have to let the boys have their share of yesterday’s take.
Fine, he could cope with that, but he’d be damned if they were
going to get their grubby paws on the rest of it. He’d give Peter a
chance to give the tin back. And if he didn’t, the boy would get a
larruping the likes he’d never had before.

He got up and drew the
curtains. It was a grey day. A horse and cart ground through the
April mud outside. No sign of the boys on the street, not that
they’d be stupid enough to be out there, probably at the wharf by
now. He straightened his sheet and blanket and left the others in
their messy state. Mrs D would give them all a cuff but him if she
saw the room. A small victory to be sure, but satisfying
nonetheless.

In the kitchen there were no
eggs on the boil, no smell of bacon in the air and no oatmeal on
the table. The pantry had little else to tempt: a couple of dusty
jars of jam, a pack of flour and a jar of pickled eggs. A bread
crust lay in a curl on the table. Odd that Mrs D wasn’t down,
clanging around in the kitchen. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t
woken.

A faint splutter came from
upstairs.

‘
Mrs Donnegan?’
he called up. There was no reply.

Perry hesitated - the boys
weren’t allowed upstairs. Then the sound came again, louder this
time, as if choking. Alarmed, he creaked up the first step and
paused, expecting a reprimand. It didn’t come so he raced up the
rest. At the top there was a small landing. One of her blankets
hung over the bannister. The fabric was damp between his fingers.
He rapped on her door.

‘
Mrs
Donnegan?’

A muffle came from the other
side. He couldn’t make out the words but it didn’t sound so bad. He
relaxed a little.

‘
Sorry to
bother. I heard… I was just checking.’

Then that sound again. A thief
throttling her? Was she choking on her breakfast?

‘
I’m coming
in!’ He barged the door open, his fists ready. Mrs Donnegan was
alone, sat upright in bed. Her grey and dreadful face poked out
between a white gown and bonnet. A rancid, sour odour bored into
his nostrils.

‘
Bloody hell,’
he gagged, catching the bile in the back of his throat. He caught a
tiny movement under the bed and chased it late, like a shooting
star almost seen, and caught up with it as it patted onto the
floor. There was a small puddle of…he didn’t know what. He didn’t
even want to know what. Another drop. He followed its trajectory
back up to a sheet, untucked and bowing from the mattress, grey
where it had once been white, moisture collecting on it as if it
were a bottom eyelid brimming with tears.

He was going to be sick. He
slapped his hand over his mouth and fought the stench seeping
through his fingers, curling in waves and churning up his empty,
acidic stomach. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this, it was Mrs
Donnegan who looked after them, brought them soup when they had
colds and rested cool flannels on their foreheads when fevered, not
the other way around.

Control
yourself.
He slid his hand off his mouth
and gulped. He brought himself, made himself, look at her square in
the face. Wild panic glistened back at him. Soup and flannels were
not going to be enough.

‘
I…’ he bunched
his hair in his fist, ‘what do I…?’

Mrs Donnegan nodded frantically
at him and pointed at her neck. She couldn’t speak, was that
it?

He motioned that he understood,
‘I’ll-,’ he backed out the door, ‘I’ll go and get help.’

She nodded and
flung her hands out, shooing him away. He flew outside, desperately
looking up and down the street, somehow expecting a doctor would
just be happening to pass at the perfect time. No luck, two
coachmen smoking, a washerwoman and two wretches dancing outside an
opium den.
Think!
There was an apothecary he’d fetched once when two of the boys
had chicken pox.

He sprinted through the
alleyways and side streets. A small crowd of people were gathered
outside St. Michael’s, chatting to the Reverend. Perry considered
him. Prayers could come later. She needed real help now. He weaved
through the group of church folk and sprinted down Bugle Street to
the door of a narrow townhouse. He banged twice and the door flung
open.

‘
Mr Hampton?’
Perry gasped, holding his sides.

The apothecary was dressed in a
fine purple suit and looked like he was about to leave.

‘
It’s Mr
Brumpton. What is it boy?’

Perry tugged him out onto the
street. ‘Sorry mister Brumpton, it’s Perry, I’m one of Donnegan’s
boys- you’ve got to come quick, there’s something wrong with her –
real awful, we-’ his words tumbling over one another in his
haste.

The apothecary pulled up short
and checked his watch, ‘Can you even pay?’

‘
Yes, yes.
Don’t worry,’ Perry replied, worried. His tin was gone and the way
the other boys scrounged around, there wouldn’t be a farthing under
the floorboards. All that mattered was getting someone to see Mrs
Donnegan.

When they got to the house the
apothecary shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, all
business.

‘
Where is
she?’

‘
Upstairs.’

Brumpton wrinkled his nose,
‘That smell.’

‘
I
know.’

‘
Stay down here
for me will you Perry?’

‘
Yes
sir.’

Hungry and restless, he waited
in the kitchen, anxious about Mrs Donnegan. What would happen if
she needed to be taken away to hospital? He told himself to wait,
not to get ahead of himself. It was probably just a bad cold or
something. He chewed on the crust of bread. It was dry and tasted
bitter, but it was all he had. By the time the apothecary came
down, not even the crumbs remained. Brumpton filled the doorway, a
white handkerchief covering his mouth.

‘
Perry. Listen
to me. Stay downstairs.’

‘
Is she
alright?’

‘
I need a
second opinion. I’m going to fetch Dr Fairbanks.’

‘
Well I could
–’

‘
-No!’ he said
firmly. ‘You must stay here. Don’t let anyone in. Not the other
boys, no-one! Do you understand? In fact-’ he said, not letting
Perry answer, ‘-I’ll just take these.’ He grabbed a set of keys off
a metal peg and locked the kitchen’s back entrance.

‘
What are you
doing?’

‘
Just a
precaution. I’ll be back within the hour.’

Perry heard Brumpton lock the
front too, but tried it anyway just in case. He was trapped. It
bothered him that Brumpton hadn’t even brought up payment, which
normally he’d have been pretty happy about. It led him to think
that whatever Mrs D had, it was serious. If something happened to
her, where would he and the boys live then?

Throaty coughs, louder than
before, carried down the stairs.

Perry was weeing into the
washtub when keys clattered into the front door. He finished,
yanked up his trousers and hid the tub under the table and let
himself hope that Peter would be next to use it. Lunch had long
passed, surely the boys would be back soon and he wouldn’t have to
deal with this all on his own.

In the hallway, Mr Brumpton was
easing a short gentleman out of an expensive looking coat.

‘
Don’t hang
that coat anywhere Brumpton, hold on to it for me would
you?’

Perry cleared his throat. The
doctor met his eye.

‘
Is this the
boy?’

‘
Yes Dr
Fairbanks.’

‘
Good,’ the
doctor started up the stairs, ‘see to it that he stays down there
while I examine the patient.’

Brumpton locked the front door
and pocketed the key. ‘You heard him.’

Perry nodded, feeling a tad
better now a proper doctor was here.

‘
Mr Brumpton,
my effects?’ the doctor called from the landing.

A half hour passed. Perry went
from the kitchen and into the bedroom and back again, keeping an
eye out the window for the boys. He played solitaire, couldn’t
finish and swept the cards onto the floor. He checked every
cupboard and shelf for food again. Nothing. In the pantry he
scooped a layer of mould of one of the jams and managed a spoonful
before deciding he couldn’t stomach it. He went next for the
pickled eggs and sat cross-legged on the pantry floor. With the
rows of empty shelves around him, it almost felt like he was inside
an abandoned hive. He fished out one of the white balls and sucked
off the sour film. He popped the whole egg in his mouth and let it
collapse slowly, barely chewing. Hardly a feast, but at least it
was something.