Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (31 page)

‘
Gracias
,’ Perry said, elongating
the
grassy-us
in
his worst attempt at an Englishman speaking Spanish. He flipped a
coin in the air, and the coachman caught the tip with both
hands.

‘
Un
placer
, Señor Turner.’ A pleasure, Mr
Turner. He then whistled a porter to help Perry with his
suitcase.

‘
Travel light!
That’s what my old mum used to say to me,’ Perry said loudly and
the porter took the valise from him.

‘
Lead
on!’

The
SS Olinda
, Hamburg Süd
line, black-funnelled and powerful, filled his prospect. It wasn’t
as big as he’d expected, certainly one of the more medium-sized
screw-steamers that traversed the Atlantic. He approached the
entrance for First Class and glanced to the south side of the boat
where the Steerage and Second Class passengers were embarking. Two
policemen flanked a group of Hamburg employees, checking the
register of names before letting each person on.

‘
Ridiculous,
we’ll never sail on time,’ it was a portly gentleman in front of
Perry, addressing his wife.

‘
We shall be
back to true civilisation and order soon, my dear,’ she
replied.

Perry was bemused, young though
he was; England had offered little in the way of civilisation to
him. But then, perhaps civilisation and order weren’t things
contained within a nation’s borders but determined by the size of
ones bank balance. A Hamburg employee, wearing a suit that looked
more expensive than his own, smiled at him and held out an
expectant hand.

‘
Good morning
sir,’ he said in perfect English, ‘your passage?’

‘
Good
morning,’ Perry replied, and pulled his pre-paid First cabin ticket
and his immigration card.

‘
Perfect,’ the
Hamburg man replied, returning the documents to Perry,
‘
Bon Voyage,
Mr
Turner. There are twenty five First Class cabins on board, you’re
in twenty-three.’

The porter walked ahead of
Perry, catching up with the imperious English couple on the
gangplank. As he reached the deck, a Hamburg servant stood with a
tray of stubby glasses, full of some fizzing hay-coloured
drink.

He wasn’t sure what to do. The
English couple each took a glass and were beckoned forward by their
porter, wheeling a trolley full of bags, suitcases and boxed items.
He would do the same.

He stepped onto deck, returned
the beaming smile of the servant and took one of the glasses from
the tray.

‘
Thank you,’
he said, ‘never too early I suppose.’

He looked at the porter,
waiting to be led, but he didn’t stir.

‘
Well,’ Perry
said, ‘down the hatch then,’ he raised it up to no one in
particular and tipped the drink down his neck. It was cold, fizzy
and had a rather unpleasant, bready taste.

‘
Ugh,’ he
said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and put the empty
glass down on the tray, ‘delicious.’

The servant had the traces of a
smirk on his face. Had he done something stupid? ‘Would you care
for another sir?’

‘
God no,’
Perry said, ‘I mean one is quite enough. I say, what is
it?’

‘
Champagne
sir.’

‘
Champagne,’
he said, ‘I shall remember that.’

He looked at
his porter, ‘
Dónde vamos?’
he said, and the porter shrugged. God he was
useless.

‘
Follow the
deck around to your right and you will see the numbering of the
First Class cabins sir.’

Perry led his porter over the
wooden deck, running his finger along the iron walls, such a
gleaming white that he expected his finger to come back wet with
paint.

His cabin was right out on the
deck, and the porter raced in front of him to hold the door open.
Doing more work now it was getting closer to tip time, Perry
thought. He peered inside his cabin and nearly gasped.

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!’

3
6

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.