Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (32 page)

‘
A troubled
young man soul-searching under the stars,’ Mr Roebuck said, ‘sounds
quite romantic doesn’t it Marjorie?’

Perry clung on to the word
troubled. He liked Mr R less and less as the evening went on.

On deck, the walk was doing him
good. Dinner sat heavy in his stomach and the wine thick in his
skull. The Atlantic breeze lightened him as if thinning the leaves
on a tree. He opted to head for the stern this time and as he
strolled down the deck, he caught desperate voices carrying over
the smash of surf and the drone of the engine.

Curious, Perry went to
investigate. It was from the entrance to the stairwell for Steerage
class. A Hamburg employee was blocking the exit to the deck.

‘
Look, she
can’t come up here while the First Class passengers are having
their evening walk.’

‘
Please, she’s
been sick all day! She’s with child, for pity’s sake! Let her get
some air will you?’

Perry peered past the Hamburg
crewmember. A man in tattered workman’s clothes had his arm around
a pallid woman, her head bowed, snivelling. The sight of her
affected him greatly, here he was pretending to be rich, eating in
a fine restaurant and enjoying the luxury of a cabin while this
poor pregnant wretch had to put up with the filth and squalor of
Steerage. He caught a whiff of the foul stench rising up the metal
stairwell – or perhaps it was them. He knew just how awful it was
from his trip over the first time round.

Noticing him, the Hamburg
employee smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about this sir, I hope you
weren’t disturbed.’

‘
Disturbed?’
Perry repeated to the Hamburg employee. ‘Only by your lack of
warmth. This poor lady clearly feels sick, let her up this instant.
Can’t you see she needs some air?’

The Hamburg man looked baffled,
‘But sir, I-’

‘
If it gets
you into trouble I am happy for you to say it was at my
request.’

The Hamburg employee clenched
his jaw and turned to the two Steerage passengers. ‘Five minutes
and I want you back,’ he let them pass.

The man shepherded his wife
onto deck, she had an awful drained pallor.

‘
Thank you
young sir, very kind,’ the husband said to Perry.

Perry couldn’t say a word in
return; he felt that it was barely a kindness at all. He watched
the couple a moment, the husband patting her gently on the back and
her, grasping the railings with both hands, bending forward, taking
deep breaths. He couldn’t watch any more.

‘
Give them a
half hour would you, if they want it,’ he said to the Hamburg man
and continued his walk towards the stern.

White water frothed in the
wake, disappearing into the oil black sea; the constancy settled
his heavy stomach.

‘
Ah there you
are!’

He looked up and his heart
sank, it was Mr Roebuck. No Mrs R in sight. Just the one to deal
with then.

Perry stared out onto the
water.

‘
Mind if I
join you for a moment?’

He did as it happened, but he
knew he couldn’t very well say so, they had paid for dinner after
all. ‘Go ahead.’

Mr Roebuck stood by his side
and took a deep breath. ‘Wonderful stuff,’ he said, ‘shame for
Marjorie to miss it, she doesn’t travel well you see - like a box
of eggs she is. I’ve packed her off to bed.’

Perry nodded, hoping that he’d
soon leave him alone.

‘
So, I’m
intrigued Mr Turner. How did you do it?’

‘
Do
what?’

‘
Escape from
the penitentiary.’

Perry looked at him
horrified.

‘
Really boy,
your table manners are appalling. And then of course, there’s
this,’ from his pocket he drew out a folded section of newspaper
and handed it to Perry.

Perry straightened it out and
saw two sketched faces: unmistakably himself and Santi.

‘
Dear God no,
not now please.’

‘
Perry
Scrimshaw, I say, what a thrill having a fugitive aboard. I take it
the other one’s not on board? I’ve not seen him. Or is he in
Steerage?’

Perry shook his head and looked
out to sea, conspiring and treacherous in the dark; he wasn’t a bad
swimmer, but they were probably hundreds, maybe even thousands of
miles from land. He wouldn’t stand a chance, swallowed by a whale
within a day. He frantically looked around, expecting to see the
Hamburg employees waiting to take him to the ship’s hold.

‘
What are you
going to do?’

‘
Well I could
inform the captain and he would see to it that you are held until
we make berth in Santos tomorrow.’

Perry wondered, if he grabbed
Roebuck, whether he’d have the strength to tip him overboard. But
something in his soul told him no, it wasn’t in him. He gulped.

‘
Haven’t you
already?’

Mr Roebuck puffed his cheeks
out. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he said.

Perry felt something snap
within, ‘Fun? Fun? You haven’t got the faintest idea about what
I’ve been through.’

‘
Well now’s
your chance. I should quite like to know just how you came to be
here. An English fugitive hiding in First Class no less! May I
suggest we repair to the bar area, I am quite in need of a
drink.’

The bar lounge was below deck.
Perry couldn’t get his head round the fact that rich people enjoyed
this sort of place; the opulent velveteen reds, the dark wood
tables and brass fittings shrouded in pipe and cigar smoke. It was
lifeless. The taverns he knew could be rough, but at least they had
an edge to them, some laughter and music. He took a sudden dislike
to these post-dinner gentlemen and their tittering wives. They
owned too much already. And now one of these types had him over a
barrel and he hated it. He had no choice to play this pathetic
man’s game, to be his prisoner.

A Hamburg waiter brought them a
decanter of whisky, a jug of water and some tobacco for Roebuck’s
pipe.

‘
So,’ Roebuck
stuffed the tobacco in his pipe. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Perry couldn’t bear to look at
Roebuck and stared instead into the amber depths of his glass. He’d
fought so hard to get here, to finally feel safe, and now it was
gone. Perhaps he’d never know what safety truly felt like. There
were just traps, traps everywhere trying to get him and all he
could do was manoeuvre and adapt to each in turn. Roebuck was a
bored man looking for excitement. If his story wasn’t enough for
Roebuck, Perry didn’t doubt that the drama of copping a fugitive
and getting him dragged to the hold would be currency for a year’s
worth of dinner parties.

Perry took a
sip. Smoky warmth licked the back of his throat like a
flame.
Make your move.

‘
A little over
a year ago I was living in an orphan house with a lady called Mrs
Donnegan…’

Perry talked about The Sick,
about meeting Eva and Joel and how he’d blackmailed his way into
money – causing the Southampton dockers to riot. As he talked, he
realised how good it was to say some of these things aloud – to
hear his deepest hidden thoughts admitted to himself (and to a
stranger). How he blamed himself for the Donnegan boys all dying.
How he wished he’d gone to see his Pa in prison earlier.

Mr Roebuck listened intently,
only interrupting when Perry told him about being knocked
unconscious at the dock, on his way to meet Eva.

‘
But you
didn’t see who did it at all? You have no ideas?’

Perry gripped his glass so
tight he thought it might smash. ‘Ideas yes. The doctor. Possibly
Maxwell.’

He related the awful voyage
over, how he’d had to clean the engine room daily and how he’d had
a cough for six weeks after. Then his months of toil working on the
docks in Buenos Aires, being framed by Campi and then, the bit Mr
Roebuck had been waiting for; how he’d escaped.

‘
What a clever
little rascal you are!’ Mr Roebuck declared. When Perry got to
President Pellegrini’s, he was interrupted again:

‘
You weren’t
serious? That’s poppycock surely? There’s no mention of that in the
paper.’

‘
Of course
there isn’t,’ Perry replied, suddenly tired and woozy with liquor,
‘do you really think they’d allow common folk to know about that?
Imagine the embarrassment.’

‘
I suppose
not,’ Roebuck conceded, ‘but few commoners read the
paper.’

Perry told of his last few days
hiding out at Inspector Saldrup’s, and all Mr Roebuck could say
was: ‘I’m amazed you didn’t throttle the man.’

‘
I wouldn’t
have got on this boat if it weren’t for him.’

They sat in silence for a few
moments. ‘And well, you know the rest.’

The portly Englishman shook his
head; his rosy cheeks wobbled a little as he did so. ‘I’ve never
heard anything like it.’

Perry leant forward in his
armchair, his lips loose from the alcohol. ‘Whatever you think of
me - an imposter? Yes, a fugitive? M-most definitely. But I’m not
bad, or at least I’m trying not to be…I just want to get home and
see the few people I care about.’

‘
There’s good
in you boy, I see it,’ Mr Roebuck said, ‘you gave that Hamburg man
a dressing down so the pregnant lady in Steerage could get some air
on deck. I thought to myself, what kind of a man does such a
thing?’

‘
What kind of
man?’ Perry asked back.

‘
What kind of
man?’ Roebuck said again, letting the question hang. The big
northerner wiped his eyes and sniffed.

‘
Well!’ he
said smacking his hands down against the armrests. ‘I must be off
to bed.’ He got to his feet and swayed a little on the spot. ‘I
wish you a good night young man.’

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.

3
7

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.