Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (33 page)

As Perry strolled the jetty, he
indulged Mr Roebuck’s penchant for pointing things out with his
cane. Mr Roebuck could name the tonnage of every ship in Santos bay
and seemed glad of the company to share this knowledge with.

‘
Four thousand
at least, that one,’ he pointed to a yellow funnelled Screw Steamer
much larger than the
Olinda,
‘and that one there must be three seven
fifty.’

Perry followed
with mild interest, keeping a half-eye on the
Olinda.
They only had an hour and he
was wary of being left behind. The largest vessels in the bay
categorised, Roebuck pulled out a purse, attached to his pocket by
a chain.

‘
Fancy some
coffee and oysters?’

Perry was more of a tea man and
he’d tried oysters before and wasn’t fussed, but he was hungry and
Mr Roebuck looked hopeful.

‘
Why not? Is
that local money?’ Perry asked.

‘
Yes, from my
stopover in Rio on the way over.’

At the stalls, Roebuck handed
Perry a cup of black and a plate of oysters to share. The coffee
tasted incredible, deep, rich and satisfying, the steam rising up
into the morning sunshine. Together they shucked oysters.

‘
Like a couple
of buccaneers!’ Roebuck declared and Perry actually found himself
laughing with his new companion. Perry squeezed fresh lemon all
over his oyster and tipped it down his throat while Roebuck
bellowed about how delicious they were and the uncomprehending
oyster-seller beamed, revealing a mouthful of stray teeth. They had
no common tongue, but Perry knew a happy seller when he saw one;
getting a top market price he reckoned. Perry shuddered after each
oyster, like he’d been tickled inside out. Funny tasting things
they were, the lemon zing was pleasant but he recalled the ones
he’d tried in Southampton were smaller and had a fresher
taste.

Soon it was
time to board and the
Olinda
pulled out of Santos harbour. On deck, Perry undid
the first few buttons of his shirt, let the sun beat on his skin
and enjoyed the wind whipping against his face. He was headed for
Eva a free man, he’d made a new friend and for once had a little
money behind him. He smiled at the sun, squinting and wrinkling up
his face as the rays warmed his cheeks. He hadn’t felt so happy in
years.

Three hours later, Perry had a
cramping stomach pain and felt so nauseous he had to lie in bed. It
was as if an octopus were inside his belly, writhing around and
flicking its tentacles up his gullet. The sweats came and his
stomach lurched and rolled. He had a fancy bin in his room, with
flowers painted on its side. It was now a sick bucket. When it
came, it was violent, muscle straining and unrelenting. He barely
had time to breathe before the next wave of sickness hit him.

Once there was nothing left
inside him and the retching died down, he lay on his back, groaning
while the ship rolled and lulled, listening to his vomit splash and
plop against the bucket’s metal flank. The smell was nearly enough
to start him off all over again, but he couldn’t face standing up
to deal with it.

He must’ve drifted into a sleep
for a rap on the door woke him. Marjorie Roebuck, came in, her face
pinched in disapproval.

‘
Well, Mr
Turner! I see you’re in about as good a state as my husband.
Buccaneers indeed, eating those oysters on that filthy
dock!’

Those damn oysters, he knew
they weren’t quite right. Mrs Roebuck shook her head disapprovingly
at him and snapped into an efficient motherly operation: adjusting
his sheets, dealing with his makeshift bucket, pouring him a glass
of water and placing a cool flannel on his forehead.

‘
Take these,’
she put two white tablets on his bedside, ‘chalk tablets, for the
acidity.’

‘
Thanks,’
Perry groaned, reaching for one of the tablets from the
bedside.

‘
I shall come
and check on you later. Foolish boy.’

His sickness and diarrhoea
rendered him bed bound, and he spent the six hour scheduled stop at
Rio de Janeiro drifting in and out of sleep. He’d heard Rio was a
dreadful place and was quite keen to see it for himself, but he
could not bring himself to get up. In the end he had to make do
with Mrs R’s abrupt review of the place; ‘Abolished or not, I swear
the place is still teeming with slaves.’

On the third
day of his sickness, his seventeenth birthday passed. His gift was
to vomit slightly less than the day before. On his fourth day in
bed, Mrs Roebuck came in and drew the curtains back with a
determination that seemed to say
right
you’ve been sick long enough now
, as if he
had any choice in the matter.

‘
My husband is
better, prancing around the deck strong as an elk, so you must be
better by now too.’ She yanked the covers off him. She’d seen and
dealt with his vomit, he didn’t much care if she saw him in his
nightclothes.

‘
Get up! Time
to look up and forwards. We’re heading home, to an English
springtime.’

He lifted his head from the
pillow to protest but did not have the strength to argue. The woman
was undeniable. Perry was soon dressed and on deck, taking the sea
air. He was reluctant to admit it, but the fresh air was making him
feel like a human being again.

Still a little
grey around the gills, he joined the Roebucks for dinner that eve,
sitting down to fine silver, pristine table cloths, chandeliers and
white-gloved waiter service as if he’d been used to it his whole
life. Perry politely thanked Mrs R for her kind nursing and gave Mr
R a polite nod. In return Perry received a conspiratorial
smile.
What a couple of rascals we
are
, it seemed to say.

Mrs Roebuck
for her part seemed indifferent to having them back at the table
but made a point of ordering a dish called
Freedom Air
, which turned out to be a
stomach-churning plate piled with winkles, cockles, oysters,
shellfish, crab and langoustines. Both he and Mr Roebuck plumped
instead for the vegetable soup with a bread roll and kept their
eyes firmly on their dinner throughout.

The
Olinda
ploughed
ceaselessly on, cutting through the North Atlantic. On the tenth
day they were said to be passing the Azores on the port side and
Portugal on starboard. Perry could see on the map where this put
them, but when he looked out to sea there was no land on either
side, just blue grey horizon. How vast the world was.

On the twelfth day, the sea
became leaden grey and a chill set into the air. Mr Roebuck joined
him on deck.

‘
We’re nearly
home,’ he said and handed Perry a card, ‘I wanted to give you this
before Marjorie and I head up to London.’

It was most odd, a small piece
of card with Roebuck’s name on it, an address in London and one in
New York.

‘
Thank you,
I’m sorry I don’t have one to give you back.’

Mr Roebuck laughed and clapped
a hand on Perry’s shoulder.

‘
I like you
young man, you remind me of myself at that age, in only a couple of
respects of course.’ He pointed to the card. ‘I’m sure we’ve some
apprenticeships if you’re keen?’

‘
Yes, maybe,
thank you.’

Mr Roebuck patted it away like
it was nothing and pulled up straight,

‘
Look! There
she is.’

Perry saw it. The flotilla of
ships in harbour, the houses speckled in the distance and a low
spire needling into an overcast sky. Southampton. Home. His heart
pounded in his chest, so unexpectedly excited to see this place
again, already feeling its familiarity like an old face. The
streets, thick with mud and the smell of baked bread, of the bells
ringing in the air on a crisp spring Sunday morning. Eva, Joel, his
father. He found himself at the bow of the ship, whooping and
jumping up and down as it pulled into the harbour. When it was
close enough, he squinted at the shore at the spot he’d found Eva
sleeping in a rowing boat one morning. Of course she wasn’t there -
it’d been a year after all.

‘
Well, I must
check we’re all packed up,’ Mr Roebuck said, offering Perry his
hand. Perry took it and they shook warmly. He returned to his own
cabin to pack up his few effects and made ready; he wanted to be
the first passenger off the boat.

3
8

Was it always April here? The
drizzle outside showed no sign of letting up. The inn was a couple
of roads down from the train station and his room was gloomy, with
dark wood furniture and cheap tallow candles. Perry had no clothes
particularly suited for English weather and dressed quickly in
tweed trousers, shirt, braces and a green woollen jumper - donated
from Niels Saldrup’s wardrobe.

He looked around the room for a
mirror and not seeing one, went over to the cheap wooden wardrobe
in the corner of his room and opened the door. The mothy smell of
damp wood hit him but he was rewarded with a mirror on the back of
the door. He took a step back. He was taller now and broader from
his months of toil on the docks. He was tan, healthy-looking with a
shadow of hair above his lip. The maid had left out shaving water,
but he had nothing to shave with. Perhaps he’d let it grow. He
flattened his hair with his palms. It was still golden but cut
short before the curl, his prison hack job had grown into something
tidier.

He counted out
his money (hastily exchanged the night before into shillings and
pence). It would do him for a few weeks with a bit of luck. The
drizzle looked to be incessant and in the end there was nothing for
it, he went outside in the rain and trotted to a cheap harbourside
café, Mrs Drew’s. It was the same place he’d taken Eva when he’d
found her beaten on the shingle beach. It was on the slimmest hope
she would be there. The windows were steamed with condensation. A
bell jangled as he entered and he was enveloped in warm welcoming
café air. His eyes darted from a small group of dockers smoking
pipes to a scruffy businessman reading the
Southampton Times
. No Eva. He saw how
ridiculous this hope was, as stupid as thinking she’d be waiting on
the beach waving his boat in. He took a seat at one of the empty
tables by the window and watched the blur of moving colours and
shapes on the other side of the cloudy window.

‘
What you
having love?’

‘
Fried bread,
fried eggs, black pudding, bacon, mushrooms and a mug of the
strongest tea you can muster-’ he turned his head to face her ‘–
and with milk please, in the tea,’ he added, out of
habit.

‘
Course you’ll
get milk,’ she said as if he were crazy, and waddled away with his
order.

The food arrived, salty steam
rising from plate to nostril and the very core of his hunger. He
attacked it as if he’d not eaten in a year, the satisfying warmth
of the fry-up sloshed down with hot tea and best of all, bread and
butter for mop ups. It was like scratching an itch, so satisfying
and fulfilling.

He left the café, knowing it
was time. There was something odd about Southampton, familiar yet
different. It felt smaller somehow. As he walked, he scoured the
faces of passers-by, expecting to see an old school chum or one of
the lackeys from the wood yard but it was just the haggard maids,
washerwomen and worker men of old. He detoured through Simnel
Street to see what had become of Mrs Donnegan’s derelict abode and
was pleased to see a new house with black painted wooden beams and
bright red brick. It looked like the best place on the street. Mrs
D would’ve loved it.

Blue Anchor Lane hadn’t changed
a jot. He had to climb over a heap of rubbish to get in. Its stink
was more soul-permeating than his worst memories of Steerage. In
his relatively nice clothes he trod cautiously, hoping to avoid
splashing the foul-smelling puddlewater over his trousers. He
passed a tramp carrying a piece of board over his head as
protection from the rain. Around the bend in the lane a small gang
of barefoot boys - street urchins - leant against the angle of one
of the crooked houses. One smoked a pipe, another was digging the
ground with a twig. They looked sodden and miserable, but as he
passed, they all stopped what they were doing to stare at him;
their aggressive eyes all the whiter for their mucky faces.

‘
You’re in the
wrong part of town mate!’ One yelled. Perry got ready to run but
kept walking, glancing behind him every few seconds. They stood
together, cross-armed, predatory as a cat might assess a passing
mouse but made no move on him. The lane twisted, taking him out of
sight and he hurried down the alley to Ma’s door.

He went to knock but the door
swung open and a man wearing a cap, shirt, braces and trousers
stepped out looking like he was off to do an honest day’s work. He
pulled a face at Perry.

‘
Who are you?’
the man asked.

‘
Perry. Are
you-’ he didn’t know how to ask, the word “customer” sounded wrong,
‘is Ma in?’

‘
Yes,’ he
nodded, ‘but what do you want her for?’

‘
I used to
live here see, with another boy Joel - he’s not here is he?’ Perry
suddenly felt himself getting excited. ‘I’ve not seen Ma or him in
ages.’

‘
Look, Perry.
Ma doesn’t do that anymore. She’s just got me,’ he pointed to a
ring on his finger.