Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (34 page)

‘
You mean?’ he
fumbled in disbelief, ‘that you and her? You’re
married?’

‘
One month
ago. And we don’t need your sort sniffing round here anymore, so
clear off.’

Ma appeared at the door.
‘Perry? That you?’

She looked different; her hair
was straight, brushed down and tidy. He craned his neck to look in
the hallway. It looked clean, new even.

‘
All the
floorboards have been done,’ he said dumbly.

‘
I’m a
carpenter,’ the man said.

‘
I got married
Perry,’ said Ma.

‘
So I hear,’
Perry replied, still not believing the news.
‘Congratulations.’

‘
Right, I’ve
got to get to work, you kicking this kid out or what?’

‘
Be nice to
have a cuppa with you Ma, if you’re not too busy?’

‘
Why not?
There’s a brew just ready.’ Husband and wife exchanged a kiss on
the lips. ‘See you tonight love,’ he said and headed up the
alleyway. Perry shook his head in disbelief.

‘
Take them
shoes off,’ Ma ordered, ‘not having you traipsing mud around my
house.’

Perry slid them off and stepped
inside. The hallway had been transformed; new wood and shelves on
the side showcasing a couple of china ornaments.

‘
The place is
looking great Ma,’ and he meant it.

‘
I know,’ she
led him into the kitchen, ‘so where’ve you been then?’

‘
Long story,’
Perry said taking a seat at the kitchen table, ‘is Joel living here
still?’

Ma poured Perry a tea in a
chipped mug. ‘Joel? Long gone him. He ain’t come back here since
you left.’

Perry’s heart sank. ‘And
Eva?’

Ma’s forehead wrinkled. ‘The
girl?’ she shook her head. ‘Barely remember her.’

‘
Do you know
where Joel moved to?’

‘
I told ya, he
ain’t been round here. Now, drink your tea. Before I forget,
there’s some clothes of yours in the old room. Pick ‘em up on your
way out or I’ll chuck ‘em. We’re going to turn that room into a
carpentry shop for Jack.’

‘
Jack? That
his name is it?’ Same as one of the littleuns he remembered with
sadness. ‘He seemed alright, protective of you mind.’

‘
Isn’t he
just? Can’t believe me luck.’

‘
I’m pleased
things have worked out for you Ma.’ Though in truth Perry could
have substituted the word “pleased” for “surprised”, he hadn’t
expected anything of Ma except an early death, and the thought
hadn’t saddened him at the time.

She nodded. ‘Drink up, or it’ll
get cold.’

He visited his old room before
he left. It was completely empty now, save the chest of drawers in
the corner. He couldn’t believe that he’d briefly made this strange
space his home. How long ago it all seemed now. Perry slid the
top-drawer open and pulled out a pair of trousers. He dangled them
from his waist - but they were too short now. Out of habit he
checked the pockets, clasped something solid and pulled it out. It
was Joel’s knife, his switchblade. He laughed in delight and
flicked it open. The blade jutted out, dangerous and sharp. He
snapped it shut and pocketed it; it might do as a deterrent if the
street urchins were still lurking about.

He thanked Ma for the tea and
left. When Perry returned up Blue Anchor Lane, the street boys were
scrapping with one another and Perry gladly skipped by them. He
felt good, he had tried not to think about it while he was away,
but he knew full well that if Eva had still been staying at Ma’s,
it would mean all those horrible men visiting her, using her. And
that thought was sickening.

For lunch,
Perry grabbed some tripe soup from a street vendor. The drizzle had
stopped, replaced by a cold gusty wind. The months he’d spent
working in the
Madero
docks, being baked nut brown by the sun already felt an age
ago. Perry drank down the soup; it was far too salty and so hot it
burnt the roof of his mouth. How he wished it were a spicy
tomato
locro
instead. He finished it anyway, at least glad of some warmth
in his belly. He knew where he must go next.

The road out of town hugged the
coastline and Perry, rubbing his hands together for warmth, wished
he’d brought his frock coat with him. The rain had stopped at least
and for that he was grateful. He passed a crooked brick cottage
with a slanting slate roof, smoke rising out of the chimney. He
peered inside, a family of four sat around the dinner table, eating
dinner in the glow of their fire. It almost invited him to knock,
to ask to join them by the fire and warm his hands.

As he turned
off the road and down the track to the sea, he half-wondered if he
might run into Joel still chasing the skittering notes across the
scrubland or bribing the guards for entry. He jogged, partly for
warmth, partly for the idea that he might see Joel at the prison’s
gate - but once the boxy institution was in sight his hope fell
flat. There was no Joel and Birdshit Prison
looked as formidable as ever. Time stood still in such
places.

At the guard booth by the main
gate, Perry approached with his money ready to barter entry.

He didn’t recognise the guard,
a slack jawed fellow with a lazy eye. Perry explained his
business.

‘
And who are
you here to see young man?’ he asked.

‘
Samuel
Scrimshaw.’

The guard nodded and pursed his
lips. ‘And you are?’

‘
I’m his boy.
Perry. Perry Scrimshaw.’

The guard cast his eyes to the
floor. ‘I’m sorry son.’

‘
Why?’ Perry
asked, but he already knew what the man was going to
say.

‘
I’m afraid
your father is dead.’

3
9

Samuel Scrimshaw’s resting
place was in a churchyard in Eastleigh, a short train ride from
Southampton proper. To Perry’s mind, Eastleigh was a fitting and
sensitively chosen place, not too far from the Bishopstoke guddling
spot his father had taken him to as a boy. But when he set eyes on
the church he realised the real reason why his father had been
buried here; the cheapness of the grave plots. The sight of the
church sickened him. It was a sorry crumbling affair and the
graveyard, ringed as it was with splintered and rotting pickets,
was losing its fight to contain the wild grass and weeds
within.

Perry waded through the
undergrowth, brushed the grass fringe from a headstone face and
scraped moss off to reveal a name and epitaph.

Arthur Critchlow

1845-1871

A good man and husband

He checked the next, then every
row after that - all without finding his father’s plot. Then he
noticed a huddle of makeshift wooden crosses in the corner of the
graveyard by the picket. Some of the crosses were just snapped
beanpoles lashed together. He shook his head, such little respect.
In the farthest corner, shadowed with thistle and weed was the
place he was looking for; a wooden cross, angled lazily into the
ground with the initials S.S etched across the crucifix heart - as
if it marked the grave of a ship rather than that of his own flesh
and blood. Not even a proper headstone. Perry smouldered – if he
were here he would have made damn sure that Samuel Scrimshaw got a
better lot than that. He dropped to his knees and ripped the grass
out in great tufts, tidying the grave plot in a haphazard way. The
wetness soaked through to his knees as he continued ripping the
grass through his tears.

Perry rested his hand on the
wooden cross, the cheap wood rough on his hands. It was enough to
capsize him.

‘
I swear to
you God,’ he lifted his head to the heavens, the anger burning his
throat, ‘and I promise you Pa. The thief who took a year of my
life, who stopped you from…’ his voice choked, ‘seeing me again…and
left you here in this…this…shithole!’ he looked about him, ‘I will
make him pay with his life.’

Downtown was heavy with the
bustle of port life: boys weaved around the crowds playing chase
and street hawkers yelled out. ‘Fish! Get your fish!’ and ‘Fresh
Veg, right here! Come and get it!’

Perry stalked across the road,
eyes fixed on the window of a cream-coloured building. It was
higher up than he remembered, this window that he and Eva had
jumped down from to escape that bastard Dr Fairbanks. Presently,
the blinds were pulled down and the window shut, but shadows
flickered between the blind’s slats like the keys of a pianola. His
heart raced – someone was inside. He felt the switchblade in his
pocket, ran his finger over the catch ready to release the
spring.

Perry rounded the corner; his
breathing grew heavy, his fingers sweaty around the knife in his
pocket. He skipped up the steps and let himself inside. The man
working on reception was a pudgy balding man, not the one Perry
remembered, a Cecil or a Cyril? He couldn’t remember which.

‘
Can I help
you?’ the receptionist looked up from his desk.

‘
To see Dr
Fairbanks please,’ Perry said.

‘
Dr Fairbanks?
It’s been a good while since he was here.’

‘
When will he
be back? I can wait.’

‘
No, you
misunderstand. Dr Fairbanks retired, this is a dentist
now.’

‘
Oh,’ Perry
slackened, took his hand from his pocket and scratched the back of
his neck, ‘I’ve been abroad, brought something back for him. I was
hoping to see him today.’

‘
Not to
worry,’ the receptionist opened a drawer and flicked through a
sheaf of papers. ‘Ah, here we are. His address,’ the receptionist
flattened it on the desk and copied it down onto a scrap of paper.
He ripped it off and held it out to Perry.

‘
Here you go
lad.’

‘
You’ve been
most helpful.’

On his way out he examined the
paper in his palm, a half hour walk away.

Evening fell and the moon was
out early, casting soft shadows on Cuckoo Lane. Slimy leaves kept
Perry’s footsteps silent as he crept along the perimeter wall of Dr
Fairbank’s property. Above the wall, he spied a chimney belching
out smoke – a good sign that Fairbanks was in – and spidery tree
branches extending to the sky, some possible cover, or a means down
into the property if he could get up the wall.

He took a couple of steps back
and ran at the wall, planting his foot against the bricks, pushing
up and reaching for the top with his fingertips. He couldn’t find
purchase and slipped back, landing to the floor with a thud. The
ground was cold and hard, but unperturbed he got up again, brushed
the mud and leaves off his backside and lined up again.

‘
Come on!’ he
rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet to psych himself up
and pushed off, harder this time, attacking the wall with more
power than before, pushing his hand up higher this time and
catching the top with his fingertips. The strain of his whole
weight ripped at him as he hung on the top of the wall. A fortnight
ago he would have made easy work of it, but the sickness on
the
Olinda
had
weakened him. He scrambled and managed to get his second hand up
with his first.

‘
Ngh!’ he
cried with the effort and hauled himself up the wall. Once on the
top he rested there for a few beats, catching his breath. There was
no tree near enough to clamber down, so he lowered his legs, then
his arms, holding on to the ledge until the very last moment. He
fell and landed on the floor with a crack, falling back on to the
ground. He looked at the sky above and groaned, waiting to be hit
by an explosion of pain. It didn’t come. Brushing twigs and small
branches off his jumper, he got up, checked his pockets. The knife
was still there.

The orchard
was a small one, apple trees he guessed from their stunted height,
but it was hard to tell in the dark. Glad of their cover, he hid
behind one and then dashed forth to the next until he was close to
the house. All the upstairs windows were dark, but it was too early
for bed. At the farthest window on the ground floor, a large woman
flashed a knife up and down - the cook? Next to that there was a
set of patio doors, dark behind. He crept low, staying in shadow
and tried the patio door. Locked. Inside, a fire flickered its
light on an empty armchair. He tried the window, slithering his
fingers underneath and pushing up. It moved. He lifted it up,
quietly as he could and listened for a moment.
Chop - Chop
came from the kitchen,
the fire crackled and spat. Headfirst, he squirmed in like a snake
and eased himself down silently onto the carpeted floor. He
listened again until he was sure he’d not been heard, rose, and
closed the window down behind him. He drew out his knife, flicked
the blade open and held it in front of him, his arm steady, secure
with purpose.

The living room had two exits;
one carried the sounds of kitchen work, Perry took the other. His
breathing light and shallow, he crouched low when he got to the
doorway and peered around the frame as a cat might. It was a study;
a desk below the garden window had a set of candles, flames
swaying. He stepped in and saw that it was no normal study, though
it had dozens of shelves on each wall, only a few held books. The
rest of the shelf space was filled with huge jars. Curious, he took
one of the candles from the desk, cupped his hand around the flame
and brought the light close. There was something black in the milky
fluid, but he couldn’t see what. He gave it a tap with the tip of
his blade, rocking the jar, agitating the liquid, making the black
thing move inside, revolve round until he saw what it was; a
tarantula.