Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (9 page)

‘
Keep it. I got
me a new one in town last night.’

Immensely grateful, Perry fell
back onto the bundle of blankets and rubbed his temples.

He registered Joel returning
later in his half-dozy sleep, the rain still pattering on the roof.
When he woke on Sunday, he felt like he hadn’t slept a wink. Joel
spoke to him, telling him about some Frenchman he’d brought back
for Ma and Perry did his best to listen, but his head was throbbing
something dreadful. By evening he was no better and the door in his
mind that was closed to the idea of him having The Sick, was now
ajar.

Joel came in with a mug of tea
and lantern, the low glow shot rays of pain direct into Perry’s
head.

‘
Ma’s asking
questions.’

‘
Tell her I’m
just sleepy.’

‘
If she thinks
you’ve got The Sick she’ll chuck you out – or worse.’

‘
I’m fine, just
tired is all,’ Perry tautened the blankets around him.

‘
You’ve been in
bed all weekend, how can you be tired? You need to see a
doctor.’

‘
Not
happening.’

The steam from the tea rose
between them in the amber light.

‘
You best rest
then.’

‘
Joel. I am!
Right now I’m going to sleep,’ Perry turned over. He could feel
Joel watching him, considering him.

‘
If you ain’t
better by morning, I’m going to fetch a doctor.’

‘
Just a
headache, that’s all. Nothing a bit of sleep can’t fix,’ he
murmured and shut his eyes.

Perry woke as if struck. His
head felt full. What time was it? Joel was asleep in the other
corner of the room. Rain lashed against the window so loud it might
have been the side of his head. He wrapped the pillow around his
ears. It didn’t help. His throat was so dry, swallowing cut like
knives. He kicked off his blanket and sat up. Clammy with sweat, he
peeled off his nightshirt. A cool draft engulfed his sweat-soaked
body. He shivered and coughed, flooding his throat with mucus.

The cough. It was guttural and
clogged, just like Mrs Donnegan’s. Scared and panicked, he grabbed
the lantern and grew the flame. Perry tiptoed across the hallway
into the kitchen and riffled through the drawers, finding the
biggest knife he could. He grabbed a rag and rubbed the blade’s
surface. It was obvious; staring back at him in the strip of metal
was a different person, a goblin version of himself.

The knife fell from his hand
and clattered to the floor. It was nearly a week since he’d left
Mrs Donnegan’s. How was this possible? He looked about him at the
rotting damp cold of the kitchen and despaired. Not here, not in
this house. This was no place to die.

He didn’t want to expose Joel
any more than he already had; his friend had been kind to him.
Perry threw on his clothes, picked up his blanket and tucked it
under his arm. The window slid up easily. He swung a leg out.

‘
Sorry,’ he
whispered to the bundle of sleep that was Joel. Perry lowered
himself onto the coal shed and jumped down to the
ground.

Rain lashed across his face and
hair, the cool air soothed his fiery cheeks. He slid down the muddy
alleyway, steadying himself on the houses either side. He was so
thirsty. In front of the Mission he paused at a puddle, spiked with
rain. He stooped and cupped his hands into the freezing water and
slowly brought them up to his lips.

A black rat
scurried past; its dark sheen glistened in the slimy light. Perry
let the brown liquid seep between his fingers and back into the
puddle, he couldn’t drink
that
, no matter how desperate. He
tilted back his head and let the arrows of rain hit his raw throat
instead. It was scant relief and only made him
thirstier.

He wiped his hands on his
trousers and tried the Mission door, wondering if it was ever open.
His eyes welled up and his head filled with regret. He suddenly
wanted to see his Pa again, to look upon Eva once more and to find
the boys. He wanted to see how the littleuns would turn out, and
whether Rodney became a master sweep. But all that was left for him
was what he was surrounded by; mud, rain and rats. He wiped his
nose on his sleeve.

‘
Argh!’ he
kicked the puddle in anger, the water splaying up on the Mission
steps, soaking his trousers. ‘What a pile of shit!’

His yells scorched his throat.
He touched his Adam’s apple with his thumb and forefinger and tried
to massage the pain away - but it would not abate. This, he
realised, would not be a painless death. He had no control over
that. But he could decide where to confront it. At the very least,
he would have this final thing.

The fence to Mrs Donnegan’s
back yard was blackened and damaged in places. Perry found a hole
and crawled through, the wet mud soaking through his trousers and
the tattered fence snagging at his clothes. It hardly mattered
now.

The yard looked much the same,
only blacker. He rushed over to the water butt. It was full! Like a
cat he lapped at it at first, but it wasn’t quick enough, he
plunged his muddy hands into the cool water and scooped handfuls
into his mouth. He drank deep and long and kept drinking until he
could fit in no more. The rain, crawling through the mud and his
sloppy drinking had left him soaked to the bone. Drowned from
outside while this fire ate him up from within.

Mrs D’s place looked like it
might collapse at any moment, but it was his place. The kitchen
door was barely an ashen frame and inside, the old place was naught
but soot-haunted walls and ashy rubble. The memories of the times
he’d played cards with the boys or helped Mrs D with the cooking
prep or celebrated Christmas in that kitchen hit him with a warm
glow. He was glad that this would be his resting place.

The pantry was miraculously
untouched by fire and he gauged it was just long enough, so he
rolled out his blanket, stripped and wrung out his soggy clothes.
Drowsy, he hung the clothes over the shelves and finally lay down.
His skin was hot and fiery and he rested his hands on his chest.
With the pantry door open, a gentle breeze drifted over him. If he
lifted his head he could see a small triangle of sky, his
destination perhaps.

Perry came to. Head hot as
fire. He staggered through the darkness and found the water butt,
dunked his head into its depths, gulped and drank. The water was
oddly warm and bubbling around him. He yanked his head out. Some
creature breathing in its depths?

The water rumbled, then bubbles
sizzled and popped. Steam rose into the night air. He dipped his
finger in.

‘
Argh!’ he
quickly drew it out and sucked but it wasn’t burnt. He staggered
back to bed, the hissing water seethed behind him. Sleep came, some
friend.

Birds woke him. Crows cawing.
Perry felt too tired to open his eyes and see how close they were.
On the back of his eyelids he imagined a beak on the other side,
about to strike.

Bright sun in the window. Too
weak even to brush away flies crawling around his lips.

Cold. Stars. Pin pricks of
light.

Bells.

He was cold now. Freezing. His
clothes were dry and crisp. He tugged them down from the shelves
and pulled them on. In the yard. It was dusk. Or dawn. It didn’t
matter. The water butt was still and calm again and he drank,
though he could barely swallow. His fingers ran over his throat,
raw and swollen. Everything went black.

He woke again, slumped against
the water butt. The sky was pitch black, like the house itself.
Drizzle, feather light and gentle, spotted down around him. He took
another drink and returned to the pantry. He was hungry and tired
and had no energy. He tried to think, to focus on something good.
The littleuns. Joel. Good, kind-hearted Joel. How pointless it had
all been. Then his mind rested upon Eva, the girl with the yellow
hair. It warmed him like an inner sun.

8

Light leaked in to the pantry,
lancing his eyes. He was exhausted and weak, how long had he been
asleep? Two whole days? Three? He could explore the grooves of his
ribs with his fingers. God he was thin. At least he was hungry and
that had to be a good sign.

There was no point checking the
dusty shelves, he already knew there was no food. If he could make
any grub in the world magically appear, what would it be? Mutton
stew and fresh bread. Leek and Potato soup perhaps. No, it would
have to be a fry-up stacked with burnt bacon, fried bread,
mushrooms, tomatoes, black pud and three fried eggs.

His stomach gurgled, oh God.
Fantasising about food did him no good when he hadn’t the strength
to stand. Something stirred in him though, a faint memory. It was
something important, in the periphery, so close he could almost
grip onto it. What had made the memory resurface in the first
place? All he’d done was daydream about food.

‘
Oh my giddy
aunt!’ he yelled, ‘It’s the bloody eggs!’

His clumsy fingers scrambled
for purchase around the floorboard, up it came and there, unmarked
by the smoke of fire was the jar of pickled eggs. He let out a
gasp. How could he have forgotten? He hugged the jar to his body
and kissed the dusty glass.

He gave the lid a go, but it
was stuck fast. He cursed his own diligence; he’d obviously been
concerned the jar might have leaked while stored on its side and
automatically over-tightened it. No matter.

Perry
half-crawled, half-clawed his way into the kitchen. A squirrel
scampered along the windowsill. Outside, the sky was bright and
blue.
Come on, you can do this, just a bit
further.

He made it to
the water butt. He let the sun’s rays cascade upon his face and
then, using both hands, launched the jar against the wall. The
glass smashed with a satisfying crack. Vinegar glugged to the
ground and five eggs rolled freely in the dirt.
Perry cleaned the first egg in the water butt and popped it in
whole. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

An hour later,
thirst quenched and eggs eaten, he had the strength to stand. In
the hallway, he found a black mound of old coats hanging from a
peg. He unhooked it and the pile collapsed to the ground, landing
with a
whoomph,
kicking up soot and dust, making him cough. The outer layers
were brittle and disintegrated easily, but in the core, he found
something familiar and unscathed by the fire, protected by the
outer coats that hung over it.

It was one of Mrs Donnegan’s
cardigans, dark blue and woollen. He remembered she used to wear it
sometimes when she did her knitting in the kitchen of a morning,
thread wheels sagging her pockets down. He sniffed the musty thing
and slipped his arms through the holes. It felt warm and snug
around him.

What was left of the front door
hung open and Perry fell out into the street.

‘
Look Mum!’ a
boy was pointing at him. A woman was leading a horse a little
further down the street.

‘
What day is
it?’ Perry asked him.

‘
What you
say?’

Perry realised his voice came
out in a croak.

‘
What day is
it?’ he managed, a little louder.

The mother stopped and took
Perry in.

‘
Simon! Get
away from him!’ she cried. ‘Simon, quick, come ‘ere! Now!’ she
beckoned her son over, but the boy was looking at Perry like he was
some freak unloaded at the docks for the London shows.

‘
It’s
Saturday,’ the boy said.

Of course it was, Perry
thought, the boy wasn’t at school and the horse was laden. It must
be market day. He had been gone for six days.

In the Ward he stopped at the
bakery.

‘
Spare some
grub miss?’

‘
Get out of it!
You lot think we’re-’ she trailed off when she saw him.

‘
Flamin’ heck,
here take this,’ she threw him a cob.

Perry caught it and sunk his
teeth in. With each bite, a smidgen of life returned to him. It
seemed like he’d beaten The Sick, but he was too weary to feel any
joy.

Perry staggered through the
Ward to Ma’s alley. He leant on the wall for support and banged
twice.

Joel opened, ‘Perry! I thought
you was dead,’ his voice was strained.

They threw their arms around
one another.

‘
So did
I.’

9

A week later and Perry was
nearly back to full strength. While he had been recovering, things
with Ma had deteriorated considerably. Joel had failed to bring her
a punter for five days running. Their value to Ma was dwindling by
the hour. A miserable wretch of a woman she most certainly was, but
she was all that stood between them and a life on the street.

It was early evening, Joel was
out and Perry was resting in his room. Ma had taken to occupying
the kitchen and was singing old sailor songs. She had no sweet
voice, but Perry guessed it might keep the rats away. A few minutes
later he heard snoring and took it as his cue to see if there was
any food to swipe. Ma’s forehead was planted squarely on the
kitchen table, an empty bottle of gin in her lap. Her wiry bunch of
hair rose and fell with irregular snores. He felt a pang of sorrow
for her. Any future he could imagine for her was only an ugly
one.

The Ward was full of more of
the same; the man with boils on his face who pushed the cabbage
cart down French Street or the shoeless urchins of Blue Anchor
Lane. Ma, Joel and him…their ugly futures were all intertwining,
infecting one another, spreading like The Sick. The sooner he could
untie his fortunes with this place, the better. He had survived The
Sick, been given the chance to make something of himself and he
intended to take it.