The Law of Dreams (20 page)

“Never fear.”

“I saved you — they'd have finished you. Don't go
without me.”

Arthur sucked his pipe and blew a mouthful of smoke at Fergus. “All
right then — I won't.”

* * *

HE SAT
smoking a Kentucky cheroot
while a black whore called Betsy cut his hair.

“Side-whiskers is what is wanted for effect,” she said.
“They're elegant.”

The Dragon was scrubbed every morning by an army of barefoot,
Irishspeaking maids, supervised by Mary. Fleeing the wet mops and steaming laundry tubs,
the whores came trooping up to the attic, carrying their breakfast things: jugs of milk
and tea, plates of bread and butter, bacon, a basket of oranges. They came yawning, with
scraps of oily paper twisted in their hair, wearing print gowns over petticoats, lisle
stockings, and soft sheepskin boots. Aromas of carbolic and beeswax drifted up the
stairs after them, mixing with the scent of buttered toast, tea, and fruit.

He was passionate for the oranges; he had never tasted more satisfying
food.

“He's too small for side-whiskers,” said a tall skinny
whore called Jenny, watching Betsy cut his hair.

Barbering was a fad with them. Every morning after breakfast, Fergus and
Arthur were washed, clipped, and greased with various pomades. The whores oiled their
feet and hands, cut their nails square, dabbed on varnish. They were convinced that
skill at barbering would win them husbands, and spent their pocket money on cigars,
ribbons, and fat little books with pictures of gentlemen's mustachios,
side-whiskers, and waxed beards.

“A proper-run house needs a pearl boy,” said Betsy.
“I'd make him a velvet coat.”

“Would you like to stay with us, Fergus?” Jenny asked.

He nodded.

Betsy smiled and kissed his nose. “A man with nowt to say is a gift
of God.”

The whores lounged on his bed or pillows on the floor, smoking little clay
pipes, drinking tea.

“With side-whiskers, he would look like a cavalryman,” Betsy
said.

Her dark cheeks were rough in sunlight —
rough as a road
,
he thought — but she was beautiful, they all were.

“Shall you stay at the Dragon, Fergus, and be our pearl boy?”
Jenny asked.

“Down the railway line I'm going, along with Arthur
McBride.”

“Down the line, down the line!” Betsy said sharply.
“Don't you know there's nothing down there but broken heads and broken
backs?”

“Arthur says it's the life.”

“You oughtn't listen.”

“I never meet a railway navvy with any gentleness,” Jenny
said. “I suppose whatever they have gets knocked out of them.”

“Worse than sailors,” Betsy said.

“For all the great wages, the navvies are always poor. Never with a
penny left, after a spree. Whoever heard of a rich navvy?”

“This house needs a pearl boy,” Betsy said. “Look at
you, you'll be a handsome fellow when you fill out. The wags would like him,
don't you think, Jenny?”

“Very strong they would. Eat him alive.”

“He's too small for the railway. They'd drop him in a
hole. Stay with us, Fergus. I'll make you a green coat and waistcoat. There, now
you are trim.” Betsy stepped back to examine her work. “Very
beau
.” She kissed him on the cheek.

He loved his sunny attic room, the smoke from their pipes and cheroots
drifting and winding in the light. Were all women as generous? Around them the air was
always warm.

He thought of Luke in the scalpeen, breathing the smell of cold ground and
dry leaves and her —

Drop the past. Drop it.

You can't eat it can you.

The old world's crushed.

Life burns hot.

ON ST. STEPHEN'S
day the whores were going out
driving in the country in a hired coach, with bottles of champagne, their dinner packed
in baskets.

Fergus wished to go along, and the whores begged Shea to let him.

“No. You aren't strong enough yet. Not for English
air.”

“I feel much better.” He
was
better, though he still
suffered from screams and sweats at night, often awakening near dawn in a bed sour with
piss. Mary left extra sets of linens folded neatly on his chair and he would change the
sheets himself, with the Dragon safely asleep, and no other sounds but claws scratching
wood as the house cats roamed the hallways, stalking mice. He
usually went back to sleep, and always awoke feeling hopeful, daylight streaming in his
room.

He was hungry now for the taste of the outside, but Shea shook her head.
“Soon. Not yet. Arthur won't be coming out neither — there are men
watching the house. I don't want him seen. You can keep him company.”

HIS ROOM
seemed bleak with all the girls away except
Mary. In the middle of the afternoon Arthur came upstairs to smoke a pipe and began
pacing restlessly, smoke streaming.

“Iron Mike says they have sluggers from Glasgow who'll murder
anyone for half a crown.”

“We'll be going on the tramp quite soon, won't
we?”

“Why? Don't you like the Dragon?” Stopping at the
window, Arthur peered down at the street. “I can't live this way much
longer, bundled up like a precious.”

He sat down on the bed, puffing his pipe in great fumes. The cuts on his
face were healing black and small.

“I like it here. But it isn't the railway line, is
it?”

“No, thank God.”

“When are we going, Arthur?”

“Navvy work would kill you.”

“It wouldn't.”

“You don't know what a rough business it is.”

“I'm stronger every day.”

“They don't care on the contracts. If you break your back or
burst your heart, why, there's always another fellow to pick up the
shovel.”

“I could do it, Arthur.”

“I'll tell you the truth, Fergus. You'd be better off
staying right here at the Dragon and becoming a pearl boy for the wags.”

Fergus stared at him.

“Don't look at me so,” Arthur laughed. “It's
easy money. Wags like the young Irish navvies, but they're frightened of us too.
They'll pay extras like mad — I had a fellow once buy me a suit of clothes.
It don't hurt much. You get used to it.”

Others were never who you wanted them to be. Never so
brave, loyal, intelligent. They hardly looked at you. They couldn't see you
clearly; they didn't care to.

“Where do you think I got these boots? Pearl boy's not so bad.
Not much chance of getting hurt — not like navvying. You can always do a wag
pretty easy. It's good money.”

“It's good money down the railway line, you said.”

“Pearl boy is better money than railway wage. Come, come,
don't get all peevish with me. You don't own boots. Not even a hat. You owe
her everything you have. Who's kept you alive, after all? You can give it a try,
can't you?”

Fergus stared at the wall, trying to hide his tears.

“What you think I did when first I came over? I was green as you.
Pearl boy won't bust you, you aren't made of glass! Look at the girls. If
they can, why can't you? It ain't so different as on the contracts, Fergus.
A railway contractor hires your skin, same as a wag — only the wag pays better.
Come now, we're your friends here, are we not?”

“You said we'd go down the line together, Arthur.”

“I said I wouldn't go without you, and I won't. If you
don't like the business, Fergus, why you can always give it up. Only give it a
try. It wouldn't be fair, after all she's done for you, just to up and quit
the Dragon, would it? We are your friends here. I tell you, Fergus, you won't find
life so sweet down the line. You won't have the girls grooming you there. Come
along, it's only sporting. I'll tell Shea to fix you a nice mild old gent.
It's not the end of the world. Some of them only want you ten minutes. Nice quick
money. Will you do it so? What do you say? Look at me.”

He tried but could not look Arthur in the face; had to look away.

“She can't afford to keep you much longer, without you paying
your way. She'd have to turn you out. And where will you be? Without so much as a
shirt of your own? Don't be angry.”

It wasn't anger, and it cut deeper than disappointment.

“Listen, Fergus, there's many fellows do the same. The Dragon
gave me good boots, put the meat on my bones and brass in my pocket. Come, Fergus, say
you will try. For the love of your old friends.”

He remembered the Night Asylum — the emigrant men roaming the
aisles, looking for a box to lay their bones in.

“Say you will try it. That's all she asks. Christ, Fergus,
everyone needs a stake. You can't get into England with empty pockets and nothing
on your feet. England's a killer — don't you know that yet? Come, man,
say you will try the business. For the love of your old friends. Who else is there,
after all, that cares for you? Say you will try.”

Who are you, alone?

Fergus nodded.

“There it is,” Arthur said, taking out a clean handkerchief
and gently wiping Fergus's face. “I knew it. I told her you was
game.”

“Only until I get what I need. Only until I pay her back.”

“Yes, yes, then we'll go down the line together.”

Standing up and returning to the window, Arthur peered out again.

“Do you see them?” Fergus asked.

“See who?”

“Sluggers. From Glasgow.”

“I see no one tonight. Will you come downstairs and drink your tea
in the kitchen with Mary and Iron Mike?”

“I'm tired. I'd best stay here.”

Looking out the window again, Arthur said, “I tell you, man,
sometimes I'm wishing I'd never stabbed their fucking drum. It has brought
me more trouble than honor.”

“It was bold.”

“Bold? Yes. Bold it was. And what else is there, eh?” Arthur
said, with some of his old cheerfulness. “I gave them all a glory show,
didn't I? Never mind that Shea — she's got me down. She's
changed too much. She's too careful now. No one ever made his mark, being
careful.”

AFTER ARTHUR
had gone downstairs, he got out of bed and
crossed to the window.

It was getting dark outside, and looked cold as iron. Everything quiet.
Winter was set now.

Somewhere through Liverpool's passagework of brick and stone was the
estuary smelling of the sea. The great stone docks hectic with steamers. Cattle and
emigrants pouring out of Ireland, clawing their way.

Using his fingernail, he peeled curls of frost from the glass and thought
of Luke. How softly they lay, their bodies connected.

Scent of peat. Crispness of the old, dry bracken. Deep old scent of her, a
fire burned down to black.

Could you ever feel so complete again?

No. It didn't seem possible.

Not here, not in this world of stone.

HE WAS
to come down to the piano room, for tea. This was
where gentlemen peering through peepholes would make their selections.

Shea sent up his pearl boy clothes. Trousers that strapped taut under the
arches of his feet. A nankeen waistcoat and a ruffled shirt.

He sat grimly on the stool as Betsy powdered his face and painted his lips
maroon. Hating the look and feel of the thin, glossy slippers Shea insisted that he
wear.

“You're frightened ain't you?” Betsy said.
“Hold still a moment. I know it. I was younger than you when I started in. Still
am frightened. Just a little. Just enough.”

He looked at her and couldn't speak. Couldn't open his
mouth.

“The business won't kill you, Fergus. You can put some money
by. She won't use you badly if you play her fair. If you don't cause
trouble. Listen, we must all make our way, mustn't we?”

“I'll go on the tramp. With Arthur.”

“Is that so.”

Betsy was silent for a while, applying waxy red lacquer from a silver pot,
daubing it on his lips. The stuff tasted pitchy, like tree gum.

“I'm out of St. Vincent, Fergus — do you know what it
is?”

He shook his head.

“An island off in the Caribee, it is. Come to Liverpool aboard the
sugar ship
Angel Clare
with a gentleman, a planter's son, who made
promises he didn't keep, and turned me off the moment he smelled England.

“Before Shea found me, I was living along the docks, if you call it
living. Ship riggers, sailors, and barrow men was my trade. I worked for pennies, or for
a cup of gin. Sometimes they wouldn't pay me even that. Many mornings, I'd
go
down to Woodside landing stage, stand there for hours as it rose
and fell on the tide. Watch the butchers' boys rushing cattle on the barges, and
think of throwing myself in the river.

“After she found me, she bathed me herself, fed me, and gave me a
clean bed, and I didn't do no business at first, but only helped in the scullery.
Then she said I could turn to, if I wanted a little pocket money to spend. Otherwise she
might not be able to afford my keep. Said she'd never let any man hurt me, and
more or less, it's true. I have been going strong almost six years. I have had the
jumps, had raging womb twice, and I shouldn't expect as I ever should have a baby
of my own since I'm all peculiar down there now — since that last surgeon,
who weren't nothing but a butcher.

“All I'm saying, Fergus, is, the Dragon will keep you alive,
and it's not so bad here. Only don't stay too long. Not like me or like
Arthur.”

“Arthur and I are going on the tramp.”

“No. Arthur isn't going navvying anytime soon. He prefers life
here at the Dragon. And when he leaves, he doesn't go navvying. Hasn't
tramped for years. He crosses back to Ireland, cursing Shea, cursing England, saying he
never shall return. But he always does, and never gets past the Dragon.