Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

By Chris Hannon

"With each step, the figure grew larger; he was on the edge, facing out to sea, back turned to Perry’s approach. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the knife at all, a push might be all that it would take."

In this transatlantic victorian tale, love and betrayal aren't oceans apart.

In darkest Southampton the alleyways are rife with schemers and tricksters and Perry Scrimshaw considers himself the very best. The port is a dangerous, plague–ridden place with dockers threatening to riot. In the chaos, Perry attempts a swindle so ambitious it will set him up for life with the girl he loves. But Perry isn’t the only trickster in town. When his plans go violently wrong, he faces the struggle of his life...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Hannon
• Release date: Dec 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311420060

Chris Hannon

Indie author of 'Perry Scrimshaw', traveller and part-time optimist.

Book preview

Prologue

The crescent moon cut belts of shimmering silver onto the black water beyond. Perry gazed up at the desolate sky, clear and starry. Was God watching him? Wooden decking creaked underfoot, though he trod cautiously, seeking out forms in the shadows under the iron benches and checking behind for ambushes. The icy breeze buffeted and nipped at his ears, water licked and lapped in the darkness, stifling his senses. At the end of the wharf there stood a figure, black as a crow, waiting for him to come.

Perry took a moment to dab a handkerchief at the worst of his cuts, though there were too many to attend to. He settled for tying it around the biggest wound on his knee. The pain was sharp and true. He cursed his stupidity for falling for that old trick, one he had played himself when he was younger. But that wasn’t what really hurt, what really fuelled the anger and hatred deep within. Would killing him assuage it? Right the wrongs? Perry didn’t know anymore, but he knew he would continue on to the end of the wharf.

With each step, the figure grew larger; he was on the edge, facing out to sea, back turned to Perry’s approach. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the knife at all, a push might be all that it would take.

1

Bishopstoke, Hampshire, 1883

Atop a ladder, Samuel Scrimshaw could see his kitchen table through the hole in the roof. He had a lead sheet ready and his hammer was cradled safely in the iron guttering. Samuel covered the hole with his palm.

‘Perhaps I should just stay up here and plug the breach with my hand,’ he called down. It had been a rainy springtime and he’d patched it up three times already. If only he could haul summer closer with his bare hands…it would be less work.

‘No,’ his son’s voice carried up, ‘who’d cook for us if you’re stuck up there?’

‘Well,’ he took four nails from his pocket, ‘I suppose I’d come down if it wasn’t raining,’ he placed the nails between his teeth and slid the lead sheet over the hole.

‘Who’d walk me to school if it was raining?’

Inwardly, he tightened. It was Perry’s schooling that meant he couldn’t afford to replace the leaky tap in the kitchen or repair the roof properly. Samuel plucked the first nail from between his teeth and slotted it into the hole in the corner of the sheet. Making young ‘uns attend school by law and expecting common folk like him to stand the cost didn’t seem fair or right. It was hardly the boy’s fault but still, what was wrong with starting a prenticeship early? He brought the hammer down with a satisfying thump.

Once the sheet was in place he climbed down.

‘That should do it,’ he said, ‘thanks for holding me steady.’ He mussed up Perry’s golden-brown hair with his big gardener’s hands. Perry beamed back at him. ‘Can we go guddlin’ now?’

‘I thought you might say that.’

Bishopstoke was a small place, caught between Winchester and Southampton, provided for by the changeable River Itchen and surrounding woodland. Perry’s favourite guddling spot was a short hike into the woods. On the way, they both gathered kindling and small branches. Samuel tied them into a bundle and carried them on his back. Their riverside route was damp and addled with tree roots, the air ripe with the dewy spring.

‘Silver birch,’ Samuel pointed, ‘look at that cobweb stretched across that alder.’

Perry dutifully followed his signals. Samuel guessed that he liked it, but perhaps didn’t love these small things as he did. He was only a boy after all and perhaps took for granted the countless shades of green the Lord had created. Silver water gushed past, swollen by recent rainfall. Samuel led Perry further upstream, where the trees on the bank began to thin out and a flint footbridge came into view.

‘I’m going ahead!’ and Perry sprinted off as boys that age do. By the time Samuel got to the bank, Perry was already wading into the river, trousers rolled up beyond his knees and sleeves past his elbows.

‘How cold?’

‘Very,’ Perry replied.

Brave boy. ‘Let’s see…how many will it be today?’

Samuel sat on the bank and let his feet dangle a few inches above the flow. Perry crouched below, his chin an inch or two above the rippling water. Samuel loved moments like this: wind rustling in the trees, a woodpigeon cooing from some branch above and his son, staring into the glassy current, showing patience and skill. Perry smiled. Good boy.

Slowly, Perry lifted the trout from the water as gently as if it were made of crystal.

‘Good lad,’ Samuel whispered. ‘Pop it in the bucket and get another while I deal with this one.’

Deal was a kind word. He didn’t want Perry to see him killing the fish proper. As he got to his feet, the fish squirmed and writhed, its tail flicking the pit of the bucket. It was a beaut, on its own enough for two dinners at least. He thanked the Lord for his son and this knack he had. Not even his old grandpa could match-

‘Pa?’

Samuel looked up from the slithering fish.

‘Hurry up. I’ve got another.’

That eve they feasted on fish stew, cooked up with onions, leeks and carrots all grown by his own hand on the Hebblesworth estate. He tucked Perry in and lay on his own bed across the room. Though he wasn’t sleepy yet, he liked to lie in the warmth and thumb through pages of his tattered bible by candlelight. He didn’t have his letters, but it felt good to hold something holy while he assembled his prayers in his mind. He prayed his wife was looking down on them favourably, keeping them both safe and healthy.

Before sleep finally came, he was dimly aware of movement in the bed opposite. Perry wriggled and laughed through his dreams yelling out ‘hey leave that, it’s my slate!’ and ‘Five and twelve is seventeen!’

Schooling or no, it was good to see his boy learning some.

At the start of June, Samuel, the two other gardeners, the maids, servants and kitchen staff were told to assemble on the lawn in front of Hebblesworth House. It was the wife, Lady Hebblesworth who addressed them, talking at length about the stock exchange before Samuel realised what was happening. The husband, he assumed, was cowering inside somewhere. Only one maid and the cook were to be kept on.

He queued on the perfect lawn with the rest, waiting for his envelope.

‘Thanks.’ he took it off Lady Hebblesworth, but didn’t mean his words. He felt the sorrow in her eyes. She hated having to do this. It was wrong; this wasn’t woman’s work. He almost felt sorry for her but however bad their fortunes, they wouldn’t struggle to feed their son. He walked away, tearing open the envelope. A week’s pay. Dread filled his heart.

Hands trembling, he stalked over to the flowerbed and yanked a digging fork up from the soil.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ one of the gardeners said.

The spikes were blunted and claggy with soil. All eyes were on him.

‘What’s he doing?’ murmured Lady Hebblesworth, her hand flush against her chest.

What was he doing? He wasn’t sure. He glanced up at the house. Was that a figure in one of the windows? The husband? The spineless bastard who couldn’t meet the wronged faces of his own mistakes?

‘Sam?’ one of the maids said, taking a step towards him.

He met the troubled faces but found he had nothing to say. His son. That was what mattered. Digging fork still in hand, he stormed away from the house, away from the frightened people on the Hebblesworth lawn. Samuel snatched up a weeding sack. At the vegetable patch, he stabbed the fork down, half-imagining it was Mr Hebblesworth’s throat. When he levered up the soil, there was no blood. Just a clutch of carrots. He tossed the stolen vegetables in his weeding sack and moved the fork along to the next lot.

Summer passed, but Samuel couldn’t find regular work. He foraged for berries and wild mushrooms, went fishing while Perry was at school - at least he’d scraped enough together for the boy’s tuition.

One November’s eve, he sat with Perry by the hearth, warming his feet by the fire. Samuel felt the cold more now that he was thinner. Perry’s weight held up right enough, always accepting the bigger portions: a father’s toll. Gusts of wind buffeted the house, whipping the fire into a mesmerising dance in the hearth.

‘It’s amazing ain’t it?’ Perry said.

The fire crackled and hissed. ‘A warm fire’s the heart of any home. Throw another log on will you son?’

Perry slithered out from under his blanket. Samuel rubbed his hands together and splayed them out to the flames.

The front door creaked. ‘Pa?’

‘Any of them will do Perry, they’re all dry.’

‘There’s some people here.’

Samuel twisted round. Perry was flanked either side by a policeman, one with a heavy black moustache. In the soft light, their uniforms were dark midnight blue, buttons glittered silver.

‘Come to me Perry,’ he turned to the policemen. ‘Don’t you fellows knock?’

‘We were about to but then the boy opened the door.’

‘Are you Samuel Scrimshaw?’ cut in the other.

‘Yes, what’s this about?’

‘Perhaps you should send your boy to his room for a minute.’

A cold shiver ran through him, he looked down at Perry, clutching onto his hip. ‘Go on son, to the bedroom.’

Perry did as he was told.

The moustachioed policeman took a step towards him, ‘I think you know what this is about.’

He did.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘it was only for my boy. Some blackberries, a few apples here and there. We can barely scrape together enough to eat, please.’

The policeman had a set of wooden cuffs dangling in his right hand. Surely they weren’t here to take him away? This was all wrong.

‘Please…I-’

‘-Apples did you say? Wasn’t at Mr Sexton’s place past the Anchor inn?’

‘It was,’ he admitted slowly, wondering why two policemen would be sent to question a scrumper. Wasn’t there enough real crime going on? But he knew he couldn’t say as much.

‘They’ve an orchard there, fruit just falling to waste and rotting on the ground. Me and my boy have to eat - you wouldn’t put a man in lockup for that, surely?’

‘You’re right, I doubt we would,’ said the shorter one, ‘only you knocked into one of the housemaids when you ran away.’

He searched his memory, yes, he had, but a bump was all. ‘Aye, I was filling my sack with apples when I heard the yell from the house. I was ashamed. I’m no thief by nature. I didn’t want the Sexton’s to see my face, so I ran through the orchard to the back way. Only I was running so fast through the gate, I didn’t see her. She was coming the other way. I bundled her over to be sure and she was shocked some, but I checked she was fine before I went on my way. She was a dumpling of a woman, plenty of fat to break her fall.’

He smiled at the policemen, hoping the story would find some chord within them, that they might know he was a plain enough man, not given to this sort of thing. They both glared back at him with a stony expression.

‘Fat you say?’

‘Aye, she was.’

‘Pregnant more like.’

‘What?’

‘She lost the babe.’

His mind went white as if punched in the head. He barely felt the cuffs land on his wrists and he had to be led to the doorway for he couldn’t think his feet into moving. It was only when he got into the police carriage and the policeman took his seat opposite that he thought to ask.

‘My boy, what will happen to him?’

‘Any living relatives?’

Samuel shook his head.

‘There are places, homes that get a stipend from the parish, we’ll find him a place somewhere.’

Numb, Samuel nodded. The carriage lurched forward. He cleared the foggy glass with his sleeve. The other policeman was there, Perry at his side, his little hand raised, and waving him goodbye.

2

Southampton, April 1890

7 years later

With a long drag on its horn, a great steamship eased through the Solent, black smoke belching from its funnels and burrowing into the heavenly sky. The horn’s echo was colossal enough to touch every brick in the town and reach the ear of every man who called this den of a port home.

At the dry docks a ship was in for repairs, its red funnels gleaming in the spring sunshine. The metal stays were so straight, thick and true that an artist might have ruled them against the sky. It was chaos around the ship; metalworkers, carpenters, furnishers, prenticeboys and lackeys alike swarmed around, ordering, carrying, pointing, sawing and hammering. Nearby, there was a fenced compound used to store the decking timber and house the exotic wood furnishings for the First Class areas. Foolishly, a single watchman alone guarded this goldmine.

At the back fence, in grey bakers boy cap and jacket done up to the neck, Perry Scrimshaw whistled a tune. At his side was an empty barrow, rusted with age. A lackey rounded the corner, an apish lad with meat-chop sideburns, pushing a barrow full of sand, the wheel squeaking rhythmically with each revolution. Perry stooped and pretended to tie his laces. The lackey passed and paid him no mind.

Perry rose to his full height again, checked the coast was clear and tapped his elbow twice against the fence. A wood plank appeared above and Perry negotiated its safe passage over to his side and balanced it on his wheelbarrow.

‘Quick, post over the rest,’ he hissed.

Four pieces passed over, one at a time, three more decking planks and a rounded mahogany piece. The last was surprisingly heavy for its size and he had to shuffle the other pieces to even out the weight in the barrow. Next were some smaller pieces, pine by the looks of it, about the size of chopping boards. He turned one around in his hand. They were chopping boards, destined for the ship’s kitchen he supposed.

‘That’ll do,’ a voice came from the other side.

‘Come on then, quick, it’s still clear.’

There was a scramble on the other side, fingers appeared on top of the fence followed by a grunt and then the gritted face of Peter appeared. He was the second eldest in Mrs Donnegan’s pack of boys, behind Perry, and was a little taller. Puffing his cheeks, Peter hauled one leg over and sat awkwardly on the fence.

Perry heard the squeak of the barrow ape returning.

‘Quick Peter! Someone’s coming, haul Rodney up.’

Peter reached down and heaved up a second boy, all red hair and freckles. He scrambled up and over like a monkey and landed deftly on the ground. Rodney was a little scrap of a lad, just eleven and Perry thought he had the makings of a sweep, a prolific thief or perhaps both. Peter landed with a thud, just as the lackey returned, his barrow now yellow-dusted and empty. The lackey watched the three of them as he passed, glanced at the barrow of wood, but said nothing.

‘He saw us,’ Peter muttered, ‘he knows.’

‘No way,’ Rodney said his high-pitched voice, ‘long as he didn’t see us climbing in or out we’re fine.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Perry said, ‘I say we still try and sell it back to them now.’

‘Too risky,’ Peter shook his head, ‘the lackey saw us. And even if he didn’t, what if they recognise the wood as theirs? I say we take it to that carpenter on Bugle Street.’

Peter and Rodney looked to Perry for the final decision. He knew they would. He took off his cap and ran his hand through his sandy locks, making a show of giving it some thought.

‘No,’ he replaced his cap, the matter closed. ‘That tight-fist always gives us a lousy price and we’ve got too much. We can’t wheel this lot all the way over there, it’s too far,’ Perry grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow.

‘I’ll try my luck. Wait here.’

Peter folded his arms, clearly not happy. Rodney, for his part simply stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

Five minutes later, Perry returned empty-handed in a cloud of dejection.

‘I knew it,’ Peter seethed, ‘you never bloody listen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Perry said, ‘it was that mahogany tabletop – it was too recognisable.’

Peter turned on Rodney, ‘I told you not to pick that.’

Rodney scrunched up his nose. Perry could never tell if he was about to shrug or cry.

‘It’s not his fault, the mahogany was worth the most, it was a good choice. If you want to blame anyone, you should blame me.’

‘Oh I do,’ Peter jammed his finger into Perry’s chest, ‘you may be the eldest but you ain’t the smartest. Not by a long stretch. Next time, we’ll do it on my say so and we’ll go home with some coin in each of our pockets instead of bugger all!’

Perry lowered his gaze. Peter could have his tantrum.

‘Fair enough.’

The three boys walked back waterside, passing the old bathing house and then onto Simnel Street. Mrs Donnegan’s was a strange abode, usually bedecked with a brace of yellow-beaked herring gulls on its spattered roof. Noisy buggers, they were.

Barely inside the threshold and the yelps and whoops coming from the kitchen were enough to make you want to run back out. The littleuns were home. The hallway’s huge wardrobe doors were open and clothes leaked from drawers and gathered in cloth puddles on the floor.

‘What a mess.’ Perry picked a shirt from the floor - maybe his, maybe not, he could hardly tell anymore - and tossed it back into the wardrobe.

‘I’ll make us a brew boys.’

‘Thanks Perry,’ Rodney said, hopping on one foot as he tried to prise off a shoe.

Peter barged past him, bumping shoulders.

Fine, Perry thought, have your mood. They had to get along; he knew it and Peter did too. Six boys called this place home. All slept in the front room on the ground floor; their mattresses positioned strategically to allow a narrow square walkway around the room. The tight space encouraged infighting amongst the boys as much as it stifled it. Arguments were frequent but short-lived and it need be no different on this occasion. A cuppa and a night’s rest and Peter would be his friend again come morning, he’d soon see to that.

He went into the kitchen and immediately wished he hadn’t: it was bedlam. The much-prized tin bath was out, full of steaming grey water and in it cowered the youngest, Dicken. Sat on a stool, Mrs Donnegan scrubbed the boy’s back vigorously with a brush. The two other littleuns were naked, slipping and sliding around the kitchen while swordfighting with twisted towels.

‘En guarde!’

‘Yield!’

‘Evening boys,’ Perry spotted the kettle on the kitchen table. The scrubbing stopped.

‘And where the devil have you lot been? The littleuns have been back from school for hours!’

He gave Mrs D his most pacifying smile. She looked fraught, more so than usual. Her filthy grey ringlets sprouted miserably from her bonnet, half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of her sharp nose – normally so formidable and severe – made her look naught but old and haggard. He had to remember that she was old; he’d asked her years once and got his ears boxed for his trouble.

‘Trying to get another pretniceship wasn’t I? No one will take me on.’

She pointed the scrubbing brush at him. ‘They probably heard what a mess you’d made of your last two. Your name’s mud by now.’

She returned to scrubbing Dicken skin red raw, the lad was clearly in pain but they all knew better than to complain. Perry was glad he no longer had to endure one of her ‘thorough’ baths.

‘We supped without you three,’ she said and cuffed Dicken around the head, ‘come on child don’t just stand there like a spare spud,’ she handed Dicken a sponge, ‘wash behind your ears while I scrub!’

Perry filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

‘Ow, ow, ow!’

One of the swordfighters hopped up and down.

‘Has our brave knight of the realm stubbed his toe?’ Perry said.

‘For Christ’s sake child, how many times must I tell you?’ Mrs Donnegan roared, taking Perry aback. He couldn’t remember seeing her in such a foul mood. Both the swordfighters looked like they might cry, Perry stepped across and put a hand on each of their shoulders,

‘Come on boys, time for bed now. Get into your jimjams.’ He coaxed them out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. Rodney and Peter were sat with their backs to the wall poring over a tattered Penny Dreadful.

‘Stick some clothes on boys, blinkin’ hell,’ said Peter.

‘Intimidated by their size are ya?’ Perry couldn’t resist. Peter’s face flushed red and he clenched his fists.

‘Tea’s on its way,’ Perry soothed.

Mrs Donnegan was towelling Dicken, rubbing the poor lad’s head like she was trying to scour the bark off a tree.

‘There,’ she said, satisfied.

Dicken’s ears were as bright as candles.

She turned to Perry with a weathered look, ‘Can you see them all to bed tonight son? My head’s splitting like an axe through a log.’

So that’s what was eating her. ‘No problem.’

‘There’s barely cracker in, must go to the market tomorrow, help yourself to whatever you can find.’

‘Will do.’ Perry mussed up Dicken’s damp hair, transforming his black mop into a fluffy matchstick. ‘Come on. Say goodnight.’

‘Night night,’ the boy said meekly, but Mrs D was already heading out of the kitchen, her hands in front of her like a blind person as if worried she might fall. He waited, listening to the creak of the stairs and the sigh of her bedsprings. Was this what happened when you got old?

Perry put the three littleuns to bed, snuffing out the candles on the window ledge. He busied himself, taking the tub water out to wash down the privy. He blotted the kitchen floor with tea towels and poured out more tea. It was too early to sleep for the three eldest so they sat around the kitchen table, trading stories while playing a hand of Whist. Perry, contriving to finish last, underplayed his hand as convincingly as he could but still ended up beating Rodney.

Rodney was next to bed. Perry and Peter stayed up a while longer playing a subdued game of Beggar-My-Neighbour in which Peter thoroughly deserved his win. By then, they were both yawning and retired to bed themselves, tiptoeing to their mattresses amongst the soft sputter of sleep.

‘Night Peter,’ he whispered.

A long silence.

‘Night Perry.’

Friends again. Perry smiled, he hadn’t even needed to wait for morning.

Peter was a light sleeper and Perry always found it hard to tell if he was out for the count. After half an hour, Peter’s breath lengthened and as quietly as he could, Perry slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. Moonlight bathed it in an eerie jellyfish light; he didn’t even need to light a candle. He reached into his pocket and carefully lifted out a knotted handkerchief, untied it and smiled at the coins glinting within. They clinked softly in his palm as he scooped them out and laid them on the table. He scooped Mrs D’s wooden stool up and placed it at the foot of the dresser. He got on and reached to the top and grasped the old cookie tin. He gathered it to his chest and put his fingers to the lid.

‘What are you doing?’

Perry froze. It was Peter. Candle in hand, the flame flickering on his stony face.

‘Nothing.’ The word slipped out unconvincingly and he gave a guilty glance at the coins on the table. He cursed himself. How could he be so stupid? Leaving the coins there like that! Peter rested the candle down.

‘That’s the money from the wood isn’t it, you did sell it didn’t you?’

Yes Peter I scammed you, you fool, didn’t seem the best thing to say.

‘No it ain’t.’

‘Liar!’ Peter lunged and rugby tackled Perry to the floor. Peter’s speed had surprised him and being sprawled out on the floor was not his idea of a good scrapping stance. A thick punch caught the side of his head and his ear rang. Perry squirmed for position but Peter grasped a clump of hair and yanked.

‘Evil rat!’

‘Ow! Gerroff!’ his head burnt like fire, ‘stop fighting like a girl!’

‘You’re just like your Pa!’

The words struck as hard as the punch, ‘I’m nought like him!’ Enraged, Perry went on the attack. He slithered into position and dug his elbow hard into Peter’s ribs and palmed Peter in the face, avoiding his chomping, gnashing teeth.

‘WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON HERE?’

They instantly rolled apart.

Mrs Donnegan had an oil lamp hanging from her hand. The other four boys were gathered behind her gown like woodland creatures.

‘He-’ Peter began, but Perry knew he wouldn’t tell, it would mean admitting what they’d spent their day doing.

‘We had a game of cards and Peter accused me of cheating,’ Perry caught his breath, ‘only I’m no cheat.’

‘Are too!’

‘ENOUGH!’ she levelled a finger first at Perry and then at Peter, ‘the two of you shake hands right