As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 3

  I turned round and left the deck and the handful of passengers wrapped up in they tattered blankets, descending the narrow stairs. Three levels below to the cabin I shared with my sisters. I knew we cabins would be empty at this hour of the morning, especially now we’d gotten over our initial bouts of seasickness. And in any case we’d all learnt quick enough that the best place to be when we felt queasy was up on deck in the fresh air. Mum would be in the third-class parlour with a circle of other women, sitting on blankets on the plank flooring—Georgina and Mary as well—all with balls of yarn in they laps and a pair of needles in they hands knitting-way. Son, whatever-the-arse kinda garments they could possibly be making I couldn’t tell you—sweaters for the tropics? Sometimes they played draughts, gossiped about Lady So-and-So or the French comte travelling in upper class, or they sang songs with the children. Amelia playing with a handful of girls nearby.

  Papee would be up on deck with the other men. Deep in discussion over some topic relevant to life in Trinidad or the TES. Unless they were hearing to a lecture from Mr. Etzler heself, or the comte—only two gentlemen aboard who made a point of venturing daily into the commoners’ part of the ship—or he’d be forward in the saloon with Mr. Whitechurch.

  The cabin I shared with my sisters measured 5½ ft x 5½ ft x 5½ ft. With the four bunks built perpendicular to the bulkheads, two on either side, a narrow passageway between into which the door opened. Meaning, of course, that I had to stoop down boseé-backed to enter into the cabin. And I could only sleep in my bunk with my legs folded up tight like a crab. Beneath the lower births were spaces for clothing and other articles. In addition to the tin poe in case one of us needed to use the toilet (or vomit, as Amelia and Mary had done those first couple nights—when we were all still adjusting to the constant roll and jar of the ship). A pitch-oil lamp hanging from its hook on the forward bulkhead.

  Mum and Papee had the equivalent, adjacent cabin. The difference being that on the hull-side, midway between the upper bunk and ceiling, they had a porthole six inches in diameter that opened on a bevel. So when we left our two doors latched back—and we were fortunate enough to be on the windward side of the ship—a cool breeze swept through both cabins.

  So far our nights had been tolerable enough.

  Mum and Papee used they lower bunks to stow additional clothes, blankets, and other necessities for the voyage. Including the pasteboard box with a dozen apples packed in straw—purchased by Papee at the last minute before we boarded the ferry in London—which we’d all vowed solemn not to touch before our sixth week at sea. Son, the truth is we considered weself fortunate. All thanks to the government of Great Britain. Though nobody aboard knew nothing about none of that bubball but us.

  ___________________

  I shut the door, locking myself into the cabin I shared with my sisters. Getting down on my knees to rummage beneath Georgina’s berth, through her bundle of clothes. Till I found she white lace brassiere. Pair of square-toed shoes. Mary’s bloomers with the little pink bows at the hips in the bundle beside it. I took up they little purse—I knew without having to look inside—containing the small cake of Cashmere powder and tiny pot of rouge.

  I crossed over to my parents’ cabin, which Papee’d left open to air out too. There wasn’t nothing much of value to thief anyway, except maybe the apples. I latched the door shut behind me, stripping off my clothes, dressing myself in my sisters’ undergarments. But as I went to pull on Mary’s bloomers I realised my own drawers would suffice: I stuffed the bloomers into one cup of Georgina’s brassiere. Then I turned round to ransack my father’s stack of clothes, balling up two of his handkerchiefs and shoving them into the other cup. Now I sat on the edge of the lower birth rolling Mum’s silk stockings over my pointed toes. Up over my stringy calves. Clipping them into the snaps of she French garters. From a package wrapped careful in tissue paper I removed Mum’s crimson-coloured silk gown—shoulderless, with mutton-sleeves and a heavy quilted border round the hem of the skirt. In a flurry of excitement she’d sewn the gown out for sheself in the final days before the voyage—Mum planned to wear it to the Captain’s Ball when we reached the Azores. I shook the frock out and stepped awkward inside. Struggling for the longest time—my spindly arms twisted up and contorted behind my back, navelhole sucked in tight—before I managed to fasten the seven tiny hooks running the length of my spinebones. Exhaling a slow breath.

  Using Mum’s handmirror and a wad of cotton wool, I brushed the rouge onto my cheeks. Dusted Cashmere powder round the periphery of my face. My neck & shoulders & chest. I pulled out Mum’s black lace scarf and spread it overtop my head, tying a floppy bow beneath my chin. Her black Spanish shawl with the little embroidered bullfighters and its stringy fringe spread over my shoulders. I pulled on her black lace gloves, reaching to mid-forearm. Last, I squeezed my duckfeet inside Georgina’s square-toed shoes—which I can assure you wasn’t no kinda easy enterprise a-tall—buckling the straps behind.

  I sat on the bunk, waiting and listening.

  Before long I heard the clanging of the steward’s bell. Calling the third-class passengers for lunch in they dining hall, two levels above my head. I listened to the thumps and scuffs of they boots as passengers filed into the hall, clatter of tin bowls laid down on the rough plank tables. Even the scrapings of the steward’s ladle against the sides of he stewpot.

  Son, despite my hunger, I was happy enough to avoid this lunch.

  I waited a few more minutes. Till I felt sure all the passengers had assembled theyself in the dining room. Then I unlatched the door.

  But at the same moment Amelia came busting through, shoving me back—

  Sweet Jesus! she says, staring up into my face.

  Son, I couldn’t tell you if I felt more embarrassed, panicked, or geegeeree out my bloody skin. But after a few seconds her expression changed. Now Amelia looked up at me with a playful, mischievous amusement—

  Good to see you’re in a better mood, she says. You were looking so bored and sulky!

  Amelia reached past me, searching through the things under Mum’s bunk—

  Seen Moffie? she asks. Mum told me she packed her under here.

  Amelia grabbed up her rag doll and started out. But she stopped short, turning round again—

  Better hurry, she says. There’s cocoa left over from upper class.

  Amelia paused, smiling—

  Mind you don’t smudge your powder drinking it!

  She pulled the door shut behind her.

  I flipped the latch and sat on the bunk again, catching my breath. Waiting a few more minutes. Till I’d mustered enough courage to slip out the cabin. I hurried up the narrow stairs, past the noisy dining room, stepping lightfoot as I could manage in Georgina’s shoes on the uneven flooring. Though wide at the bottom with its thickly quilted hem, Mum’s frock hung a foot-and-a-half short, exposing my bony ankles. Stockings stretched tight over them. Now I had to hide myself for the next hour, maybe two—someplace that gave me easy access to the upper-class deck—till it came time for the ladies to take they tea. I crossed the open deck, vacant with all the passengers down at lunch. A stiff breeze blowing Mum’s heavy skirt between my legs, adding to my difficulties of crossing the shifting boards in Georgina’s shoes.

  I locked myself into the men’s privy—the one assigned to the third-class passengers—immediately realising my mistake. The place stenching, with a putrid black puddle in the middle of the floor, sloshing side-to-side with the slow roll of the ship. The bench, walls, even the compartment’s ceiling so soiled with nastiness, I feared I’d ruin Mum’s fancy gown in one.

  I let myself out, exhaling a long breath, crossing over the boards again. Sequestering myself this time in the women’s toilet. Which I can assure you was plenty more agreeable, odours tolerable, sitting safe enough to one side of the bench. With the open hole just beside me, blue-gray sea slipping past far below. I untied the scarf beneath my chin, leant my head into a back corner of the stall, shuttin
g my eyes. A salty breeze wafting up through the hole. Rhythmic slap of waves washing past the hull, distant squawk from a handful of gulls perpetually trailing the ship. And after a few minutes I entered into a familiar dreamplace. Memoryspace. Like a daydream, only a notch or two deeper. Floating alongside the slap-wash slap-wash of the waves, soft salt-breeze billowing up against my cheeks.

  Victoria Station: piercing screech of metal wheels. The Tucker clan following Papee’s lead—five of us in a long line squeezing each other’s hands and Amelia’s rag doll’s hands too—so as not to lose weself on the crowded platform. Weaving we way along like a string of squids. Back-and-forth amongst the excited, shouting passengers, everybody shoving toute-baghi in direction of the Bicester train.

  Meanwhile, Papee searched for Mr. Powell and the Whitechurches.

  A handful of TES members who’d once belonged to the military had dressed theyself in full regalia for the big event. They’d brought they rusty muskets so a volley of shots could be fired to announce the takeoff of the Satellite. Another group, dressed also in unrelated military garb, formed an orchestra that included a big bass drum, tuba, several bugles, and a triangle played with great delicacy by a chuffchuff former member of the Royal Guard. According to rumor the orchestra had met at Crossed Sabers Tavern early the previous evening. They’d only just exited this facility, after spending the entire night synchronizing. Needless-to-say the majority of them were having trouble not only blowing into they instruments, or beating them, but standing atop they feet. The Satellite Ensemble—as they dubbed theyself—rode in an open car adjacent to one the Tucker clan travelled in for we journey to Bicester.

  My three sisters put down they hampers and went forward to listen. Whilst back in the compartment where the rest of my family settled weself, Mum napped, despite the jostling train and obnoxious music. Papee studying his mechanical drawings spread out cross his lap, oversized and dog-eared, scribbling last-minute notes.

  After a short while Mr. Powell arrived, already red-faced and smiling. He greeted my father, squeezing onto the bench beside him, laying his jacket over the sidearm. The two men entering into a whispered discussion of some glitch in the Connective Apparatus. Papee pointing to something on his drawing, running his finger cross to where the ropes connected with the Prime Mover. Now they sat in silence a minute. Me listening to the chugging train and various va-va-vooms of the Ensemble. Then—as if in answer to they quandary—Mr. Powell reached into the pocket of his folded jacket, fumbling round, producing a pint-bottle of whiskey. He uncorked it with his teeth, offering my father some. But Papee waved him off, Mr. Powell tipping he bottle back for a generous swig.

  Then, with a wink, he reached his bottle cross to me. First time in my life, I can assure you, I’d been offered any alcohol more than the priest’s wine at Easter Sunday Mass—Mum’s people came from Alsace, she was Roman Catholic, in which concern Papee cared not a pum.

  I glanced over at him: he had his eyes fixed on the drawing. Like he hadn’t even noticed.

  What the arse? I took a quick swallow. The whiskey somehow splashing up my nose—two little rings of fire burning round my nostrils. I coughed, grimaced, passed the bottle back.

  Mum stirred on the bench beside me, but she didn’t open she eyes. In any case, Papee and Mr. Powell had already decided to remove theyself to some other part of the train, where they could discuss Papee’s drawings more freely. He tied them up in a big roll with a piece of twine, the two men squeezing out.

  The Ensemble broke into a waltz so speeded up it sounded like a polka. Waking Mum. On she lap she held one of the picnic baskets with sandwiches she and my sisters had made for lunch, since the victuals offered at the food venues were sure to be priced out we range.

  Suddenly I suspected she smelt the whiskey on my breath. Despite that I’d taken only a sip.

  My mother looked at me, like if she’d been reading my mind—

  I’m expecting decent manners from you today, Willy, she says. Practically shouting over the band. And after a breath—

  You’re advised not to model your behaviour after these gentlemen, understand?

  The Ensemble ended with a great bash of cymbals, Mum shifting she basket to the flooring beside her feet—

  Finalment! she mumbled. And she went forward to check on my sisters.

  Now, despite the overcrowded train, I found myself alone inside the compartment. Just beginning to move aside my family’s belongings and stretch out on the seat—maybe I’d catch a few winks before we arrived?—when Mr. Powell’s bottle tumbled out the pocket of his jacket, still folded over the armrest.

  I sat a minute, contemplating the sloshing amber liquid. Then I uncorked it and took a sniff—like crusty leather doused down with turpentine. Enticing and revolting at the same time. And I took my second cautious, grimacing swig. Then, over a period of a couple minutes, I took three or four more, recorked the bottle, and slipped it into the breast pocket of my own jacket—Mr. Powell would hardly miss it, I decided. Plenty more bottles where that came from.

  The Ensemble started into some species of military march—um-pa-pa um-pa-pa—and all-in-a-sudden I began to feel queasy. I shoved my family’s things aside, stretching out on the seat, which had begun shifting about somewhat awkward beneath me. And not due to any jostlings of the train neither. I planted my unpolished brogue on the floor, attempting to steady the swimming seat, shutting my eyes. Trying my best to relax. And I must’ve managed, because after a time I dropped off dead asleep. Deep down into the depths.

  Son, whether or not it was an effect of the whiskey, I couldn’t tell you. It was my first experience with it. But the image that surfaced now in my imagination was disturbing enough. It was, in fact, derived from an illustration of the Satellite printed that same week in The Morning Star. Yet in my dream the machine was alive. Smoking-way and eating up the dirt. Now I watched it coming in my direction—roaring its way towards me—about to grind me up to a pulp too.

  I sat up with a jolt, blinking. A clammy sweat crawling cross my forehead. I grabbed up the silly golfer’s cap to swab it dry, deciding I wasn’t drinking no more whiskey: I’d had enough for one day. I took the bottle out of my pocket again, with the intention of returning it straightway to Mr. Powell’s jacket.

  Just then the compartment door banged open against my leg. And a little woman I’d never seen in my life entered, standing there before me—

  Here’s a healthy lad! she says. I can see we’re occupied with the same amusements as the other gentlemen on this train!

  She swallowed a breath, huffing—

  You must be Willy. Your father’s told us a good deal about you n’ your sisters—I’m Mrs. Whitechurch.

  She reached her whitegloved hand towards me. A tiny woman, wearing a bright-coloured cloak and bonnet, despite the warm weather. Like Little Red Riding Hood. Only this woman could’ve been the granny. Clearly upper class—maybe even gentry—which had me wondering how she and she husband had taken so swift and easy to Papee. Because he’d never mentioned how wealthy they were.

  I had to shift the bottle to my other hand in order to take hers, nudging my nose at it—

  My birthday, I say, by way of explanation. First thing to jump inside my head.

  Splendid, she says. N’ how old are we today, young man?

  Nineteen, I say, not batting an eye.

  Well, she says, in that case I shall have to introduce you to my niece. Let me go and fetch her—train’s so crowded we weren’t able to find a seat!

  With that she hurried out, banging the door behind her.

  I’d overheard Papee telling Mum about these Whitechurches. About the same niece—who was eighteen years of age—and how she’d been born cordless. Whatever-the-arse that meant. Any other abnormalities, mental or physical, father didn’t mention. Only that she lived with she aunt and uncle under they care, how distressed they were to leave her behind when they emigrated to Trinidad.

  Needless-to-say I was already busy conjuri
ng up this girl born without a spinecord. Her head constantly flopping down atop her chest. No doubt she needed to wear some kinda whalebone-ribbed corset. Two canes to walk with, if she could walk a-tall. Because probably she had to be heaved from place to place, like some kinda human-jellyfish. Or a pair of stockings stuffed with walnuts, constantly tumbling from the chair and needing to hauled up off the floor.

  In any case, whatever this Marguerite was like, I assure you I wasn’t much looking forward to meeting her a-tall.

  Son, nothing I could’ve dreamt up would have prepared me for this young woman who entered behind she aunt. And not due to no deformities neither. Both women taking they seats on the bench before me.

  To my embarrassment I was still holding the bottle of whiskey. I disappeared it quick inside the pocket of my jacket again.

  Mrs. Whitechurch looked up, out of breath—

  Willy, she says. Please make the acquaintance of my niece, Marguerite!

  And with that the niece reached she own whitegloved hand towards me—I could see it vague and blurry out my eye-corners, because I couldn’t raise them up to look at her not-for-nothing. Only staring down timid at the hideous golfer’s cap, grateful I wasn’t wearing it atop my head. Eventually I managed to lift my arm, aware of little more than the jostling train, of my own skinny bamsee sinking down into the seat.

  But son, even the first touch of warm skin through the soft cotton glove sent a set of shivers tingling along my spinebones. Like a line of batchacks crawling up. My head giddy again, light as air. A floating sensation inside my chest, my whole body. Like all-in-a-sudden I was rising up off the bench.