As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  Now the oddest thing: my hand stuck up inside the cotton glove like it was plastered down with laglee. I just couldn’t pull it loose. Take it away. Like if now I needed to be holding onto this woman, because if not I’d float up to bounce my head braps against the ceiling.

  In the midst of all this awkward, laglee-sticking-floating business, my eyes slid cross the flooring. Over towards Marguerite. Beside her feet sat a smallish canvas rucksack, bearing the outlines of two-three books. Below the hem of her lacy white frock, brown leather hiking boots, ankle-high, multiple laces crisscrossing the tongues. Like a scoutboy’s boots. Now my eyes began climbing up the lacy frock-folds. Up to her other whitegloved hand poised in her lap, with a row of six bead-shaped, lace-covered buttons along the joint of the cuff. Another line of these same buttons stretching the length of her sternum. Now my eyes began climbing up them, like a little ladder, button by button, up to the nape of her neck. Halting at the soft triangular indentation there at the base of her throat. Draping round her shoulders was a lilac-coloured scarf, tied loose. The brim of her white hat angling almost to eye level, a few strands of hazelnut hair spilling from underneath.

  I could make out her strong jaw, lips thin and purple-pink, her nose long & straight & strong too. But son, what struck me most was the burnt-sienna colouring of her cheeks: deep, rich, not an Englishgirl’s kinda skin—it came from she aunt’s Portugee side of the family, but of course I wouldn’t learn that for some time to come. And however pit-tim-pam was this Mrs. Whitechurch, she niece is tall like tall—that much I could tell you already—only a few inches under my own spindly, awkward, chickenbone self.

  Now, with a warmish electric jolt, my eyes met up with hers. Staring straight back at me: bright, clear, hazel-coloured eyes. Unflinching. Like they’d go on looking forever, those eyes. Like after the last eyes had dimmed & silenced theyself & flickered out, those eyes would keep on looking.

  Son, next thing I knew my own eyes stuck-up on hers with the same embarrassing laglee business as the glove. Just so. Because I couldn’t shift them way, pry them loose—I couldn’t take my blasted hand back neither! With that same awkward floating sensation inside my chest, my whole body. Only waiting to feel my head bounce against the ceiling, because maybe then I could take my eyes and my hand back.

  How long it lasted I couldn’t tell you. A minute, maybe two. Till I found myself sitting there with both sweated-up palms inside my lap, staring down at my clunky brogues.

  It was the aunt’s voice that broke the silence—

  Willy, she says, I’m leaving Marguerite in your care a moment. Whilst I go n’ extract Mr. Whitechurch from the company of your father n’ Mr. Powell. They’re making a pretence of studying their drawings!

  With that she pushed out of the compartment.

  Leaving Marguerite and me alone—distressingly alone.

  With me still staring at my scuffed-up brogues, wondering why-the-arse I didn’t at least polish them. Mum had sewn egg-shaped patches of the same gaudy gold-plaid material as the cap over the knees of my trousers—hand-me-downs from Papee, same as the brogues—and since I’d already outgrown my father’s six-foot stature by an inch, they fit me round my ankles like buccoo-reef trousers. As Papee’d ripped a hole in the left elbow of his jacket, Mum had sewn matching egg-shaped patches over my elbows.

  Son, as I sat there I couldn’t decide if I looked more like a scarecrow, clown, or organ-grinder’s chimp.

  Again out my eye-corners, I watched Marguerite opening the buckle of her rucksack. Extracting a smallish book covered over in mother-of-pearl. Thinking at first that it must be a Bible—because Mum had made me a present of a little Bible just so a few years previous for my Confirmation—son, my first thought was that this Marguerite must be some kinda bloody evangelist!

  She raised the little book up to her lap—in her cool, calm, whitegloved hands—sliding out a little white pencil from a special pocket along the spine. Now she daubed the lead against her tongue. Slow, three separate times. She opened up the book, lifting out the red ribbon, flipping the page. Scribbling out something. Now she turned the book round, reaching it forward for me to read—

  you’re not nineteen, are you?

  Just then, as I sat sequestered in the women’s third-class lavatory, another of the steward’s bells startled me—ca-clang ca-clang ca-clang ca-clang. Ringing, this time, at some forward location a good distance away. Announcing teatime for the upper-class passengers. But son, now I didn’t want to leave the stall, depart from out my daydream. My memoryspace. Not as yet. Not so quick.

  I shut my eyes again. Willing myself back onto that train hurrying us to Bicester. Back into the compartment with Marguerite.

  She flipped a page of her book, scribbling out something else. Reaching it forward—

  I was born without vocal cords

  Son, only then did it dawn upon me—like a swift zobell cross the back of my head—what Papee’d meant by that cordless. Thinking: but how-the-arse could somebody survive without saying anything a-tall? It seemed impossible—almost more difficult than living without a spinecord. How do you ask for a simple glass of water? Advise somebody where to scratch you back? How do you tell them you got a bloody itch in the first place? How do describe the way leaves in eucalyptus trees glitter at sunset?

  Marguerite retrieved her book. She flipped the page, scribbling again. Reaching it forward—

  since it’s all I’ve ever known

  it’s never seemed much of an impediment

  I sat contemplating this last remark. Turning it over in my head. And son, it wasn’t half a minute before I turned my mind round arse-backwards too. In the opposite direction. Thinking: who needs to talk anyway? since you could write down everything you had to say quick-and-easy enough? clear & simple & fixed there solid on the page without a chance of miscommunication neither? Because what-the-arse-good has talk ever done anybody? so many people always flapping they traps? so much wasted breath? brainless babble?

  Son, I hadn’t hardly contemplated this profound insight a moment when the conductor began clanging his bell—ca-clang ca-clang ca-clang—signaling our arrival into Bicester. As the train came to a screeching halt, Marguerite turned the page. Daubing her pencil again, scribbling out something else.

  She turned the book round—

  I’d be pleased Willy if you’d

  escort me to Satellite Field

  Now I heard loud knocking on the toilet-stall door. Pounding. Like each hard blow was a stiff thump down on the crown of my head. I sat up, rattled. Spread the scarf quickly overtop my head, retying the floppy bow. Straightening Mum’s frock and letting myself out.

  A handful of women stood queued up before the door—how they hadn’t commenced to hammering on it till now I couldn’t tell you—they tattered wools wrapped round them against the wind. I swallowed a breath and held my head up, clutching Mum’s stringy-fringed bullfighter-shawl round my shoulders. Walking straight past them. Clacking cross the boards in my sister’s shoes. And I continued clacking, straight past the deck-steward at his post behind the galley.

  But son, soon as I arrived at the low railing I’d hopped so easy the previous afternoon, I stopped short: there wasn’t no way I could negotiate this leap in Mum’s frock and Georgina’s shoes. No way a-tall.

  A second later the steward was at my side, grinning peculiar. Bending over to unhinge a part of the rail—I hadn’t seen it up till now—doubling it back on itself—

  Please, he says. And he winked at me in a manner I recognised straightway was laden with meaning—though what, precisely, the meaning was I hadn’t a clue—presenting me his arm.

  I took hold of it in my lace-clad hand. And I held my head up, stepping through the gap in the rail. Raising up the thickly quilted hem of Mum’s frock with my other hand as I proceeded, graceful and dainty as I could manage, down the short flight of steps. Clacking cross the boards.

  I made a bolt for that ladies’ tea parlour. The one reserved for uppe
r class where I’d spied Mrs. Whitechurch the previous afternoon. But soon as I entered the steward in charge—dressed again in white-tie-and-tails—took notice and put down his silver pots. He approached from the other side of the room, much to my dismay. Yet the steward only offered his arm, same as his companion outside. Escorting me over to a seat near a group of women chattering round the Chesterfield couch, cups of tea and little plates of pastries holding delicate in they hands. With the same pair of portly little ladies sitting before the upright piano, tinkling on the keys and giggling-way.

  I settled myself into the chair and took a look round—Mrs. Whitechurch hadn’t arrived yet.

  This was, in truth, as far as I’d proceeded with my plan: to get myself past those two stewards and into this tea parlour. I hadn’t thought it out further than that. Presently I decided that when Mrs. Whitechurch did appear I’d communicate with her—in some secret manner I hadn’t yet devised—confirming, first, that Marguerite was aboard ship. Then I’d arrange some secret way for the two of us to meet.

  But as I sat back in the plush cushions of my chair—listening to the women chattering on the Chesterfield couch, two ladies at the piano tinkling and giggling—I began to grow bored with myself. I also began to feel hungry. Now I realised that I was famished. Hadn’t hardly eaten nothing a-tall since we’d boarded the ship six days before. I mustered my courage, stood on my shaky ankles in Georgina’s shoes, and I approached the table spread lavish with food. Taking up the pair of silver tongs—a little awkward in my lace gloves—and helping myself to a ham sandwich and another of sliced cucumber, placed careful side-by-side on my little porcelain plate.

  But even before I could return to my seat I’d consumed the two sandwiches, inhaling them one-after-the-next in a couple breaths. I went back to the food at the table. Disregarding the tongs this time, I piled myself up a precariously tall stack of five more finger-sandwiches—two cucumber and three of Spanish ham—in addition to pouring out a tall glass of iced lemon-bitters from the pitcher.

  As I turned round, one of the portly ladies who’d been playing on the piano approached from behind. She looked up into my face, smiling sweet.

  I smiled back. Good as I could manage.

  Then, a second later, she realised I wasn’t no kinda young maiden a-tall. Letting loose a squeal like a puss-cat with its tail caught beneath a wagon wheel. Causing me, in my state of shock, to toss my little plate and glass into the air—cucumber slices & ham slices & little squares of bread, in addition to chipped ice and lemon-bitters—raining down atop this little lady’s head.

  I couldn’t think of nothing more than to try to clean up my mess. Reaching down to the floor for my little plate—attempting, at the same time, with my lace-clad fingers, to scoop up several squares of soggy bread. Managing only to slip on a thin slice of ham in Georgina’s shoes, cockspraddle cross the floor, slick with lemon-bitters & ice chips & disassembled finger-sandwiches.

  By this time several other women had joined in for a chorus of squealing puss-cats. The whole of that tea parlour dissolved to chaos. I struggled, with considerable effort, to regain my feet in my square-toed shoes on the slippery floor, aided by a small woman—her arm wrapped round my waist to help me up—who I believed, in my state of confusion, was the same portly one from the piano I’d just flung my food over.

  She turned out to be Mrs. Whitechurch—

  Willy my boy! she says. What in heavens?

  She peered up into my face. Giving me a curious grin—

  Marguerite’s been asking for you. Poor girl, she’s been seasick since we set sail—heartstruck more likely!

  Son, for a split second I felt my own heart beating happy as soursop ice cream inside my powdered chest. But it only lasted a second. Because now I felt a hand grasping hold of each of my elbows. Firm as vice-grips. I looked round to see that at one side stood the steward in charge of the tea parlour. At my other elbow—I realised with sudden alarm—the deck-steward stationed behind the galley. With the same indecipherable, queasy smirk on his face—

  We’ll give this he-she some real tea-n’-pastries! he says.

  Most tasty! states his companion.

  They hurried me out the tea parlour via a service door at the back. Lugging me along a hallway, past the first-class dining hall, down a series of narrow stairs lit only by a hatch at deck level. With me stumbling awkward between them in my cramped shoes, my abductors hauling me brutish down the stairs—

  In here! the deck-steward says, running his tongue over his lips.

  He indicated a rough plank door with a hole for the handle, latched shut with a short piece of wood nailed cross the middle. He turned it, flinging the door open. Now they shoved me into a dark hallway lined on both sides with other rough plank doors. In the dim light I made out the handle-holes, worn flat with use. But these doors were locked shut with gleaming brass padlocks—

  Where’s ’em clatty keys? the deck-steward demands. I’m risin up fer the jab awready!

  Now the parlour-steward reached deep inside his pocket. Feeling round—

  Hold on to yer hoses, he says.

  With that the deck-steward slammed the first door shut—bram—enclosing three of us in pitch-darkness.

  Bloody hell, one of them says.

  The other—

  Let’s give it the jab right here!

  Better hope Cook don’t come in search of bacon.

  We’ll give him his fair share of tasty bacon!

  I sat on the plank flooring where the stewards had thrown me. Breathing hard, sweating in Mum’s heavy gown. Surrounded by darkness and geegeeree out my bloody wits. I pressed backwards, instinctive, to the far end of the passageway. Till I felt the hard wood wall butting me up against my bony bamsee. I heard the stewards pursuing. Feeling they way in the dark. All-in-a-sudden, with a burst, I shoved under and past them—regaining my feet in the awkward shoes—and somehow aware, at the same time, of those seven hooks along the length of my spine snapping open one-by-one.

  I moved in a rush towards the single spot of light in the darkened hallway—the small handle-hole in the door at the end. Busting out and slamming it shut behind me.

  I turned the latch. Locking the stewards inside.

  Now I paused a second, leaning against the latched door, catching my breath. How-the-arse I’d managed to escape, unscathed, in a matter of seconds, I couldn’t say myself. I turned and hurried off, the stewards pounding against the inside of the door, cursing behind me. And I made my way up the narrow stairs, wiping the back of my gloved hand cross my sweated-over brow. At that instant I noticed something—a faint flash—coming from the corner of one of the steps. Son, my first thought was to ignore it. Wanting nothing more than to get my bony little bamsee to-hell-away-and-gone from those stewards. Fast as I could manage. Then, with a vaps, I turned round. I reached down my lace-gloved hand to pass it over the floorboard. Taking up, what I realised a second later, was a ring containing eight heavy iron keys.

  2

  Night Prowling

  I slept in my cabin during the day. Now I became a nocturnal animal. Not long after the nine o’clock curfew, when the third-class passengers were required to be in we beds, and my three sisters had dropped off asleep, I’d slip from out my bunk. I’d take down the pitch-oil lamp from its hook on the bulkhead, but I wouldn’t light it yet. Still wearing my nightshirt, in the complete dark, I’d tiptoe out the cabin, up the narrow stairs. Already I’d discovered that during the late evening hours the deck-steward was seldom posted at his station. And if he happened to be there a-tall he generally lay in the midst of a big coil of rope, flask of rum holding in he hand, snoring-way. Unless there was some special event for the upper-class passengers—a dance, lecture, or a theatrical performance put on by the passengers theyself—they’d be dead-asleep inside they own fancy cabins by this time too. Only the first mate and his watchman at the helm, or the cook preparing meals for the following day, might be awake at that hour.

  Still in my
nightdress, on my bare feet, I moved swift and silent as a ghost over the boards. I ducked past the elevated station at midship that housed the helm, enclosing the first mate and he watchman. And I proceeded forward: cross the third-class deck, past the open door of the galley where the cook tended he pots in a pungent cloud of smoke and steam. Cross the empty forecastle deck and down a flight of carpeted steps. Past the deserted dining hall, saloon, vacant ladies’ tea parlour. Down the three flights of narrow stairs to the hold. In jelly-thick darkness I felt for my ring of keys, tied with a loop of twine round my neck. Already I’d learnt by touch which of the eight iron keys fit each of the brass padlocks, four doors on either side of the passageway.

  My first objective was to recover my frock coat, and all the rest of my newly tailored attire, from my family’s trunk hidden somewhere in the hold. So that I could move with impunity between the third- and first-class sections of the ship. Same as Papee. Always careful to lock whichever of the plank doors I’d opened up behind me again. Squeezing the padlocks closed with my dexterous fingers—shoved, convenient enough, out through the selfsame holes that served as door handles.

  Yet despite my precautions there’d been a couple of close calls: the cook descending to the pantry for some ingredient for his pot, a steward sent to retrieve a bottle of liquor from another storeroom—there seemed to be at least one other copy of my set of keys. But on both of those perilous occasions I’d managed to out my lantern just in time. Escaping without a scrape. Nonetheless I grew accustomed—even in the midst of my wildest rummagings through this veritable treasure trove of luggage and goods—to keep a cautious ear cocked.

  Son, I should have been reunited with Marguerite already. I’d been rummaging through the storagerooms for four nights. By this time I knew the ship’s layout (at least that part forward of the cabin I shared with my sisters) well enough to diagram and label each level. And according to my calculations the Whitechurches’ cabin, as well as the other first-class quarters situated below the forecastle deck—and the very bed in which Marguerite, at that moment, lay peacefully asleep—was two levels up and only a short distance forward of the same storeroom into which I had, on this particular night, sequestered myself. Same storeroom where I discovered, finally, after my exhaustive search of four nights, the whereabouts of the large tin trunk labeled—