Escape From Home (13 page)

D
on't cry, Maura,” Patrick pleaded. He was blaming himself for getting them into such a dreadful place. “You mustn't. We won't be here long,” he promised. “We won't.”

Even as he spoke, the man who had been reading stood up. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he called across the dirt floor. “Do not loose hope,” he added. “As the poet said, ‘True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.'
Richard Three
.”

The very brightness of the greeting in such dismal surroundings made Patrick think the man was not in his right mind. But Maura momentarily forgot her wretchedness. She turned to consider the speaker.

He was a long, lanky man—thirty or so, she guessed—with so little flesh upon his bones that when he stood it seemed more an unfolding than a rising. His smile was as wide as his face. His large brown eyes and a thatch of straw-colored hair hanging like a tasseled curtain over his face and ears conspired to create the look of a simple fellow.

“My dears,” the man said in a deep singsong voice, “you are distressed. The truth is, none of us would be here if we were not so.” He spread his arms wide enough to encompass the whole world. “Do tell me,” he coaxed, “what are the particulars of your grief?”

“Forgive us, sir,” Maura said, ashamed to have been caught weeping against the wall. “We're emigrants just off the boat. We meant to go to the Union House but were informed it had burned to the ground the night before. There was nowhere else to go but here.”

“Ah-ha!” cried the man dramatically. “Who provided you with
that
information?”

“The fellow who brought us here,” Maura explained. “No doubt he was meaning to be kind.”

“Kind!” the tall man reacted with scorn. “If you trusted in
that
, you would believe the new year starts four times with each season because someone told you so. Let me assure you, my dear, that the Union House stood yesterday, stands today, and will stand tomorrow.”

“But he told us—”

The man held up his long-fingered hands to cut Maura off. “My dear young lady, they will tell you
anything
.”

“Who will?” Patrick asked, alarmed.

“The runners, dear boy, the runners. Like rats, they infest Liverpool.” He wiggled his fingers like the galloping legs of a rodent. “Some work alone. Some are paid by houses. Others join associations. They will do anything to get people like you to lodge where it's profitable for
them
. Perfectly legal but
most
unfortunate. Believe me, there are hundreds of establishments such as this.”

“But why?” Patrick said, beginning to grasp the extent of his folly in listening to Mr. Toggs.

“To get your money,” the man replied. “And they'll keep you here until it's gone or you're in debt. Then, dear friends, you shall never leave.”

Maura covered her face with her hands.

“Are you saying, sir,” Patrick asked with growing resentment, “that this Mr. Toggs lied to us?”

“I know nothing about Mr. Toggs in the particular, but of course he lied,” the man exclaimed with a grandiose gesture of arm and hand. “For a runner to tell the truth would be as miraculous as for the sun to shine at midnight. Avoid him and all his kind. I presume you are on your way to America.”

Maura and Patrick nodded.

“I need hardly have asked. Nor did your Mr. Toggs. If you unfurled a banner that read ‘Going to America!' it would be no easier to see. And from Ireland too, I'll venture. Of course you are,” he added as the O'Connells nodded a second time. “But then most of Ireland and much of Germany and Scotland are going. All by way of Liverpool. All innocent lambs ready to be shorn of wool!

“My dears, I can guarantee it: You are not likely to see that young man again!” As if he had finished a speech on a stage, the man took a bow.

Patrick appealed to Maura with a look that begged forgiveness. Though she would not say, “I told you so,” she would not forgive him either. Instead she turned away.

“But then,” the man continued in his cheerful way, “you
have
gotten to Liverpool. And now that you are here, we must get you out. You've met Mrs. Sonderbye, I presume?”

“Was she the woman who took our money?” Maura asked wearily.

“You describe her to perfection!” exclaimed the man with glee. “Mrs. Sonderbye is a force to be reckoned with.

“But forgive me,” he said suddenly, folding himself into another bow. “I've forgotten my courtesy. My name”—he touched his narrow chest—“is Horatio Drabble, actor. Late of London and the provincial stages, intent upon refurbishing my career in America. Mind, I do only Shakespeare, he who—as Johnson said—‘was not of an age but for all time.'

“I do all the principal tragical parts,” Mr. Drabble went on. “
Richard Three
. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.'
King Lear
. ‘Blow, winds, crack your cheeks!'
Hamlet
. ‘To be or not to be, that is the question!'
Macbeth
. ‘Is this a dagger I see before me, its handle toward my hand?'” With every phrase, Mr. Drabble struck a different dramatic pose.

“But,” he continued apace, “since I have—at the moment—no proper stage to perform upon, I make every moment a performance.” Mr. Drabble bowed as if expecting applause. When he received none—only stares of puzzlement from Maura and Patrick—he merely went on with the same good cheer as before. “But come along, my dears, we've got some mostly dry straw here. You can settle right down and be one with us.”

Mr. Drabble fluffed up some rotten straw with his hands. “There,” he offered, patting the top of the heap, “have a seat.”

Patrick sat next to Mr. Drabble. After a moment Maura joined him.

“I'd offer tea and cake,” the actor confided as he pushed the hair out of his eyes, “but the truth is, I have nothing but my talent. Have no fear, though. Dinner will be served eventually. I suggest we sup together, but first, might I beg the privilege of your names?”

“If you please, sir, my name is Patrick O'Connell. And this is my sister, Maura.”

“Patrick and Maura. Excellent!” Mr. Drabble returned. “We've got a Bridgit here as well as a Sarah, Nell, and Kathleen. Then there is John, Roger, Godfrey, Brian, Jonathan, Peter, and Sean.” He pointed to each person, whether awake or asleep. “Mostly from your Ireland. If you stay long enough—which I earnestly pray you do
not—
you'll know us as well as we'll know you.”

“Mr. Drabble,” Maura said stoutly, “we're intending to go to America in a couple of days.”

“We have tickets,” Patrick said.

Mr. Drabble quickly put a thin finger to his lips and leaned forward. “Be careful what you say, dear boy,” he whispered while glancing around at the other inhabitants of the basement.

“Once,” he said, keeping his voice low, “we
all
had tickets. Don't you think a ticket is a metaphor for life? Who is born who does not have a ticket to somewhere? Alas, our tickets are lost or stolen. Gone, like so much confetti. Believe me, Liverpool is swollen with people without tickets. But enough, I wish to hear your story, truly.”

Patrick was more than willing to relate all that had happened from the time their father left Ireland to their own arrival in Liverpool, including their meeting with Ralph Toggs.

Mr. Drabble, who listened intently throughout, sighed when it was done. “My dears, may I offer some advice?”

“Please, sir,” returned Maura, “we'd be much obliged.”

“Many people—myself included—are eager to go to America. Thousands do. But not these,” Mr. Drabble said while gesturing to the others in the basement. “Not I.”

“Faith then, sir, why not?” Maura asked.

“Poverty,” Mr. Drabble replied. “It brought us here. It keeps us here. To be without money in Liverpool is to be lost. People pour into this city ready, nay, desperate, to go abroad. America. Canada. Australia. Ah, but this”—he used his hands to encompass the basement—“is a money trap. The longer you stay, the less likely it is you will leave, for your money will be siphoned away. If you are to meet your father as planned, we must act quickly! You said you have tickets. For what ship?” he whispered. “When?”

“The
Robert Peel
,” Maura answered low. “It will be sailing in two days' time.”

“God willing, we shall have you on it,” Mr. Drabble said earnestly. “And I shall salute you from the quay. Of course, there is a medical exam to be accomplished first. You must have that.”

“We didn't know,” Maura said, quite alarmed.

“Not a thing to fear, my dear. But it must be done else your tickets won't be stamped. Without a stamp, you can't get on your boat. Many don't know till it's too late. I myself shall take you to the place where the exam is done. But for now, I think you need some rest.”

Maura nodded. When Patrick—by way of atonement—grandly informed her that he would keep watch, she lay down on the straw. Within moments she was asleep. With a nod of his own, Mr. Drabble returned to his corner and—beneath shafts of faint light—continued his reading.

Just as he had promised, Patrick stayed by Maura. Staring into the gloom, his jaw clenched, his toes curled against the cold damp, he could not but reflect on their dismal circumstances. Anger filled him—anger with the deceitful Ralph Toggs and with himself for his own gullibility.

But what he felt even more keenly was fear, fear that they would, as Mr. Drabble had warned, be trapped in Liverpool. Oh, if only he could be like St. George!

A
t first Laurence could not remember where he was. All he knew was that his legs and arms were sore. His throat too. Then he recollected Liverpool, and a hotel. As for the man peering down at him, it was none other than Mr. Matthew Clemspool, the gentleman who had been treating him like a son—like a son, Laurence thought, should be treated.

“Awake, are you, Master Worthy?” Mr. Clemspool asked with unctuous kindness.

“Yes,” Laurence murmured, still luxuriating in cozy sleepiness. “But I feel tired.”

“Anything more than that?”

“I'm a bit sore,” Laurence reported. “And my throat hurts some.”

Mr. Clemspool reacted with alarm. “To put it precisely, Master Worthy, you are
ill
. I feared as much. You've been sleeping for hours. While you were in bed, I went to fetch you new clothes—I have them in my room—but came back to find you hot as a fresh loaf of bread. I tried in vain to waken you. Imagine my dismay when I could not! That is why I immediately sent for an apothecary to put you to rights. May I present Mr. Bungo.”

Laurence raised his head from the pillow. Next to Mr. Clemspool was a very small man dressed in an overlarge and frayed green frock coat. With his pasty pale face, dull gray eyes, and pug nose, there was something doll-like about him save for the fact that he was badly in need of a shave and smelled of beer.

“Mr. Bungo,” Mr. Clemspool said, “here is Master Worthy. We want him well enough to be able to travel to America soon.”

Without a word the apothecary stepped forward and stared hard at Laurence. “Sit up,” he commanded in a slightly slurred voice. Laurence did as he was told.

“Be so good as to look at my hand.” Mr. Bungo waved his small trembling hand in Laurence's face. “Good. Now open your mouth wide. Yes. Tongue. Fine. Can you speak?”

“Yes, but my throat hurts.”

“Seriously?”

“Some.”

“Your pulse,” Mr. Bungo requested.

Laurence held out his hand. The apothecary took the wrist briefly, then dropped it. “It is my duty to report,” Mr. Bungo told Mr. Clemspool, “that rest and good food will revive him.”

“Might you have some kind of restorative?” Mr. Clemspool prompted.

“Of course!” the small man cried. “I almost forgot.” He swung a box upon the bed and flipped it open. The box contained three rows of bottles, labeled and corked, five to a row. The apothecary waved a finger over them like a vibrating magic wand until he found what he wanted. “This will do the job,” he announced. “Tincture of rhubarb. One spoonful every two hours.”

He handed the bottle to Mr. Clemspool and snapped his box shut. “When that's gone, you may apply for more. No charge for me, just the medicine.” He extended a hand. “Two shillings, please.”

Mr. Clemspool took the bottle and dropped the coins into the hand.

The apothecary pocketed the coins with something of a thank-you, made a curt bow, and scurried out of the room.

“There you are, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool said, holding the bottle aloft as if to check its purity. “We'll have you back in perfect health in nothing short. Tincture of rhubarb. No doubt it's what the queen—God save her—takes herself.”

Laurence reached for the medicine.

“Not yet!” Mr. Clemspool cried. “I need to get a spoon.”

Laurence sank back upon his pillow.

“Exactly, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool crooned with approval. “
Rest
, to make my point precisely, is exactly what you need. And of course, this restorative. Let me just fetch that spoon.” So saying, he took the bottle and left the room.

Laurence looked around at the departing Mr. Clemspool just in time to see him pull the door closed with a snap. Once again he heard the lock click shut. For a time he stared at the door, trying to imagine why Mr. Clemspool should bother to lock it when he was going only to fetch a spoon.

As he lay there, he thought he heard voices coming from without. One voice he recognized as Mr. Clemspool's. The other, he assumed, belonged to Mr. Bungo.

At first Laurence paid little mind. But when the conversation stretched on, he began to feel unsettled. Could it be, he wondered, that he was more ill than they had told him?

Unable to hear clearly from the bed, Laurence scooted his legs out from under the covers and stood upon the floor. For a few seconds he felt unsteady, but once the feeling passed, he moved softly to the door. Crouching down, he applied his eye to the keyhole. What he saw was Mr. Clemspool's back. Only when he shifted did Laurence see a face. But it was not Mr. Bungo's. It was the face of the man Mr. Clemspool had talked to in the Liverpool station, the man with an eye patch.

Greatly puzzled, the boy pressed against the door in an attempt to get a better look. What he observed was that the man's lower lip was bruised and puffy, as if he had been struck recently. Seeing it, Laurence's heart gave a tremendous thump.
There could be no doubt: This was the man who had robbed him in London!

Reeling from shock, Laurence staggered back from the door. How could it be the same man? That was London. This was Liverpool. This man was dressed well, appearing for all the world to be a gentleman.
His
London man had been a common thief and looked like one. Then Laurence recalled that when the thief first appeared, he was bearded and leaned upon a crutch. But when he ran away with the money, the beard proved false and the man was in no need of a crutch at all!

Laurence returned to the keyhole. The man with the eye patch had moved out of view, but he and Mr. Clemspool were still talking. Laurence put his ear to the door and listened.

“As I told you, Mr. Grout, your good fortune—as you expressed it—has little to do with my affairs.” It was Mr. Clemspool speaking. “I'm settled upon what I do, and do well, and there is no lacking for employment. Why gentlemen have so many more younger sons than they want is beyond the scope of my imagination. But since they do …”

“Ah,” said the other man, “but yer could chuck it all and do the same show in the States.”

“Mr. Grout,” replied Mr. Clemspool, “my understanding is that things are not so arranged in America. No, sir, if you and I must end our partnership, so be it. I harbor no ill feelings. I wish you well.”

“Same for me, governor. We've 'ad a good trot, yer and me.”

“My only desire,” Mr. Clemspool said, “is that you fulfill your final obligation to me in this little matter I have at hand. Only a question of overseeing the boy—my
son
” he added sarcastically, “until his proper destination is reached.”

“I can 'andle it,” Mr. Grout assured him.

“Indeed, he
likes
being taken care of. He expects it. I tell you, these rich boys are spoiled brats. They presume the world spins for them.
Want
someone to take care of them. Of course, he treats me like a servant. I don't complain. Makes my efforts so much easier.”

Laurence, enraged, jerked back from the door. How dare they talk about him this way! He reached for the door to protest when he suddenly remembered it was locked. Stymied, he stood there.

“Don't yer worry none,” he heard Mr. Grout go on. “Long as me luck 'olds, with no black cats, spilled salt, or cracked mirrors comin' along, I'll do the thing.”

“Mr. Grout,” Mr. Clemspool said with some exasperation, “now that you have risen in the world, you're going to have to put all these superstitions of yours aside.”

“Just the opposite, Clemspool,” he returned. “Now I've got something worth the 'avin', you'll see, imps, goblins, and ghosts will be tryin' to trip me up all the more. But I'm man enough to keep free of 'em.”

“Good,” Mr. Clemspool said, “that will be a considerable comfort to all concerned. Now let's go down to the lobby and send my bit of a message.”

“Yer pleasure,” Mr. Grout murmured.

The next moment Laurence heard the outer door closing. Quickly, he ran to his clothing and searched through the pockets only to discover that what had remained of his money was gone. Back he raced to the door and peered through the keyhole, then listened to make sure no one was there. Certain no one was, he yanked upon the door. It was indeed locked.

He had, in fact, become a prisoner.