Escape From Home (26 page)

A
long with the other occupants in Mrs. Sonderbye's basement, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble sat on the floor and ate the breakfast the landlady had provided: a cup of tea and one piece of stale bread each.

“As soon as we're finished,” Mr. Drabble explained, his voice low so as to keep their affairs private, “we must proceed to the medical exam.”

“What is it?” asked Patrick, who had never dealt with any medical man.

“It's nothing to worry about,” the actor assured him. “Merely tedious. The lines are long for those who go steerage like us.”

“What's steerage?”

“The very lowest class of ticket, Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Drabble said. “The way we mortals are obliged to go. In any case, once the doctor stamps our tickets, we must secure provisions for the voyage, take ourselves to the dock, board the ship, and bid farewell to fair England!”

“How long will the voyage take?” Patrick asked next.

“From one to two months—”

“Two months!” the boy cried.

“Shhh…. It all depends on the ship, the tides, the winds.”

“They say many perish going over,” Maura said.

“But, Miss O'Connell,” the actor said, “didn't your father get across?”

“By all that's holy, it's true,” Maura said, ashamed at her worry. “And I for one shall be glad to leave this terrible lodging house. It's more cemetery here than a place fit for life.”

“My dear,” Mr. Drabble said, “I can assure you, America will be like paradise. And when we—”

“Is there a girl who has a brother named Patrick down there?” a voice called from the top of the basement steps.

Patrick, taken by surprise, looked around.

“Anyone know about a Patrick below?” the voice demanded again.

Mr. Drabble unfolded himself and went to the foot of the stairs. “And who, my good man, desires to know?” he asked.

“There are two boys in the street, wanting to see the sister of a boy named Patrick, and they won't go till they do. They insist she's here.”

Maura looked at her brother. “Patrick, do you know what this is about?”

“It must be that Laurence,” Patrick answered. “The English boy. He'll be asking about the ticket I promised. He didn't know I'd be here.”

Feeling suddenly threatened, Maura said, “You need not see him.”

“But shouldn't I at least be telling him that I'm safe and the ticket is not to be his?” Patrick asked.

“I suppose you should if you truly did promise,” Maura allowed. “But I'll go along to make certain you say what needs to be said. Tell them we're coming,” she informed Mr. Drabble.

The actor relayed the message.

Fearful about what the English boy might do, Maura said, “Mr. Drabble, would you be kind enough to come with us? You just might be needed….”

“Of course, my dear, of course.”

It was Patrick who led the way up the old steps. The three picked their way through the crowded hallway and stepped onto the porch.

Laurence and Fred were waiting on the street. Fred was all energy, looking this way and that as if danger might appear from any direction. Laurence, completely disheveled, bore a face showing nothing but fear.

“You're here!” Laurence cried with relief when he saw Patrick.

Patrick grinned sheepishly. “I got away.”

Maura gazed at Laurence with surprise. He was merely a wretched, frightened boy, not at all what she expected. She found herself moved to pity.

“This your friend?” Fred asked. “The one you told me about?”

Laurence nodded.

“Look here,” Fred called up to Patrick on the porch, “this here boy, Laurence, says you've got a ticket for America to give him. That the truth?”

“I'm afraid it's gone,” Patrick said, pained to say it.

Laurence gasped. “Gone?” he said. “But you gave your word!”

Patrick came down a step. “You must forgive me, Laurence,” he said. “I shouldn't have offered. Remember, I was telling you I couldn't be certain. The ticket was already bespoken. My sister gave it away.” He darted an angry look at Mr. Drabble.

Fred shook his head. “This boy here needs to get out of Liverpool.”

Maura descended the steps. “Mr. Laurence,” she said, “it was Patrick who told me your name…. It's not for me to be your judge. But did you know the police are searching everywhere for you?”

Laurence recoiled. “The
police
?” he cried.

“It's true,” Maura said. “They read your name from a paper to me.”

“It's all Ralph Toggs's doing,” Fred cried.

“Why, what about Mr. Toggs?” Maura demanded.

“He's the one causing all this trouble.”

“But how?” she asked.

“Because he's a thief and a swindler,” Fred exclaimed. “And if you know what's good for you, you'll clear yourselves out of this place. That Toggs will track you down and do you harm like he's done me and this boy here.”

“But … what am I going to do?” Laurence said, wholly consumed with his own plight. “I have to get away!”

“Don't you worry none,” Fred said. “I'll keep you from Toggs.”

“See here, my good fellow,” Mr. Drabble joined in, “what is this all about?”

“This boy needs to get on an emigrant ship, fast,” said Fred. “Before they grab him.”

“
Who
will grab him?” Mr. Drabble asked.

Fred ticked them off on his fingers: “There's Sergeant Rumpkin, there's Toggs, there's that Mr. Clemspool, there's the minister, and, like this lady says, there's all the police in Liverpool.”

Mr. Drabble looked at Laurence with astonishment. “But, good heavens, my boy,” he exclaimed, “what ghastly things have you done?”

Laurence, too stunned, could not reply.

“Sure, he's done nothing,” Patrick insisted. “It's what this boy says. It's all that Toggs's doing.”

“Isn't that the runner who led you here?” Mr. Drabble asked of Maura.

Deeply upset by Laurence's anguish, she could only nod. The fact that he too was a victim of Toggs only intensified her sympathy.

“This boy may be right, my dear,” Mr. Drabble said with some agitation. “These runners can be quite ruthless. It might be wise to heed his warning.”

“Ruthless ain't half of it!” Fred agreed. “When it comes to Toggs, I'll not answer for it if he gets his hands on anyone here.”

Patrick turned to his sister. “Maura, we have to help him.”

“Patrick,” she reminded him, “we're leaving tomorrow.”

“What ship are you going on?” Fred asked.

“The
Robert Peel
,” Maura said without thinking of the consequences.

“All right then, I'll get this boy aboard her,” Fred announced. “You can take care of him once he's there.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Drabble demanded. “You heard the boy say there is no ticket.”

“He don't need a ticket,” Fred said. “I'll get him on as a stowaway.”

“But that's against the law!” Mr. Drabble cried.

Laurence's heart tumbled.

“Don't you worry yourselves about it,” Fred insisted. “It's been done before. It'll be done again. Nothing to it.”

“And I for one will help you,” Patrick said to Laurence.

“Bully for you,” said Fred. “Stowaways can't work proper unless they've got a friend on board.”

“I'll do it,” Patrick vowed to Laurence. “I give you my word I will.”

“Good enough,” Fred said. “I'll make arrangements.”

Once again Mr. Drabble tried to intervene. “But, see here, boy, we can't take responsibility—”

“Maybe you can't, but we can,” Fred insisted. He turned to Laurence. “Come on. We won't lay about here.”

“We're going to the medical exam,” Patrick said.

“That will be Ransom Street,” Fred called as he began to drag Laurence away. “I'll find you there!”

“You must keep your promise this time!” Laurence shouted over his shoulder to Patrick. “You must!”

“I will!” Patrick returned. He stood watching the two until they turned a corner.

No sooner had they gone than Maura approached her brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Patrick,” she said softly, “why are the police looking for that poor boy? What's he done?”

“I don't know,” Patrick said. “And I don't care. Wasn't that Mr. Morgan looking for me when I did no wrong? He's depending on me, Maura. I won't be failing him again.”

“But, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura pleaded, “we mustn't have trouble with the police here too. The boy is unfortunate. I could see it with my own eyes. But don't we need to be taking care of ourselves first? I shouldn't have told him the name of the ship. Promise me you'll do no more for him.”

Before Patrick could respond, Mr. Drabble interceded. “Now, now, my dears,” he said, “what I'm concerned about is your Mr. Toggs. We don't want any of his mischief to stand between us and our departure, do we?”

“It's true what that other boy said about Ralph Toggs,” Patrick insisted. “He is a villain.”

Mr. Drabble turned to Maura. “Have you the tickets with you?”

Maura put a hand to where her packet was pinned. “I do.”

“May I suggest we go immediately to the medical examiners? There's no saying how long the lines will be.”

“Will it be the Ransom Street place?” asked Patrick.

“There is no choice,” Mr. Drabble informed him.

The three set off at once.

H
ere it is,” Ralph Toggs announced. “Mrs. Sonderbye's.” Mr. Pickler gazed with dismay at the wretched building. “And you say people live here?” he asked, finding it difficult to believe that anyone should desire to stay in such dismal conditions.

“One of the best,” Toggs assured him. He stood before the porch steps. “Mrs. Sonderbye!” he called. “Are you about?”

The red-faced landlady emerged, blinking at the daylight. “Who you got this time?” she demanded.

“Not that at all,” Toggs said quickly. “This here gentleman is looking for someone.” He gestured toward Mr. Pickler who, reluctant to draw closer, had remained standing on the street below.

Mrs. Sonderbye considered the investigator suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

“The name is Phineas Pickler, madam. I am from London but working closely with the Liverpool police.”

Mrs. Sonderbye's face turned dark. “This is a respectable house,” she cried. “Nothing illegal here.”

“I'm not suggesting anything of the kind, madam. I am merely looking for a boy by the name of Laurence.”

Mrs. Sonderbye turned to Toggs. “That someone you brought?” she asked.

“Not me,” the young man replied.

“I don't have anyone by that name,” the woman declared to Mr. Pickler. “But you can search for yourself. I've nothing to hide.”

Though loath to enter the building, Mr. Pickler, with Laurence's clothing still in hand, forced himself up to the porch. Toggs—in hopes of finding Maura—started to follow. Mrs. Sonderbye blocked his way with an arm. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I'm his assistant.”

“Is he?” the woman demanded.

The investigator had been staring down the hallway with deep disgust. The chaos, the smell, and the filth assaulted him.

“Would you tell her I'm your assistant, Mr. Pickler!” Toggs called.

The man swallowed his revulsion. “Yes, I suppose you are,” he murmured.

Mrs. Sonderbye let Toggs pass.

A half hour's grim search yielded no Laurence for Mr. Pickler, no Maura for Toggs.

Once outside again the investigator felt obliged to use his handkerchief to wipe off his hands and face. He felt as if his very soul had been dirtied.

“Where are we going to look now?” Toggs asked him.

“Somewhere else in Liverpool,” the man confessed gloomily.

Toggs touched his hat with a finger. “Happy to be of help, mate,” he said.

The two set off. A deeply despondent Mr. Pickler—having no idea what to do next—could barely hold his head up.

“What you need, mate,” said Toggs, “is lots of eyes.”

“The police, you mean. Yes, I suppose I should return there.” Mr. Pickler recalled the list of ships that Inspector Knox had offered the day before. Though it would be uncomfortable to ask for it, he knew now he had need of it.

“No, sir, I was thinking something better. Know anything about runners?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“You see,” Toggs explained, “lots of emigrants come off the ships here in Liverpool. Mostly Irish—and an ignorant, filthy lot they are. Can't speak the language proper and don't know where to stop before they board the packet ships. We runners find them lodgings.”

Mr. Pickler, suppressing the urge to inform Toggs that his own mother was Irish, only said, “Do these people pay for this service?”

“Not a farthing, mate. It's all Christian kindness on our part. It's the lodge keeper who pays the fees. All up and up, and perfectly legal.”

“And Mrs. Sonderbye's is just such a lodging place?”

“It is, sir, but it's a scurvy one. There's lots better to be had. That's the whole point. We runners guide the folks to decent places. Not that the Irish care.”

Mr. Pickler wished he could walk away. But he could not. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Toggs?”

“There are a troop of us runners—the Lime Street Runners Association—who know the city like the inside of our boots. Led by Sergeant Rumpkin, who fought at Waterloo next to the Iron Duke himself. You could hire us out to help find your boy. We'd find him, sure as daylight.”

Mr. Pickler, kneading Laurence's old clothing in frustration, felt himself on the verge of tears. There was Inspector Knox…. But he had been so sarcastic, so unhelpful. The investigator looked resignedly at Toggs. That he must turn for help from such … And yet … “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Toggs. If you could take me to this Sergeant Rumpkin of yours, I would appreciate it.”