Escape From Home (14 page)

I
n the lobby of the hotel, Mr. Clemspool, pen in hand, wrote a letter:

When he was done, he offered the letter to Mr. Grout. “Yer know I can't read,” the man growled, pushing the hand away.

“Ah, yes.” Mr. Clemspool read the letter out loud.

“All fine and dandy,” Mr. Grout observed, “but 'ow do yer expect to keep that there laddie cooped up in a room all the time without 'is gettin' suspicious?”

Mr. Clemspool smiled. “That's right, I forget this part of my business is new to you. Suspicion often does become a problem. But, as usual, the boy is exhausted, frightened. Running away seems to tumble the tummy. I tell them they are not well. They are glad to be told so. I call for Mr. Bungo. Mr. Bungo never fails to prescribe
something
.”

From a pocket Mr. Clemspool produced the bottle of tincture of rhubarb. From a second pocket he took out another bottle. He held it up while glancing left and right to make sure they were not being observed. They were alone.

With care, Mr. Clemspool poured some of the potion into the tincture of rhubarb. “This mixture,” he explained, “will keep the boy sleeping until we get him on a ship.”

Mr. Grout lifted an eyebrow, giving Mr. Clemspool the full benefit of a penetrating single-eyed stare.

“No, no, it won't harm him in the slightest,” Mr. Clemspool assured his companion. “I made a promise to the boy's elder brother that nothing of that sort would happen to him—not, to make my point precisely, on
this
side of the Atlantic. For now I wish him only to sleep.”

“'Ow yer goin' to get 'im to swallow it?” Mr. Grout asked.

Mr. Clemspool laughed as he held up a spoon. “My weapon of choice.”

“Yer think yerself double clever, yer do.”

“Clever enough. And well-spoken enough, I dare say.”

“What's the matter with my speakin'?” Mr. Grout demanded.

“You may have money in your pocket, sir, but you still have the street in your mouth.”

Mr. Grout stood in anger. “Well then, I'm goin' out to see the street,” he said in a huff, and strode away.

Mr. Clemspool shook the medicine bottle and smiled.

M
aura O'Connell slept for most of the day. When she woke, it was to the harsh clanging of a stick upon a pot. The clamor brought the other people in the basement lumbering to their feet and straggling up the steps.

Mr. Drabble, a bowl and spoon in his hands, explained. “That's Mrs. Sonderbye's dinner chime. We'll need to get in line. She will do the honors, so for heaven's sake be careful. Don't,” he admonished, “let the woman bully you. Above all, put no money in her purse!”

Maura and Patrick followed the actor up the steps. The hallway was crowded with people. In look and dress, they were no different from those in the basement, each and every one appearing depressed and defeated. There was hardly any talk, save guarded murmurs and mumbles.

“Who are they all?” Maura asked quietly as she, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble took their places at the end of the line.

“Mrs. Sonderbye's esteemed boarders, waiting for their dinner,” the actor told them. “The lady herself presides. I urge you to take the basic menu. Your money will go farther.”

“What is the basic?” Patrick asked. He was very hungry.

Mr. Drabble—brown eyes smiling—put a thin finger to his lips.

The line moved slowly, snaking its way down to the front of the house, then around and back again toward the kitchen. As they drew closer, they caught the smell of something strong and not altogether pleasant.

At last they could see their destination. In a doorway, an old table had been set up. Upon it was a large pot. Directly behind the table, in a high-backed chair like a throne, sat Mrs. Sonderbye, overseeing the operation. The serving was being done by an old woman and old man, one of whom was ladling from the pot, the other dispensing small pieces of stale bread from a basket.

When Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble reached the kitchen door, Patrick eyed the contents of the pot suspiciously.

“What is it?” he asked of the woman serving.

“Cabbage soup,” she replied. “Two spoonfuls is what you paid for. Two spoons is what you get. After that, it's a penny a scoop. Want it or not?”

“Of course they want it!” Mrs. Sonderbye cried from her chair. “They've just arrived. Give them as much as they'd like. And since you're newcomers,” the large woman declared, “you'll rent some bowls, won't you? Or will you take your soup in your fingers?” She held out two bowls.

Maura and Patrick looked to Mr. Drabble for an answer.

“Dear, kind Mrs. Sonderbye,” the actor said, “we three have chosen to form a company. We shall all sup from
my
bowl.”

Mrs. Sonderbye's red face turned redder. “Don't do it!” she cried to Maura. “Take my word, as honest a woman as you'll find in all of Liverpool, that man is touched in the head. You don't want anything to do with him. I'd put him on the street if he didn't come up with his rent. These are clean bowls I offer, and good food. Only thruppence to rent. As good a bargain as you'll ever find.”

“No, thank you,” Maura managed to say.

“More fool you then,” Mrs. Sonderbye returned with a scathing look at Mr. Drabble. “But don't come 'round and say I didn't warn you about him.”

The woman servant took Mr. Drabble's bowl and poured in six scant ladles of soup. Then the old man handed each a small piece of hard bread.

“There, you see,” the actor said, with a chuckle, when they were next to one another in a corner of the basement. “The woman would have flung me out a long time ago. But such is her greed, she'd rather have my irritating pennies than an empty hand.”

“Is there no other place to go?” Maura asked.

Mr. Drabble blushed. “There's nothing cheaper,” he said. “And as Hamlet said to his friend, ‘Thrift, Horatio, thrift!' May I remind you, my name is Horatio.

“But as for supper, we shall share. As the reigning beauty amongst us, my dear,” he said, offering the bowl and spoon to Maura, “you may start.”

Blushing, Maura took them. The soup was nothing but cloudy and tepid water with a few wilted cabbage leaves floating about. She made a face.

“It's all we have, my dear,” Mr. Drabble reminded her gently. “In America you'll eat much better. You know what is promised, gold in the streets. Cream in bowls. Blue in the sky. Consider this but the last bitter morsel of the Old World. It may weaken your body, but it will strengthen your resolve to go. May I suggest you dip your bread in the soup, to make it chewable.”

Maura took a portion of the soup, dipped her bread, then passed the bowl on to Patrick, who had much the same reaction as she. Even so, he swallowed a spoonful, glad for something. Then it was Mr. Drabble's turn. Around and around they went until—after each had had his or her small lot—the bowl was scraped clean.

“Tomorrow then,” Mr. Drabble said in his cheerful way, “we shall find your boat, make sure it's sailing, then arrange your medical exams. Does that sound satisfactory?”

“I'm sure you know better than we do, Mr. Drabble,” Maura replied. She had decided to trust the actor.

“Good,” he said. “Now, I suggest you repose here while I go off to work. Perhaps I'll earn a meager penny or two. One can only hope. I always do.”

“What work can you do tonight?” Maura asked.

Mr. Drabble touched his heart. “I think I informed you,” he replied with grave pride, “I am an actor. I offer the common people some touches of sublime art, which they might not otherwise expect to find upon the street. ‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.' Not a grand living, my dears, but so I live—perchance to die,” he added dramatically. “But it is my art, and for an artist, that is
everything
. So make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back by midnight.”

He stood up and brushed the straw from his clothing.

“Mr. Drabble, sir,” Maura said. “If you'd be kind enough to allow it, might I go with you? I've slept long enough, and I'd take pleasure in watching you.”

Mr. Drabble again put a hand to his heart. “You have touched my soul, my dear. Of course you are welcome. But I must warn you, it can be troublesome out there.”

“In what way?” Maura asked.

“The streets are full, the competition is keen,” the actor explained. “Not everyone appreciates art.”

“You've been truly kind to us,” Maura said. “If I could be of help to you …”

“I would be graced by your company,” returned Mr. Drabble, making a deep bow. “And you?” he asked Patrick.

The boy looked to his sister.

“I think you'd best stay here,” Maura told him. “Wasn't it you who watched over me before. Sure now, you can get yourself some sleep.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Drabble agreed. “No harm can come to him here.”

So it was that at about seven o'clock Maura O'Connell and Horatio Drabble—the actor carrying a sack—ventured onto the street. Patrick went with them to the front door. After the two had gone, he loitered on the front steps, watching people pass by.

He was glad to be out of the basement. The crowds fascinated him. He wondered who they were, what they did, where they were going. That made him think of where he'd be a year from now. The question had never occurred to him before. Now he realized he could not really say. The thought excited him.

It was while idly watching the street that Patrick suddenly spied Ralph Toggs headed his way. On his back, the young man was carrying a trunk. Behind him were a man and a woman. Patrick could see they were Irish.

Feeling instant outrage, but not knowing what to do, he scrambled up the steps to the porch. Once there, he tried to slip behind the door, but a man was lounging against it and Patrick could not pass. Instead, he retreated into a corner and squatted near an old woman, drawing up his knees to make himself small.

Meanwhile, Toggs set the couple's trunk at the top of the steps and called, “Mrs. Sonderbye! Are you there?”

After a few requests, the woman emerged. “Who's calling?” she bellowed.

“Ralph Toggs, at your service, madam.” He touched his hat in salute. “I've found some souls that need serving.” He indicated the man and woman.

Patrick, watching from his corner, wondered if he and Maura had looked as dazed and bedraggled when they arrived.

Mrs. Sonderbye peered down at the newcomers, even as she clamped a possessive hand on the trunk. “Room and board, four pence a day, each,” she informed them brusquely. “Minimum stay, a week, payable in advance. And you don't need references.”

“There, you see,” Toggs said to the man. “No references. I told you she was a decent sort, didn't I?”

The man and the woman exchanged worried looks. Patrick wanted to shout, “Don't do it,” but dared not.

“Will you take it or no?” Mrs. Sonderbye demanded.

“You're not likely to find anything better,” Toggs warned the couple. “Not at this time of night.”

The man nodded. From his trouser pocket, he pulled out a purse and offered money to the landlady. She looked at it, then beckoned the couple into the house. As they passed her, she reached out and dropped some of the coins into Toggs's hand.

The young man took them but added, “Can I have a word, mistress?” Touching Mrs. Sonderbye's arm, he drew her off to one side.

“If you're asking for a bigger commission …,” the woman began to protest.

“It's nothing like that,” Toggs assured her in a lowered voice. “This morning I brought you two Irish ones, a boy and an older girl, his sister, I think.”

“And I paid your part,” Mrs. Sonderbye informed him.

“No, no, woman, I'm not asking for any money. Is the girl about? I want to speak to her.”

Mrs. Sonderbye looked at him and smirked. “Got your eye on her, have you?”

“I might,” Toggs said with a grin.

“They're all alike, these Irish,” Mrs. Sonderbye went on. “She hardly arrived, but she hooked herself onto that troublesome actor fellow, Mr. Drabble. I seen them go off a while back.”

“Did she?” Toggs returned, his face flushing. “What was she going with him for? Money?”

“I suppose he'll give her his earnings—not that he ever has much,” the woman sneered.

“I can get more any day,” Toggs bragged. “How much do you think it'll take to please her?”

“Her runt of a brother's about,” the woman said with a laugh. “Go ask him.”

“Never mind,” Toggs growled. “I'll find her myself.”

He gave a curt salute and started down the steps.

As Mrs. Sonderbye went inside after her new boarders, Patrick jumped up. As far as he was concerned, Maura was in danger. From the top of the steps, he saw Toggs moving quickly down the street. Hardly thinking about what he intended to do, he leaped to the ground and began to follow him.