“No use hidin’ under there, girl, you cut that cater waulin’ an’ get t’sleep! Oh, an’ a little bird told me yer father’s homeward bound. I wouldn’t get too joyful if’n I was you. That footloose brother o’ mine won’t be back too long. Quick turnabout an’ ship out agin, that’s Paddy for ye. Aye, an’ I’ll tell ye summat else, he’d better come up with more money this time. Huh, leavin’ me ’ere to watch out for his brat, after that Spanish bit he called a wife went gallyvantin’ off. An’ him, sailin’ away to where ye please, while I’ve got to look after yew. Givin’ you the best of everythin’, an’ teachin’ yer a respectable trade, too. An’ little enough I gets fer it!”
Eric lurched off, waving his pipe stem at the cook. “Bring me brekkist at nine sharp tomorrer, ye heathen, an’ make sure the tea’s well sugared, or I’ll sling yer in the dock!”
After her uncle had gone upstairs, Miggy peeked out from under her blanket. Atty, rigging up her curtain again, gave her his usual cheery grin. “Not worry about him. Eric like cracked temple bell, alla time making silly noise. Sleep now, father be back soon.”
The days passed slowly. Every chance she got, Miggy sat out on the quayside chains, watching for a sight of the Bombay Pearl coming upriver. The young girl was so taken up with her father’s return that she often forgot some of her chores. Late each night, Uncle Eric would totter down to the cellar, pretty much the worse for drink. He would bellow and roar at Miggy, calling her an idle little mare who was eating him out of house and business. Miggy hid beneath her blanket, weathering the verbal storm in silence.
One night, Eric began shouting that he was going to teach her a lesson. He started to unbuckle his belt when a sound from the cook’s pallet caused him to turn. Atty Lok was standing there, sharpening his big bacon knife on an oilstone. The eyes of the little Siamese man were flat and dangerous as he gazed unblinkingly at the fat, drunken bully. Uncle Eric took the warning, muttering thickly to himself as he staggered back upstairs.
At six in the morning of the following Wednesday, the Bombay Pearl sailed gracefully through the lock gates on a floodtide. Miggy Mags was already dashing barefoot along the quayside as her father’s ship tied up against the west wall. She met him before he was halfway down the gangplank. Paddy McGrail swung his daughter off her feet, hugging her as she planted kisses on his stubbled cheeks.
“Ahoy there, Miggy, me darlin’, just look at the size of ye? What a lucky ould salt I am, to be welcomed home by such a charmin’ princess!”
Carrying his seabag over one shoulder and toting a bulky-shaped burlap sack in his hand, Paddy ambled along the quay with a jaunty western ocean roll. Miggy’s skinny legs skittered back and forth as she skipped circles around her dad, peppering him with questions. “How long are you home for? Oh, I hope it’s ages an’ ages! Will you still be on the Bombay Pearl an’ the India run? What’s in that sack, is it somethin’ for me, is it, Dad?”
Paddy’s eyes were twinkling, he pretended to look dizzy. “Will ye be quiet an’ still for a moment, Miggy, me girl, you’ve got your poor father worn-out already. Hoppin’ round like a cat on hot cinders, an’ chatterin’ on like a cageload o’ magpies. Have mercy on a simple sailorman.”
She giggled at his pitiful expression. “Alright, Dad, I’ll be good, honest I will!”
Clasping both hands primly, Miggy lowered her eyes and straightened her back, as she had seen well-to-do college girls doing on their way to church services.
Paddy could not help smiling, he was so fond of her. “That’s better, me darlin’, now listen to me. I’ll be in Liverpool four days, while the ship’s unloadin’ some gear. Then I’ve got to sail with the Pearl up to Greenock in Scotland. We’re dischargin’ most of the cargo there, then comin’ back here for another seven days to get laden again. So, I’ll be home four days, gone another six, then home for a week. Good, eh, Miggs!”
Miggy figured out the total time she would spend with her dad, laughing. “Atty Lok will say it’s eleventeen days. But it’s the longest you’ve been home in ages. What have you got in the bag, Dad? Please tell me.”
Paddy shook his head. “Is that Siamese cook still around? He’s a nice little feller, but he’s teachin’ you your figures all wrong. Proper schoolin’, me girl, that’s what ye need—it’s eleven days, not eleventeen.”
Miggy shrugged. “I know that, Dad, I can count right enough. But you still haven’t told me—what’s in the sack?”
Paddy gave her a broad wink. “I’ll tell ye later, darlin’. Look, we’re home. There’s me brother Eric, waitin’ on the step t’greet me. He looks like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp, but don’t tell him I said that.”
Paddy nodded affably to his scowling elder brother. “Eric, great t’see ye again, mate!”
Eric sucked on his clay pipe, and spat out sourly, “I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ some brekkist. Come on inside. An’ you, girl, get yourself into that kitchen. There’s men need feedin’, an’ not a dish washed in the place. Shift!”
Paddy stroked his daughter’s unruly brown curls. “Go on, darlin’, do as your uncle Eric says.”
Both men watched her go indoors. Eric stowed the pipe in his hatband. “Huh, just like her mother, hungry as a wolf an’ lazy as a sow. By rights she should go to the parish.”
Paddy’s eyes blazed with anger. “No daughter o’ mine is goin’ to end up in the parish workhouse. I pays you good money for Miggy’s keep, ye can’t deny that!”
Eric slouched inside. Indicating a vacant table to his younger brother, they both sat down. Paddy saw Miggy wearing an apron many sizes too large for her. She was carrying out breakfasts to the waiting lodgers.
Eric rapped a grimy finger on the tabletop. “I been waitin’ to have words with ye about the girl. She ain’t a baby no more, Paddy, she’s growin’ up fast. I’ll be needin’ an extra twelve bob off ye. Things bein’ what they are, I can’t afford t’keep her on the money ye give me. Have ye seen the price o’ things nowadays?”
Paddy stared incredulously at his brother. “Another twelve shillings?”
Eric scratched his stomach, replying offhandedly, “It’s either that, or she goes to the parish.”
Paddy counted out money from a small bag strung round his neck. “There, that’s what I usually pays ye, plus the extra twelve bob. Miggy goes to the parish over my dead body. Right?”
Eric watched as he slammed the money down on the table. He skimmed it quickly into his trouser pocket and stood up. “Right, I’m off to the Maid of Erin, got some business there. Stow yer gear in the cellar, I won’t charge ye. ’Tis better than sleepin’ aboard ship.”
Without a backward glance he sauntered out the door, off to the pub and a long day’s drinking.
Miggy shed her apron and ran to sit in the seat her uncle had vacated. Atty Lok appeared, carrying a tray ful of food, which he brought to the table.
Miggy spread her arms grandly. “Brekkist for two, please!”
Paddy shook the Siamese cook’s hand warmly. “Atty Lok, ye old grubroaster, how are ye, my friend?”
Atty continued pumping Paddy’s hand up and down. “Paddy ’Grail, old cockleshell, I fine, how you? Both eat up now, plenny good special I make for you an’ daughter. See, eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, molasses an’ plenny tea!”
Paddy grabbed his knife and fork eagerly.
“All the way from Bombay I’ve been dreamin’ of a good Liverpool feed. Salt horse, ship’s biscuits an’ weevils in the hard tack, that’s what I’ve lived on for six months. Atty, you’re as merciful an’ kind as the Bud dha himself!”
The cook sat and watched until they had finished. “Much good chow, eh?”
Paddy slapped his lean stomach. “Fit for a Mogul of India. Now come with me, I’ve got something to show ye both.”
Between them they carried Paddy’s gear down to the cellar. Placing the bumpy sack on Miggy’s old navy blanket, Paddy undid the drawstring.
“This is a present for you, Miggy, me girl. Wait’ll you see t
his!” Some cotton waste and ship’s ration scraps tumbled out of the sack, then a small head peeped forth.
The girl stared wide-eyed at the beast emerging from the sack. It had a pointed nose, little whiskers and a pair of eyes which shone like black diamonds. Slightly smaller than a tabby cat, the creature had short legs, a long thick tail and a bristly silver-grey coat, almost blue where the lantern light caught it. Standing on its hind legs, it licked at Miggy’s fingers, which had traces of molasses sticking to them. It was not afraid of the girl, nor she of it. Miggy smiled.
“Oh, isn’t he lovely, Dad! What sort of animal is he?”
Paddy stroked its back with one finger. “This, me darlin’, is the Malabar Egyptian. Right, Atty?”
The Siamese cook spoke in reverent tones. “That feller mongoose, bravest snake killer in alla world. You wait here, I get friend mongoose some food!”
Whilst Atty was gone, Paddy explained to his daughter about the animal. “Y’see, Migg, this feller ain’t no common mongoose. He comes off a very special strain. His father an’ mother were both prize serpent slayers, bred from rare stock. His bloodline is a mixture of two kinds o’ mongooses. Malabar, an’ Egyptian ichneumon, the bravest there is. They’re also the most lovin’ an’ faithful of pets, ask Atty, he’ll tell ye.”
The cook returned with an egg, which he gave to Miggy. “Hold mongoose, blow in his face gently, soft now.”
She did as he instructed. The mongoose leaned close to her mouth, its nostrils twitching. Atty nodded.
“He know you now. Crack egg a little, put it on floor for mongoose feller. He like egg pretty good.”
Miggy cracked the egg slightly. Liquid leaked from it as she placed it on the floor. Putting the mongoose down next to it, she spoke quietly. “Come on, Sailor, this is for you.”
The little beast leaped on the egg, holding it with its paws and attacking the shell with razor-sharp teeth. Paddy McGrail watched his daughter stroking the mongoose as it lapped up both yolk and white like a hungry kitten. “Sailor, eh? That’s a good name for him.”
Miggy nodded. “Well, he sailed with you, Dad, all the way from India. What do you think, Atty?”
The cook shook his head. “No, should be called Lascar, that name for Indian sailor. Lascar!” He reached forward to stroke the creature’s nose with one finger. It snarled, baring its teeth warningly. Atty pulled his hand away quickly.
“He loyal to you now ’til fifty-sixth of Foreveryear. Best he be called Sailor, he British citizen now. You take care of Sailor, he take care of you, ho, yes!”
Miggy scoffed. “How could a little fellow like him take care of me?”
Atty Lok sounded deadly serious. “I tell you, missy, mongoose fear nothing, not scared of poison serpent or death. He protec’ you good!”
Sailor had finished his egg. He looked up from the well-licked shell fragments at Miggy. Folding him in her arms, she stroked him lovingly. The mongoose snuggled up to his new owner, making rusty little noises of pleasure.
Paddy McGrail cautioned his daughter, “Don’t be carryin’ him round an’ pettin’ him like that. I’ve got a feelin’ that Eric doesn’t like animals of any kind, especially foreign ones. Keep Sailor out of sight when your uncle Eric’s around. No sense invitin’ trouble, darlin’.”
Miggy heeded the warning, it made good sense. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make him a little nest behind my bed, and I’ll only bring him out when Uncle Eric isn’t in.” Whilst she talked, the young mongoose gazed up into her eyes, as if listening intently to every word Miggy said.
Every one of the four days her dad was home, Miggy Mags rose early. She fed Sailor on bacon rinds, crusts spread with molasses and the odd cracked egg, which Atty left out for her. She went about her tasks with a will, the object being to get them out of the way so she could spend time with her father. Everything went well until the third day. Paddy had taken Miggy for a visit aboard the Bengal Pearl, a delightful day out for her. Her dad’s shipmates, both crew and officers, went out of their way to make her happy. Most of the men were bachelors and had no children of their own. They were enchanted with Paddy’s young daughter. Miggy was given a tour of the vessel, from stem to stern, by two whiskery old salts. A wheelhouse officer even let her turn the massive brass-bound mahogany steering wheel, allowing her to wear his peaked cap. She was served afternoon tea in the crew’s mess with the captain, doctor, purser and all hands attending. Miggy was treated to ham sandwiches, Madeira cake and Ceylon tea. The captain showed her how to stick out a little finger when holding the delicate Satsuma china cups, which he had provided for the occasion. The purser asked her to pour tea for them, chuckling as he referred to her as “Mother.” It was early evening when they came ashore, Paddy swaggering proudly alongside his young daughter. Miggy had some coins and handcrafted trinkets donated by her dad’s shipmates. It had been a day to remember.
But disaster awaited them on their return to the Mersey Star Boardinghouse.
Atty Lok came hurrying up the quayside to warn them. “Eric have much sick belly, he come home early from pub. Ho, yes, big bad mood, you stay out of Eric’s way until he go up to room an’ sleep!”
The cook was about to tell more when Eric McGrail appeared at the door. His face was ashen. He crouched, clutching his stomach as he roared, “Where’ve ye both been all day, eh? Leavin’ a poor sick man to fend for hisself. Fine family you two are!”
Paddy pushed Miggy behind him as he enquired about his brother. “Eric, are you alright, mate, what ails ye?”
The boardinghouse keeper allowed himself to be escorted inside by Paddy and Atty. He lowered himself, groaning, into a chair, where he sat wiping slobber from his chin. “I could’ve been dead an’ laid out, for all youse lot care. I was took bad in the Maid of Erin, an’ had t’find me own way home. It musta been somethin’ that foreign heathen put in me brekkist this mornin’.”
He bent forward, wincing, as he pointed at Miggy. “Either that, or I’ve been infected by that rat you been keepin’. Where is it now, ye filthy liddle scut?”
Paddy answered, defending his daughter. “Easy now, Eric, you’re sick. Miggy wouldn’t keep no rat as a pet, she’s scared of rats. There might be some outside, on the wharves an’ under the piers. Talk sense, mate, whoever heard of anyone havin’ a dock rat indoors as a pet, eh?”
Sweat beaded on Eric’s pasty brow as he heaved himself up. “Oh, ye think I’m out o’ me mind, talk sense, is it? I’ll talk sense right enough. I saw the thing with me own eyes, a rat, near big as a cat the damned thing was. It was skulkin’ round in my cellar when I went down to look for the girl. Come an’ see for yer selves!”
Lifting the trapdoor behind the kitchen counter, he beckoned the trio to go down ahead of him. “Go on down there, I’ll show ye. Nobody calls Eric McGrail a liar!”
Paddy called back as they negotiated the single-board steps, “No one’s callin’ ye a liar, mate, I was only sayin’ that my Miggy ain’t keepin’ a rat down here.”
The curtain had been ripped down from Miggy’s alcove. Her navy blanket and few pitiful belongings were strewn about the cellar floor. However, there was no sign of Sailor. Eric shuffled about, squinching his face and holding on to his griping stomach. He kicked the tin of drinking water over and ground his boot down on on the bacon rind, eggshell and bread crusts.
“Tell the truth, girl, you’ve been keepin’ a rat down here!”
Miggy shook her head. “No, I haven’t, I don’t like rats.”
Eric glared at her from under beetling brows. “Don’t take me for a fool, ye liddle liar!”
Atty interrupted his tirade. “Miggy good girl, not tell lies, she never keep rat!”
Eric turned on him furiously. “Then it’s you, poi sonin’ me grub, ye son o’ Satan!”
The Siamese cook folded his arms, gazing implacably at Eric. “If I want to poison you, long time ago you’d be dead. You make plenty foolish talk.”
Completely lost for words, Eric pushed the cook aside
and lurched over to the stairs. Then he turned, fixing the three of them with a malicious sneer. “So be it then. I’ll cook me own grub from now on. But I warn ye, I’ll get to the bottom o’ the rat business. When I’m fit again, I’ll send for Tommy Dyer, the rat catcher. Hah, no rat ever escapes Tommy, he’ll catch the vermin alive an’ sell it to the sportin’ gang at the Slaughterhouse pub. They’ll sling it in the pit with two rattin’ terriers, then bet on which one’ll tear your rat to bits first!”
When the trapdoor slammed shut, Miggy searched the cellar, calling out in a loud whisper, “Sailor, where are you, Sailor?” She gave a squeak of surprise when the mongoose dropped lightly onto her shoulders from out of the ceiling crossbeams. He licked Miggy’s ear and curled about her neck. Paddy looked worried.
“I should’ve known it was wrong, bringin’ a mongoose to Eric’s place. I think I’d best take him back aboard ship.”
Large tears popped from Miggy’s eyes as she pleaded with her dad. “Oh, please don’t take Sailor away from me, I love him so much! I’ll hide him better this time, Uncle Eric will never know he’s here. Let me keep him, please, Dad!”
Paddy McGrail had never seen his daughter cry since she was a babe in arms—it upset him. She was usually a tough little soul. He looked to the cook for help. “What d’you think, Atty, would it work out if I left him here?”
Atty Lok had quite firm views on the subject. “Paddy can no give daughter gift, then take away, not honourable! Leave Sailor here with Miggy, she take care of him. I look out for Eric, things be fine again.”
Paddy relented. “Alright, Sailor stays. But Miggy, me darlin’, don’t let Eric see him, whatever ye do!”
At floodtide on the following morn, Paddy McGrail boarded the Bengal Pearl and sailed for Greenock. Miggy stood on the quay, waving, as the ship glided by under sail, like a huge white swan.
The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales Page 9