by Avi
“Where are we going?” Maura panted. They were crossing a bridge from one boat basin to another, passing a small castlelike turret that held the bridge-lift mechanism.
“A place for emigrants like yourselves,” Toggs called back. “The cheapest and best lodging in all of Liverpool!”
“We don’t have that much money,” Maura returned.
Toggs halted. “Well then, how much, exactly, do you have?” he asked, looking squarely into Maura’s face.
She drew herself up. “Not so very much,” she said.
Dissatisfied, Toggs looked to Patrick. “How much does she have, mate?” he demanded.
Flattered to be so addressed, Patrick told him, “Only a few pounds.”
The young man grinned even more widely. “A few blinkin’ pounds, he says! Spoken like a rich man without botheration. Don’t you worry. If you keep following me, you’ll get by.” He started across yet another bridge.
All too aware that Maura was not pleased to be hustled along so, Patrick whispered, “Maura, he’s being a friend.”
“By the Holy Mother, I’m praying you’re right,” she snapped, and grabbing Patrick’s hand, she rushed after Toggs.
For Maura and Patrick, the docks seemed to go on forever—Victoria Basin, Waterloo Basin, Prince’s Basin, and more. It seemed impossible that there could be so many people milling about, so many ships. Heedless, Ralph Toggs pressed forward, never slackening his pace.
At last they moved out of the dock area—passing sentry boxes manned by the dock police—and crossed the Strand, a wide boulevard. Here were warehouses far surpassing in size anything Patrick and Maura had yet seen.
Not that Toggs paid them any mind. Once across the Strand, he headed uphill along Lord Street for half a mile, then turned down Paradise Lane into the much narrower Gradwell Street.
“Look!” cried Patrick, pointing to a group of dark men in turbans. They were wearing ankle-length robes.
“Heathens,” Maura whispered with a mix of fascination and alarm.
“What are they doing here?” Patrick wondered.
“I don’t know,” Maura replied. “But for heaven’s sake, you mustn’t let them see you staring.” She pulled her brother along.
With the ever more congested streets came a roaring discord of shouts, cries, and calls, as people, horse-drawn wagons, carts, carriages, and barrows all jostled for passage amid the markets and liquor shops and dance halls. There was music. There were costermongers hawking their wares, vendors calling, children brawling.
Maura and Patrick were dumbfounded. It was hard to see. To hear. To think. Even so, they dared not stop. Ralph Toggs was pushing on.
Maura came to a dead stop. “Patrick!” she called.
“What is it?”
Maura was so alarmed that she found it hard to speak. “Blessed Jesus,” she managed at last, “I’m swearing I saw a building with a sign on it that read ‘Union House.’”
Patrick stopped short. “Where?”
“Some paces back,” Maura cried, pointing. “Down that way.”
Turning pale, he asked, “Are you certain?”
Maura shook her head. She was not sure.
As they stood there not knowing what to do, Patrick saw Toggs halt and look their way. After a moment he sauntered back, Maura’s bundle slung casually over his shoulder.
“What’s the matter now?” he demanded.
“If it pleases you, sir,” Maura replied, struggling with herself to look up, “I thought I saw the Union House. The building you said had burned.”
“Did you now?” Toggs said severely. “I thought you were strangers to Liverpool. You seem to know it better than me.”
“Please, sir,” Maura felt obliged to say, angry at her own tone of apology, “I didn’t mean to question you, but—”
“You’re doing it all the same,” the young man replied as he dropped her bundle into the muddy street. “If that’s the way you say thanks …”
“Wasn’t I only thinking—?”
“Well, you might think less, missy,” Ralph Toggs said sharply, cutting her off, “and pay mind to someone who’s offering help. Mr. Ralph Toggs is not one to force a lady anywhere. You’re free to go off on your own.” He tapped the brim of his hat down, folded his arms over his chest, and glowered, challenging them to action.
Upset, Maura turned to Patrick. When she received a reproachful look from her brother, she felt further abashed.
“Forgive me, Mr. Toggs,” she said, bowing her head. “I don’t mean to deny your kindness. In Kilonny we were rudely used and here in Liverpool are at your mercy. Surely you’ll forgive the confusion of strangers.” She raised her face.
Her look of pain and sorrow caught Toggs unprepared. For an instant his own face softened. “Where in Ireland did you say?” he asked.
“Kilonny Village,” Maura replied, finally gaining the strength to look into the young man’s eyes. “But they’ve tumbled it. And our mother—just as we were leaving—decided not to come with us.”
To which Patrick added bravely, “We’re going to our father.”
“Mr. Toggs,” Maura said softly, “we do appreciate your kindness.”
Toggs blushed in spite of himself, then shook his head to be rid of troublesome thoughts, to shake free of Maura’s soft look and blue eyes.
“Follow me,” he said gruffly, and picked up the O’Connells’ bundle. Once more he set off, though no longer striding with his former energy.
It was not too long before they came into an even poorer district. Here, the muddy streets were narrower still and darker. Amid garbage, piles of ash, slops, and filth, people sat about in apparent idleness, slept, or staggered in drunken stupors. The stench was awful.
“And here we are,” Toggs announced after they had traveled a few more dreary blocks. “Just about the best place for folks to stop.”
Maura and Patrick looked to where he pointed. It was a decrepit three-story wooden building. Once it might have stood straight and tall, but no straight line was any part of its current posture. The windows—covered with paper, not glass—sagged dejectedly. The main door drooped. The steps to that door—five in number—looked like piled kindling, no two of them at the same angle.
Atop these was a ramshackle porch. The people sprawled upon it were a dismal lot, slumped like soldiers in defeat. It was hard to say which was closer to a final collapse, building or beings. They took not the slightest interest in Maura and Patrick.
“You can take my word for it,” Toggs said, though, to Maura’s ears, he spoke with little conviction, “in all of Liverpool, you won’t find a better lodging to stay in than this. Shelter, bed, and food for no more than four pence a day. What’s more, you can stay as long as you need to or”—he nodded significantly—“as long as your money lasts.”
“We won’t be staying long,” Maura said finally, as much to herself as anyone else. “We’ll be sailing in a few days.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll do well here,” Toggs said agreeably. He moved toward the house. “Step up now. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Sonderbye.”
“And who may she be?” Maura asked timidly.
“The kind lady who’ll take you in.” Toggs mounted the rickety steps. “Are you coming or no?”
Maura and Patrick looked at each other. When Patrick gave a tiny shrug, Maura started up after the young man. At least, she thought, it was a woman in charge.
“Mrs. Sonderbye!” Toggs bellowed at the doorway. “Are you about?”
The woman herself emerged. She was as large and round as a boulder, with massive arms, stocky legs, and a face as red as raw beefsteak.
“Who’s calling?” she shouted, blinking her bleary eyes as if she had not seen daylight for a week.
“Ralph Toggs of the Lime Street Runners Association at your service, Mrs. Sonderbye,” the young man announced, putting his fingers to his hat in salute. “I’ve brought some souls that need serving.” He held up Maura’s bundle and gestured to siste
r and brother.
Mrs. Sonderbye shifted her head ponderously in their direction. Contemplating the newcomers with ill-disguised contempt, she nonetheless closed her fat fingers around Maura’s bundle. “Room and board, four pence a day, each,” she announced. “Minimum stay, a week, payable in advance. You won’t need no references.”
“There, you hear?” Toggs enthused to Maura. “No references. Didn’t I say the lady was kind?”
“Might we see the room?” Maura asked.
Mrs. Sonderbye did not seem to hear the question. “Do you want it or not?” she demanded while giving a backward toss to Maura’s bundle. It disappeared into the house.
“You won’t get better,” Toggs pressed Maura. “You can trust me on that.”
Maura was not sure what she had expected, but this was nothing of the kind. It was not the poverty of the place that upset her. She was used to that. It was the filth she found horrifying. But what else were they to do? Where else were they to go? And all the while Patrick was gazing up at her, waiting for her decision.
“Yes or no?” Mrs. Sonderbye demanded again.
Just two days, Maura thought, for in just that time she and Patrick would be on their way to America. She nodded.
“Money first,” Mrs. Sonderbye sang out, “comfort second.” She extended a fat hand, palm up. “You pays by the week.”
“We’re only staying two days.”
“You’ll get a refund.”
Maura turned away, took out her packet, and extracted enough coins to pay the first week’s bill. They were swallowed instantly by Mrs. Sonderbye’s grasping fingers.
“Come on then,” the woman said. As she did, she reached out, and Maura thought she saw—though she wasn’t certain—some of the coins drop into Toggs’s hand. The next moment the landlady moved back through the doorway.
Just as they were about to follow, Maura turned to Toggs. “I thank you for your kindness,” she said, looking squarely into his eyes.
He blushed to the roots of his hair. “You’ll—do—well enough here,” he stammered. “There are worse places. And—” Instead of finishing his words, he made an abrupt turn and ran down the street. Maura watched him go, then heeded Patrick when he tugged at her arm. Together, they crossed the threshold into Mrs. Sonderbye’s house.
If the outside was in wretched repair, the inside was worse. Walls once plastered were pocked with holes, exposing lath and hair within. Even in the dim light, joists could be seen below the gapped and curling floorboards. The smell of refuse nearly caused Maura and Patrick to gag. As they made their way down the central hallway, they saw many rooms on either side. Each was crammed with people who appeared to be camping as they might in the open air.
Mrs. Sonderbye clumped to the far end of the hall. She yanked open a door. Having but one hinge, it barely clung to the frame. “Down the steps,” she said. “Make yourselves at home. The loo is out back.”
Patrick peered down the stairwell. It was too dark to see much of anything.
“And if you please, miss,” Maura said to Mrs. Sonderbye, “our bundle.” But the woman, paying no attention, was retreating ponderously along the hall.
Maura wanted to protest, but Patrick had already started down the steps. With the greatest trepidation, Maura followed. Halfway there, they stopped.
Thin fingers of light poked in from cracks through the ceiling above. Scattered about on an earthen floor were stuffed bags and pallets. A dozen people were stretched upon these, eight men and four women, most asleep. Those awake sat on sparse straw. Few wore shoes or boots. None appeared clean or even healthy. They stared at the newcomers silently. Only one person seemed alive, and he was deeply immersed in a book.
But as Maura and Patrick gazed downward in dread, the man who was reading looked up. “Ah, new neighbors!” he cried brightly. “Welcome to you both! As the bard said, ‘Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.’ Come right along!” Given the abject dreariness of the place, his cheerful greeting had the feel and sound of madness.
It was too much for Maura. She turned and pressed her face against the stairwell wall, a wall oozing with rancid damp, giving growth to patches of mustard-colored mildew.
Feeling equally wretched, Patrick looked on helplessly. He had but two thoughts: that it was he who had brought them to this place, and that they would never leave it.
When Ralph Toggs rushed downhill away from Mrs. Sonderbye’s, he was angry. He did not know why he was angry, only that he felt so. The very notion was itself mortifying. After all, he had done no more than he did every day—snapped up two ignorant Irish emigrants and led them to a place of lodging, for which service he received money. Three or four times a day he did it and had been doing so for five years as the best runner in the Lime Street Runners Association!
Sergeant Rumpkin, the association leader, had often told Toggs how good he was, praising him before all the others. At the age of fifteen, he had no rivals, except, perhaps, Fred, a boy without a last name. And Fred, in Ralph Toggs’s opinion, was just a lack-brain brat.
And yet, this time, when Toggs had done his job, the girl had thanked him. It was confounding. And those eyes….
Toggs could have sworn she knew he was misleading them. Had she not seen the Union House, where she and her brother were meant to stay, after he told them it had burned? Even so, she had trusted him, had thanked him! For Toggs, it was galling to be treated with such consideration! And from such a pretty girl!
As for Mrs. Sonderbye’s home, Toggs knew how perfectly awful it was, knew the landlady’s reputation for gouging her tenants in every possible way. It had not mattered to him before. Why should it matter now?
Distressed by such thoughts, Toggs took himself into a spirit shop and found a seat in a far corner. Once there, he wrapped himself in as deep a sulk as he had ever experienced.
Ralph Toggs was not usually given to thinking about himself. He did his job and lived his life with few questions asked and no answers demanded. Most of his friends did exactly the same. As far as he could tell, they never were troubled with questions or answers.
With his drink before him—it too had acquired a sour taste—Toggs began to admit that there was something about that girl…. He wished she had not believed him!
Was he getting soft? he asked himself. Being a runner required hardness, and his hardness was something of which he had always been proud. After all, you had to take miserable, confused people right off the boats and make sure that what little they had was plucked away. They were not called pigeons for nothing. What did it matter to him? People should look out for themselves. The way he did. No one took care of him. He asked no one to pity him. And yet, he half suspected that the girl did pity him. It was galling!
If he was getting soft, he told himself, he should get out of the business altogether. There were always new fellows coming into the runners’ trade ready to take his place, new ones like Fred. This Fred was nothing but a baby, yet hard as nails, mean as a rough stone. Worst of all, Sergeant Rumpkin had taken a liking to him. Brought him into the association. Praised him.
Toggs shook his head in disgust. He would be happy to take on Fred No-name anytime of the day or night. But as for this girl …
Maybe, he thought, he should get out of the business. Go to America like so many others. Not that it would take much money. Except that Toggs did not have money. What he got he always spent.
To prove this fact to himself, he reached into his pocket and took out the few coins Mrs. Sonderbye had given him. Perhaps if he gave them back to the girl, he would feel better. She might even tell him what she really thought of him. A good scolding or even a slap of anger would brace him up considerably. That was more what he was used to.
Toggs stood up, drained his drink, spit it out for the filth it was, and returned to the streets. His mind was made up: He would go to the docks and find a way to get some money. Exactly how, he had no idea. But one way or another, he was determined to have it. And with the
money, win the girl.
With a confident tap to his hat, he started off.
We are here, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool whispered into Laurence’s ear. With a start, Laurence woke. Passengers were already clambering out of the railway carriage. The boy pulled himself up only to become aware of how much his body ached. He felt hot too.
“Push the door then,” Mr. Clemspool urged.
Rather light-headed, Laurence did as he was told. Gingerly, he stepped onto the platform. Though not nearly as vast as the station in London, it was quite lofty and grand. Many people were pushing past.
Mr. Clemspool, in greatcoat and top hat, and carrying his traveling bag, extricated himself from the carnage. Once on the platform, he stretched. “Painful way to travel, isn’t it?” he said. “Ah, but the sea, Master Worthy, the bracing sea. What pleasures are in store for you!” He patted Laurence on the back.
“First, however, we need to get you some food and proper lodging, wouldn’t you say?” He glanced about. A few yards away a girl—not a day older than seven and dressed in rags—was selling sugar buns. Round like balls, large as a man’s fist, and sprinkled liberally with sugar, they were heaped high in a shallow reed basket that the child held before her. A crudely lettered sign read SUGAR BUNS, HA’PENNY EACH.
Mr. Clemspool beckoned flamboyantly with his hat.
The girl hurried over. “Yes, sir!”
“One, two?” Mr. Clemspool offered Laurence.
The sight of food made the boy’s stomach growl. “Two,” he replied.
“Young Master Worthy desires two buns. No! Make that three!”
The girl curtsied and handed over the buns. Mr. Clemspool gave her two pennies, grandly waved away the change, then passed the buns to Laurence, who devoured the first in three bites and immediately started on the second.
The girl giggled, hand over her mouth. Mr. Clemspool laughed too. “Now then,” he said, bending over the boy, “I’m supposed to meet an old friend for a brief chat. He was traveling first class. Ah! The clock! The very spot.”