Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  His eyes narrowed. ‘No problem. Hasta mañana.’

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ Perry replied and beat a hasty retreat before he said more than he ought.

  Back in his cell Perry lay, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Underneath it all he was nauseous and oddly deflated. He tried to push Santi and Martín from his mind and focus on the next day, thinking of all the different scenarios and what he might do in each. He doubted he’d get much sleep. All he could do was rest his bones and be ready.

  29

  Easter Sunday, March 27th 1891

  Dawn broke. Perry smoothed his black robes and tucked his homemade priest’s collar in place. He slipped his grey pyjamas on over the top and wondered what sort of weather would be best for him, a thick fog perhaps? He got up on his bed and pulled himself up to peep out of his letterbox window. The sky was mackerel grey, darker and more brooding in the distance. He dropped and sat on the edge of his bed. Maybe it would brighten. As if by answer, thunder grumbled in a deep, groaning complaint that echoed throughout the penitentiary. Shit. A storm could be disastrous; the archbishop might not come. Helpless, he sat on the edge of his bed, tapping his feet on the ground. It was in God’s hands now.

  Prayer had been habitual at one point in his life, as regular and thoughtless as washing his face each morning. Now, dropping to his knees he clasped his hands together, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed as deep as he knew how. There were millions of paths. At the end of one, there was Eva, Joel and his father in Southampton. He prayed with all his might and sincerity for wisdom to pick the way that got him there, for courage to stay its course and… well, a little luck wouldn’t go amiss either. And in exchange? A solemn promise that he, Perry Scrimshaw, would live a life of fair deeds. Just please God, allow me leave of this early grave.

  At breakfast, he couldn’t see Santi anywhere. Perhaps he’d ratted him out for a shorter sentence? But then wouldn’t the guards have taken him if that was the case? He did two rounds of the canteen and he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Perry, what you pacing around for?’ Ricardo called him over. ‘Siddown.’

  Perry chewed his lip, damn Santi. He slipped in next to Ricardo, but found himself looking round every few minutes or so.

  Breakfast was strange, a round pastry with candied fruit on top.

  Ricardo rubbed his hands together, ‘Rosca de Pascua, back home in Bahía Blanca they make the best ones.’

  Martín held his up and tapped it with his finger, it made a rapping sound like wood, ‘Better than these ones certainly.’

  Perry took a bite; it was rock solid and stale. He put it back on his plate.

  ‘You not eating that?’ asked Osvaldo.

  ‘Have it if you want.’

  Osvaldo grabbed it. Ricardo looked at him aghast.

  ‘What?’ Perry asked.

  ‘You just gave him your rosca, it’s the best thing about Easter.’

  ‘Are you feeling ok?’ asked Martín. ‘You look tired.’

  Perry tried to smile. ‘Fine. I just didn’t sleep much. Must be the thunder. Not very hungry either. Anyway, Osvaldo’s welcome to it, that rock’s not a patch on a hot cross bun.’

  ‘Who cross what?’

  Perry explained what a hot cross bun was, glad to be thinking about something different, even for just a moment and couldn’t help thinking how surreal it was, talking about baking, British baking, while underneath it all the balance of his life could change at a blow of a whistle or the pop of a button.

  The bell sounded. It was time for chapel. His hands were shaking under the table. He looked around for Santi again. Where was he?

  The chapel was Sunday-full, and he sat towards the back with his companions from Press. Worryingly, there was no sign of the archbishop or chaplain. Maybe that was good; the chaplain would be receiving the archbishop wouldn’t he? But still, he didn’t like it.

  ‘No sign of the archbishop,’ Perry said to nobody in particular.

  ‘You going to confession with him afterwards?’ asked Ricardo,

  ‘Yes, if he turns up, why?’

  ‘Load of crap if you ask me.’

  ‘Well he didn’t ask you, did he?’ Martín cut in. ‘Speaking to the archbishop is one of the few good things about being inside this place. I’m glad Perry has the sense to see it, even if you don’t Ricardo.’

  There was a rhythmic pattering on the roof and wind whistling up somewhere in the eaves. The storm was building. He scanned the chapel again, spied a head, a little taller than the others, tall and thin as a coconut shy. Santi. He had shaved and looked clean and decent. Perhaps he had been in the Dining Hall this morning after all. The new look. His heart leapt, he must be in after all! His nerves gave way to a buzz of excitement.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Martín whispered.

  His heart sank; it was only the chaplain.

  ‘Sorry for the delay,’ he ran his hand through his grey hair.

  ‘I’ve just been down to the office, we’ve received a message on the telegraph…’

  No! No! No!

  ‘…and I’m sorry to say…’

  Don’t say it! Don’t say it!

  ‘…that the archbishop…’

  Please God!

  ‘…is delayed.’

  Perry held his breath.

  ‘I pray he’ll be here in time for confession but will miss my service… unfortunately…’ he placed his index finger on the lectern, like he might be pointing at a specific line, ‘…not that I was planning anything that special.’ he fixed a smile on his face. ‘Hopefully he will be here soon.’

  Perry could have jumped for joy! Across the chapel Santi gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He was in. The archbishop was coming. It was on.

  30

  The chaplain lit a candle and held it aloft and in a somewhat weary voice said:

  ‘Christ our Light, on this, the day of your resurrection…’

  Perry picked at his cuffs and focused on the service. The chaplain’s voice was particularly flat and monotone and combined with the rain on the roof it would have been soporific had he not been so uptight. He noticed one or two inmates with their eyes closed in the middle row, many others with bored cross-armed expressions, minds elsewhere, bodies present. But Perry was tense; eyeing up the space, calculating. There was a spot by the western confession box, a hollow or inlet in the wing that housed a cheap paint-chipped statue of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t a huge space, but it was only illuminated by a solitary candle; he could conceivably slip into the gloomy space should he need to.

  An hour into the service, the chaplain stopped mid-sentence and stared at the back of the chapel. Perry and the congregation turned to see a group of robed men. At the front, in a strange hat with crenels, was the archbishop.

  ‘Please rise for his Holiness, the Archbishop Frederico León Aneiros,’ the chaplain bellowed.

  Perry rose with the rest of the congregation and stood on tiptoes to get a better glimpse of him. Federico León Aneiros was podgy man, slope-shouldered and dimple-chinned. Perry hadn’t known what to expect, but this man’s expression was more thunderous than benevolent. The sort of man who looked like he could strike the fear of God into you, which to give the man his dues, was his occupation.

  The archbishop was flanked by two men in black with gold sashes, and followed by two minions in white, red and gold robes. The colours weren’t ideal but there wasn’t much he could do about that now. His holiness reached the front and the chaplain bowed reverently. They had a whispered conversation and then the chaplain smiled, bowed again and returned to his lectern. Underneath the pomp and ceremony, Perry sensed stiltedness between them.

  ‘The archbishop apologises for his lateness to you all, he had his own service to run of course and what with the weather...anyway, after seeing us, his holiness has an appointment with none other than President Pellegrini! We are honoured indeed to factor into his plans on so busy a day.

  ‘We will now proceed straight to confession. For those
who do not wish it, you may return to the cells. I believe some of the Archbishop’s aides will be walking the grounds talking with you for the next hour or so,’ he looked to the archbishop and received a nod, ‘yes, marvellous,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Let us pray. Dear Lord, thank you for sending the archbishop and his party into our holy chapel to share with us this most important day, the day he rose, your son, our saviour the Lord Jesus Christ. We ask for your forgiveness…Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’

  People rose and shuffled down their rows. Perry followed Martín and Osvaldo. People bustled in the nave, some, like Osvaldo and Ricardo heading towards the exit, others, like Martín, towards the confession boxes. Perry slowed, he had to make sure he was last in line and he kept his head down in shadow as much as he could. The fewer people who saw his new appearance the better.

  People pushed past him on their way out, but he took his time and it wasn’t long before it was only the religious dregs left in the chapel. A sizable queue at both confession boxes, nearly twenty in each by Perry’s reckoning. He joined the back of the west line, a few behind Martín. On the east wing, Santi was mirroring his position at the back of the queue.

  The archbishop let himself into the confession box on Perry’s side, the chaplain on Santi’s. The archbishop’s aides hurried out to do their rounds.

  Time passed and Perry prepared by doing the little he could, undoing his top and bottom buttons to save time, loosening his foot in his shoe. The wait was killing him. Santi’s line was going down a lot faster than his own, perhaps people had more to unload onto the archbishop. He worried what Santi would do if he got out earlier, how he would remain in the chapel without being recognised by the guards or other inmates. Maybe his plan was too simple, too ridiculous, they were surely going to get caught. Perry wiped sweat from his brow and ran his hand across his neck. No smudging yet. He had to keep cool.

  The line slowly shortened and the man in front of Martín went in, Perry took a stride forward. Nearly there. He checked Santi’s progress; he was letting himself into the confession box! Perry’s blood thumped round his body so loud he wondered if the inmate in front could hear it. Come on!

  And then it was Martín’s turn, but before he could go in, a door opened with a creak and the archbishop appeared. He pulled a pocketwatch from a deep fold in his robes, examined the face and shook his head.

  ‘Lo siento, there is time only for one more. The rest will have to see the chaplain,’ his voice was deep and genuinely apologetic. Perry’s heart dropped. If the archbishop left before he got changed, that was it. It would all have been for nothing.

  ‘Please,’ Perry said, ‘I really wanted to talk to you, I’ve been looking forward to this since we heard you were coming.’

  The archbishop’s face didn’t move, ‘I truly am sorry. The President waits for me, I don’t mind which of you it is but hurry,’ and he returned inside.

  The man in front of Perry scratched his head, ‘Martín, you’re next in line. It should be you.’

  The prisoner in front of him nodded, ‘I saw him last year. The chaplain will do for me anyway, go ahead Martín.’

  Martín nodded, ‘Gracias.’

  The man in front of Perry then turned to face him.

  ‘Perhaps next year Inglés. Come, let’s go to the chaplain.’

  Perry glanced over and saw Santi slip out in robes and move into the shadows. He could get changed in the other box, like Santi, but not before the archbishop left. He racked his brains for something, anything. Could he steal away by the Mary statue and change there?

  ‘Perry,’ it was Martín.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Take my turn.’

  ‘What? No Martín…I…it’s your turn,’ he fumbled with the words, caught out by the surprise of it. Yes it was what he wanted, but to deny his friend felt wrong.

  ‘Rápido,’ Martín grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him gently forward, ‘before the archbishop leaves.’

  ‘Martín, I don’t know what…thank you,’

  He felt Martín pat him on the back, ‘Suerte.’ Luck.

  Stunned, Perry stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Did Martín know? He could worry about that later.

  He took a couple of breaths to collect himself.

  ‘Quick! Make your confession,’ the voice ordered on the other side of the grille, startling him into action.

  His sweaty fingers slipped over his next button, found purchase and he threaded it though the hole. He cleared his throat and remembered his plan. He had to disguise his voice too. The archbishop may be in a rush but an English accent was easy to pick out. He prepared to speak his Spanish in a drawly tone much like a Frenchman he’d once heard speak at Julio station, ‘er oui of course, er, yes. Forgive me archbishop, for I ‘ave sinned,’ he softened his mouth as he spoke, lengthened his Spanish. And his fingers made quick work of the next three buttons.

  ‘I ‘ave not spoken to my fasser in a year. I dishonour ‘im.’

  ‘And why have you not written to him at least?’

  ‘He is in prison too monsieur, back home, en France. I do not know ‘is address.’

  Monsieur? Where had that come from? Don’t overbutter the toast you idiot!

  ‘That’s hardly your fault is it?’

  ‘If I were a good son I would find it out non?’

  ‘Yes, quite right I suppose. Look, I think for this you must do just that, write to your father and more importantly pray for him.’

  Perry pulled his feet through the trousers.

  ‘Oui, I will do just as you say.’

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy spirit, Amen.’

  Perry adjusted his collar. He was ready. ‘Amen.’

  He let himself out and immediately saw Santi, stood by the chapel wall directly in front of the archbishop’s door. He looked stony faced, relaxed almost. Perry tiptoed over to join him. His holiness was still shuffling about in the confession box.

  ‘Father Pedro,’ Perry said.

  ‘Father Hood,’ Santi nodded back.

  ‘Hood?’ Perry whispered.

  ‘He’s the only English name I remember. Robin Hood. Did you disguise your voice in there?’

  ‘Did a Frenchman,’ Perry hissed.

  The door opened, the archbishop blew his cheeks out. He had a satchel and an umbrella in his hand.

  ‘Archbishop,’ Perry said, without trying to hide his English accent, ‘I am Peregrin Hood, a missionary working with the chaplain in the penitentiary. He regrets he cannot see you off,’ Perry waved a hand, ‘As you can see he now has a couple more people to attend to.’

  Santi stepped forward. ‘He asked, with the greatest respect, that given your shortened visit, your aides could perhaps dwell a little longer in the penitentiary?’

  The archbishop bristled. ‘Who does that jumped up sow think-’

  ‘-though he has offered our services to help you with your effects and provide an escort.’

  ‘Fine,’ the archbishop shoved his satchel into Perry’s arms, ‘it’s heavy. I hope you can walk fast.’

  Perry took it, ‘I’m sure we can manage.’

  ‘Take this,’ he handed the umbrella to Santi, ‘it’s not becoming for an archbishop to hoist his own umbrella when the weather is atrocious.’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ said Santi.

  Perry heaved the satchel onto his shoulder. ‘Shall we?’

  The guard at the door had his back to them, and as the party approached, the sound of their footsteps must have registered. The guard turned to face them. Perry felt his hands start to shake; they were going to get made. It was one thing to fool a hurried archbishop, but a guard who knew their faces, what had he been thinking?

  On seeing them, the guard’s eyes locked onto to the archbishop, he crossed his chest and bowed his head and the three of them walked past untroubled. Perry looked over in wide-eyed amazement at Santi: magic.

  Archbishop Aneiros charged ahead of them.


  ‘Come on keep up,’ he barked.

  They trotted faithfully behind him, through a corridor, to a guarded door and as if under some spell, each guard they passed made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads in reverence. Perry couldn’t believe their luck.

  The archbishop’s mood helped them no end, as they neared the exit, he shouted ahead:

  ‘Open that door, I’m in a hurry!’

  The guards ran like scared children, fumbling keys in the lock so the three of them barely had to break stride. And before Perry knew it, he was standing in the doorway of the penitentiary with a fellow inmate and the Archbishop of Buenos Aires. He was dumbstruck, absorbing the tantalising sight of freedom.

  Lines of rain, drawn from heaven to their feet, nearly disguised the carriage splashing its way towards them.

  ‘Are you needed inside?’ the archbishop asked.

  Perry shook his head, sensing an opportunity, ‘How can we serve you your Grace? The chaplain has no further need of us today.’

  ‘No,’ confirmed Santi, ‘we are at your disposal.’

  ‘Just make sure I don’t get wet and keep that satchel dry, it’s Patagonian leather, I won’t have it marred by the rain.’

  Perry and Santi looked at each other and smiled. Santi pushed the umbrella open and used his height to good effect, following the archbishop down the steps, Perry following behind. The coachman opened the door and helped the archbishop up into the carriage. Santi clambered up after him, shook the umbrella out and then gave Perry his hand. Perry grasped it, slippery but firm and pulled himself into the protection of the carriage.

  31

  Lightning flickered behind clouds and the rain fell in heavy globules. Puddles became islands of rainwater growing out like eggs dropped on a griddle. It wasn’t long before a stream of rainwater swept down Las Heras Street, turning the ground to little more than a muddy riverbed. Bat-like coachmen in glistening raincoats drove their carriages through the growing river streets with desperate speed before conditions worsened.