Escape From Home Page 13

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.

  Though his heart was no longer pounding as it had been, Laurence was having difficulty absorbing what he’d discovered, namely that Mr. Clemspool knew he was from a wealthy family and was holding him prisoner. The man was also associated with the thief in London. Who was this Mr. Clemspool, and what was he up to? Laurence knew only that he had to get away from him.

  He made a quick survey of his room, something he had not troubled to do before. It had two corner windows, adjoining. Each of these was draped with a single heavy curtain, drawn closed. A whale-oil lamp provided what light there was. There was too a clothespress and a closet for the commode. The only other furniture was a little table upon which rested several dishes of food.

  Feeling weak, Laurence tested his arms and legs. They still ached. The pain made him think of the medicine Mr. Clemspool had promised. Perhaps it might make him stronger. He went back to the door and listened. The adjacent room was quiet. The door remained locked.

  Laurence drew aside the curtain on one of the windows and looked down on the lamp-lit street. Very little traffic was passing, though as he watched, a horse and rider came along, as did a pony cart, a donkey, and two wagons. When a few pedestrians appeared, he decided to summon help.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, he pushed the window out. But he restrained himself from calling. What if Mr. Clemspool was nearby and heard him? He could not risk it. Dejected, Laurence started back to bed but stopped before the table. Hunger surged within him.

  Snatching up some eggs, chicken, bread, he laid out a feast on his bed, then squirmed under the covers and propped himself against the pillows.

  He was ravenous. Even when—twenty minutes later—Mr. Clemspool unlocked the door and stepped into the room, Laurence was still eating.

  “Ah, Master Worthy,” the man cried, “I see your appetite has not suffered. Good!”

  Afraid to look at Mr. Clemspool lest his eyes betray what he knew, Laurence continued to chew upon a piece of bread.

  Mr. Clemspool approached the bed. “Here’s the very thing that will restore your strength in full measure.” He held up the bottle of tincture of rhubarb and the spoon. “In fact, you should be dosed this very moment.”

  The smiling Mr. Clemspool made Laurence almost ill with distrust. No, it would not be wise to take the medicine. In any case, the food had revived him. With a curt shake of his head, he refused the bottle.

  “Now, now, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool said soothingly, “let’s not be foolish.”

  “I’ll take it later,” Laurence said, and held out his hand for the bottle.

  After the slightest hesitation, Mr. Clemspool relinquished the medicine and spoon. “You do promise you’ll take it, don’t you?” he said.

  “I will,” Laurence mumbled.

  “Good! I trust you. Now, Master Worthy, let us hope tomorrow you will be well. We need to arrange such things as your ticket.”

  Convinced the man was only lying, Laurence stared coldly at him.

  Mr. Clemspool’s smile never faltered. “Master Worthy,” he said, “you do me an honor by letting me provide for you.” He plucked the air. “Be assured I will do nothing to abuse your good faith.

  “As for now, I leave you to your repast. Shall I return in an hour to make sure all is well? I think so. In the meanwhile, you will take your tincture won’t you?” He wagged a cautionary finger.

  “Yes, sir….”

  “Good-night then,” Mr. Clemspool said as he executed something of a bow and retreated from the room.

  Laurence listened for the click of the lock. When it came, he crept cautiously from bed and peeped through the keyhole. Empty a
nd silent. Feeling slightly ill again from tension, he went back to bed and commenced to nibble on his food.

  He glanced at the medicine bottle Mr. Clemspool had left. Perhaps, after all, it would be wiser to take it. He picked it up, pulled the cork, and sniffed. Its smell was most repellent. He studied the handwritten label: “Tincture of Rhubarb.” The thought occurred to him that Mr. Clemspool had probably paid for it with the money he had taken from his clothing. Then and there Laurence resolved—as a matter of pride—never to take it.

  Once again he rose from bed and pulled back the curtain across the street window. He was four stories high, and—as far as he could see in the twilight—there was no way to get below.

  He went to the second window and pushed aside that heavy curtain. Below he saw the roof of the adjacent building, a flat roof, he noted excitedly. Even better, at its far edge a ladder stuck up. Where it led to, Laurence could not see. He hoped it reached the ground. If it did, he had found a way to escape. First, however, he had to get down to the roof.

  One hand on the curtain, he leaned out from the window. His heart sank. The roof lay some fifteen feet below, too far to jump.

  Laurence pulled himself back, let go of the curtain. Then an idea struck. The curtain was about seven feet in length. Could he not use it to lower himself out of the window and drop the rest of the way to the roof?

  Looking up, he saw that the curtain was not directly attached to the window frame. Instead, it had been fitted with a series of loops along the top and threaded through a lengthy wooden rod. The curtain hung from this rod, which in turn rested upon wooden arms protruding from the wall. That rod, Laurence realized with sudden excitement, was longer than the window frame was wide.

  In haste now, Laurence carried the side table to the window and climbed up on it. Reaching as high as he could, he took hold of the curtain and flipped it upward. The weight and force of its rising carried the rod off the arm on which it rested, causing curtain and rod to come tumbling down.

  It was easy to lower the curtain out the window while keeping the rod inside. The curtain now dangled freely while being held securely by the rod, which was braced horizontally against the inside of the window frame.

  Laurence dashed across the room to where his old clothes lay, stripped off his nightshirt, and pulled them on. They were damp and uncomfortable. He did not care.

  Ready at last, he climbed up to the window and sat on the windowsill, his legs hanging out. With a quick twist, he rolled onto his stomach while keeping himself from falling by grasping the window frame.

  Heart pounding, he gradually transferred his grip from the window frame to the curtain, hugging the cloth to his chest as tightly as possible. Half inch by half inch, he began to wiggle his way out the window. As his weight shifted off the sill, he began to slip. The next second he was dropping. He clutched the curtain to his chest. There was a jolt, but the curtain held. For a moment Laurence simply dangled. Then he relaxed his grip. Slowly, he slid down the full length of the curtain until he hung from its end. He was now some six feet above the roof. Holding his breath, he let go.

  This is a sailor’s town, my dear,” Mr. Drabble cautioned as he and Maura made their way through the streets. “There’s considerable consumption of spirits at night. You must look about yourself with care.”

  It was a chilly night. People were bundled up. But the blaze from shops, open late, was more than enough to brighten the crowded streets. Everywhere Maura looked, she saw people selling goods, food, trinkets. People were buying too. But drink was being proffered more often than anything. It was sold in countless tiny spirit shops, most of which were packed with customers. There was a constant clamor, as though everyone was talking at once. Mobs of sailors roamed the streets in numbers greater than all the villagers of Kilonny. For Maura, the spectacle was frightening. As they moved through the throngs, she made sure she stayed close to her friend.

  Mr. Drabble paid no attention to the hubbub but pressed on, now and again pointing out sights that he thought Maura should see. Having this young, pretty woman by his side filled him with delight. He was determined to perform well.

  Maura had a vague sense that they were heading toward the docks. Sure enough, they began to move out of the narrow muddy streets and down into wider thoroughfares.

  “Not long now,” Mr. Drabble informed her.

  They turned a corner and entered a large square bordered on all four sides by large buildings. Here the pavement was stone. In contrast to those on the streets from which they had just emerged, people here were of all classes, some whose bearing and dress suggested considerable wealth as well as those of middling and poorer means. The fact that it was a chilly night did nothing, apparently, to keep them from coming.

  Maura soon saw that what attracted these people were musicians, acrobats, an organ-grinder with a begging monkey, even a puppet show. Someone was dancing. A magician was doing tricks. Hawkers were out in force too, offering fruit, ribbons, sweets, and newly printed sheets of songs. Maura, who had never witnessed such a scene, was fascinated.

  “This way!” Mr. Drabble called, making his way directly across the square. She followed him to a large building with steps leading up to a recessed entrance set about with many columns. It was rather like a temple.

  “What is this place?” Maura asked.

  “The custom house,” Mr. Drabble replied grandly, “the true heart and soul of Liverpool.”

  When they reached the building, they worked their way around a crowd of onlookers watching a juggler. The man was standing on the steps, tossing five wands into the air. A pile of burning wood at the base of the steps provided him with light.

  “That’s Mr. Bilikins,” the actor whispered into Maura’s ear. “A capital friend of mine. Soon as he’s done, it will be my turn. We’ve all got regular times here, like the theater. Makes it all much more civilized. How I adore those columns. So Greek and Roman, don’t you think? The proper background for my tragedies.”

  Even as Mr. Drabble spoke, the man he referred to as Mr. Bilikins concluded his act with a grand cascade of multicolored balls. His efforts were met with polite applause, plus a few calls of more vigorous approval. The juggler gamely doffed his tall pointed cap, then held it before him, begging coins for his performance. He received some.

  Mr. Drabble turned to Maura. “My dear Miss O’Connell, would you be willing to assist me?”

  “Me?” Maura exclaimed, taken by surprise.

  “Having the two of us will make something grand of my turn onstage. But only if you desire it.”

  Maura felt she could hardly decline. “If I can,” she offered shyly.

  “You have courage, my dear. I recognized it the moment I saw you,” Mr. Drabble enthused.

  Maura blushed at the compliment. “You’re more than kind,” she said.

  The actor reached into his sack and drew out a small drum and stick. “If you will beat the drum, you’ll draw people in. Usually I do it myself. Having you will help. You’re very pretty, you know.”

  Maura colored again but this time said nothing.

  “Come along then,” the actor said as he trotted up the steps.

  When Mr. Drabble reached the fifth step, he stopped and again reached into his sack, pulling out his book. Leatherbound, with gilt edging, it was nonetheless worn and torn. “My Shakespeare,” he confided to Maura. “It sets the proper tone.”

  Holding the volume high in one hand, Mr. Drabble turned so as to present his profile to the audience, flipped the hair out of his eyes, lifted his other hand in salute, and called, “Give it a thumping, my dear.”

  Maura began to bang the drum.

  “You’ll want to do it so others might hear,” Mr. Drabble suggested kindly.

  Maura worked harder to produce a real beat.

  Mr. Drabble smiled at her efforts, then turned to the square and cried, “Ladies and gentlemen! Gather around for some edifying culture. I, Horatio Drabble, late of the London stage, currently making a f
arewell tour prior to my imminent departure for America, shall perform a few selected and great tragical moments as written by the sublime William Shakespeare. His art will make you a better, finer person! It will raise you up in life. To hear his words is to breathe the very perfume of our culture. Beat the drum again, my dear.”

  A motley crowd of fifteen gradually assembled. There were a few children, but most were adults, a mix of the kinds of people Maura had already seen. To her eyes, most of them looked as if they could ill afford to spare the actor any money. She did notice, however, one man whose manner of dress had the appearance of real wealth. His clothing looked new, from his top hat and fur-trimmed cape to his shiny boots. The fact that he had a patch over one eye did not diminish the grandeur at all. If anything, it added to it.

  “To begin,” Mr. Drabble announced, “I offer, for your edification, the great oration by Mark Antony from the famous tragedy Julius Caesar.”

  So saying, Mr. Drabble turned to face his small audience. No longer smiling, his hair flicked back, his chin jutted forward, he lifted both hands, as if imploring the sky. “‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.’” On the actor went, pronouncing each word with meticulous care, so that every syllable could be heard and understood. With each phrase, he shifted his posture, so as to illustrate with his thin, angular body the particular dramatic emotion he was feeling—rather like a stick figure come alive.

  Maura watched, fascinated.

  At the end of his first speech, Mr. Drabble folded himself into a deep bow.

  “How ’bout speakin’ English?” shouted one rough-looking peddler, which brought some laughter from those around him. None came, Maura noticed, from the rich man with the eye patch.

  Mr. Drabble ignored the remark. “I now wish to present to you the tortured soul of the prince of Denmark, Hamlet, in the immortal soliloquy ‘To be or not to be.’”

  “I already knows the answer,” another onlooker bellowed, “and it’s no.”

  Despite the disturbance, Mr. Drabble began declaiming as he had done before. His ardent gesticulation had rather the effect of a windmill. But all his effort produced was a rotten potato, which splattered at his feet.