Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

Eric swaggered along like he owned the entire Liverpool Dock Estate. Tilting his billycockbowler hat forward, Eric took a ha’penny clay pipe from its band. He lit it and puffed out a rank cloud of Burmah Thick Twist tobacco. He would not return until late. Drinking all day with his cronies in the Maid of Erin was always important business.

Later that morning, Miggy was scrubbing the white pine dining tables. She scraped away with a broken knife blade at a cigar burn. Men often rested their cheap, thin cheroots on the table edges. A seaman came in, toting a gunny bag, tossing it on the counter. He ordered a room and a meal—some bacon and eggs. Sitting at a corner table, he waited. Miggy brought him a bowl of tea, some cruets and cutlery. After Atty cut two thick slices of bread, he set a big iron frying pan on the stove, calling out cheerfully, “Bacon’n’eggs ready pretty soon, sir, not long, you bet!”

The man was a bosun. Removing his peaked cap, he placed it on an adjacent chair. Immediately Miggy recognised the cap badge. Two curved Indian swords, surmounted by a green letter B— the Bengal Line. She bobbed a respectful curtsy at the bosun. “Beggin’ y’pardon, sir, but me dad’s a sailor, aboard the Bengal Pearl. Would you know him, sir? His name’s Patrick McGrail.”

The bosun nodded. “Aye, girl, your dad’s a good man, I’ve sailed with him. The Bengal Pearl, ye say? I docked last night with the Bengal Queen, she’s my ship. I reckon you should see your dad soon, the Bengal Pearl ’s about a week behind us.”

Miggy dashed to the counter, yelling, “Did ye hear that, Atty, me dad’s comin’ home next week!”

The cook handed her the bosun’s breakfast. “Nex’ Monday Tuesday, eleventy-second of very good Friday, eh?”

The girl’s clogs clattered on the floorboards as she danced up and down with joy. “He’ll be here next Wednesday, y’great daft codfish!”

Atty waved his big bacon knife at her. “Daf’ codfish you’self. Give man food, don’t drop plate!”

Miggy served the bosun his meal, asking him twice about when the Bengal Pearl would berth at Liverpool, just to make sure she had the facts right. For the remainder of that day, her heart sang and her feet skipped continuously. Her dad was coming home soon!

Atty Lok watched her fondly. He could not help mentioning to the bosun, “She be happy when father return, but cry a lot when he sail away again. Very sad for little girl, very sad.”

The bosun of the Bengal Queen shrugged. “Sailors must follow the sea to earn their bread. Seagoin’ men should stay single, no wife or kids, like me.”

The Siamese cook shook his head. “Not good for young girl to have no mamma, an’ father always away on ship.”

Later that night, Atty lay on his mattress in the cellar. He listened to Miggy singing from behind the blanket which curtained her quarters off.

“’Twas a cold an’ frosty mornin’ in November ... vember,

an’ all of me money, it was spent, spent spent!

Where it went to now I can’t remember . . . member,

so down to the shippin’ office I went, went went!

Paddy lay back, Paddy lay back,

take in yer slack, take in yer slack,

take a turn around the capstan heave aport ... heave aport.

Oh, bow ships stations boys be handy . . . be handy,

for we’re off to Valparaiso round the horn!”

The sound of heavy footsteps and the creak of the cellar door caused her to fall silent. The curtain was wrenched back suddenly. Uncle Eric stood there, swaying. He held a quart bottle of porter in one hand, a half bottle of rum protruding from his pocket. Eric, who had lost money gambling at pitch and toss, was in a sour mood.

Miggy hid herself beneath the old Royal Navy blanket which covered her mattress. She heard him stumble as he knocked out the ashes from his pipe against a raised boot heel. Her uncle regained his balance and belched loudly.

“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!”