As the ship
pulled away from the pier, the people on the dockside seemed to shrink in size
until they were swallowed up in the mist, as if some giant had cast his cloak
over them. Joe pulled his threadbare jacket closer around himself and clasped
his elbows as if the gesture would create some warmth, then picked up the small
sack containing all his belongings. A shiver went through him as the biting
wind cut through his clothing, forcing him to take shelter in a crowded, smoky
saloon below the main deck. Once the ship hit the open seas having passed the
Dublin North Wall break water, it immediately began to roll from side to side
then from stem to stern as the waves and wind increased. It had begun its
ten-hour laborious journey to Liverpool.
The scene looked
like a medieval painting of hell without the flames. Bodies occupied every inch
of space, men, women, and children squeezed together, sitting, standing,
sprawling, kneeling, lying. Some unable to get through the heaving mass of
people to the WCs, puked where they were sitting or wretched in corners. People
were moaning, their cries mingling with those of a hundred babies, while others
stricken with the ordeal of sailing and fearing for their lives, were praying
the rosary out loud. The smell of unwashed bodies, packed like sardines, vomit,
and spilt beer was overpowering and with most of the portholes closed, the
thick fug from smoldering cigarettes, made his eyes water and burn. But it was this
or being frozen on the top deck now sprayed with foam, together with the risk
of falling overboard.
He had never
been on a ship before and was feeling so nauseous he wondered if he would last
out the journey. Having arisen at dawn the previous day to take a coach to
Galway, then train to Dublin, he had already been on the road for more than
twenty-four hours. And since the ship had to wait for the tide, it was late
leaving port, which meant he would spend another night without sleep. Clutching
his bag, he wedged himself between the edge of wooden seat and the steel wall
dripping with condensation but close to a half open port hole and tried to
breathe in some fresh air.
What had started
out as an exciting adventure was quickly changing into a miserable, depressing
and physically demanding challenge. But he was determined not to give in to his
sadness. It had been hard leaving his mother and his brother James, he knew he
would miss them. He feared for her especially, knowing that she had to stay,
and he felt guilty. She would have to continue living with a man who was a
physically abusive alcoholic. Had she not been a catholic, she would have left
him long ago. But the words divorce, or separation did not exist in the
catholic dictionary. So, she was imprisoned in an impossible situation. It was
on his dream list that once he had made sufficient money, he would bring her
over to live with him in England.
During that
terrible night, forced to stand just to ease the pain in his cramped body, he
realized his stomach was slowly adapting to the ship’s pitch and roll and he
was hungry. Through the dim and dirty salon lights he could see people dozing,
sleeping, snoring, crying, their pale faces taking on a sickly jaundiced look.
Turning to the wall, and trying not to attract attention, he extracted a large
baked potato from his sack; he had one left, which his mother had prepared with
butter and salt. There was also half a cheese sandwich remaining. Smarter than
he, she had advised him he needed food for the journey, an issue that had never
crossed his mind. As he thought of her, he put his hand into his jacket pocket
and let his fingers feel the last gift she had given him, a silver sixpence
piece.
“May the road
always rise to meet you, my son,” she had said, “and may you always have money
in your pocket.”
The sack
contained everything he possessed. He had bought it from a tinker while
visiting the open market in Strokestown weeks before. It looked sturdy and large enough, made of
canvas with a draw string around the neck, a smaller version of the type often
used by sailors. For two pence it was his. Obsessed with the thoughts and
desire of leaving home, this was all part of his preparation.
In it he placed
two clean shirts and his working pants, extra suspenders, a pair of socks, a
woolen night shirt and his best boots. These were his pride and joy which he
usually only wore on a Sunday. He had bought them used in the market, but they
looked new.
He made two
decisions about what he would wear for traveling. He would look his very best
to impress people, so that even though from his accent they might believe he
came from the countryside, he knew how to dress. But he also thought he might
have to do a significant amount of walking, so after cleaning them well,
preferred to use his old comfortable boots. He carefully put his ‘new’ ones in
the sack. In a small, old, oblong metal box he had shaving materials, a comb
with a small brush and a tiny pair of scissors for trimming his newly sported
moustache. In that same box was an envelope containing a small picture of a
chalice given to him by his mother the day he made his first communion.
Rattling around were seventeen shillings, his life savings. The only other
contents of the sack were two pencils, a notebook, and a well-used copy of Oliver
Twist by Charles Dickens which he had found by accident one rainy night on
the pavement near his lodging. He had dried it out and read it at least four
times.
Prior to being
fired as an apprentice from McCourts victuallers where he had been learning to
bottle Guinness, he had been saving a little money each week. Additionally, his
uncle Fintan who took him in, had given him two shillings.
After eating, he
cleaned his hands on the sheet of newspaper she had used for wrapping the food
and stuffed it into his sack. As a child he had always been taught to be tidy,
to pick up things that fell to the floor and not create litter. Even amid all
the chaos and filth around him, he still recalled his mother’s words and made a
mental note to throw the paper overboard later.
While it was a
relief getting off the boat, with legs feeling like jelly, he joined the throng
worming its way through the embarkation hall and into a damp Liverpool morning.
Not knowing the way to Lime Street railway station, he wanted to ask somebody
when he saw a tall well-dressed man complete with top hat and cane, who was
scrutinizing people as they passed through the main gate. He was staring at
him.
“Excuse me,
sir,” Joe, said “but could you tell me where I can get the train for
Manchester?”
“Well, young man, it’s your lucky day,” he replied, “It just so happens I am
traveling there myself. We could walk there together.”
As they reached
the window where tickets were purchased, after obtaining his own, the stranger
said, “Joe, you will need three shillings.”
They had
exchanged names earlier and with “Just call me Bill,” they had set out
together. Trying not to show the contents of his sack to the people around him,
Joe walked over to a bench, and with his back to the crowd, took out his metal
box and the three shillings needed.
Bill knew
everything about trains and Joe found himself sitting in a compartment opposite
him near the door. There were six seats facing each other and close to
departure, when they were all taken, passengers continued to enter, standing
between them. To give himself a little space, Joe having watched people putting
luggage and packages on the racks above their heads, did the same.
It was warm in
the compartment. It was also a relief after such a horrible night, to rest
comfortably on an upholstered seat and relax having been told he had a two-and
half-hour journey in front of him. The gentle rocking of the train and the
hypnotic sound of the wheels clacking on the rails, gradually lulled him to
sleep. The train stopped at every station along the line; but Joe was oblivious
to people exiting and entering.
It was only when
he woke up with a jolt as the train slowed and jerked its way into London Road
station, Manchester, that he realized Bill was no longer there. And as he
looked up at the rack above his head, neither was his sack.
About the author
Michael Barrington’s The Bishop Wears no Drawers (2016) is a memoir of Africa as a missionary priest. His novel Let the Peacock Sing (2020) is a soon to be mini-series. His latest, A Manchester Man is set in Ancoats, (December). He writes short stories and book reviews.
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