So there was more than one Rickerby. I didn't quite like the thought.
I replaced this and the lamp directions, and looked at the wallpaper, which was of a mustardy colour, bubbling here and there, and showing the same small ship – a black galleon – entangled dozens of times over in the same curly wave. I was just thinking that it would have made a good pattern for a lad's room when I heard a stirring to my left and there, looming in the doorway, was the over-grown boy who might have spent his childhood years gazing at it.
'Does it suit?' he enquired.
'Adam Rickerby?' I said, and he nodded.
'Will it do?' he said.
The words fell out of his mouth anyhow, in a sort of breathless rush, and with a quantity of flying spittle. He was a gormless lad of about eighteen and, depending on how he grew, he might be all right or a permanent idiot. For the time being, he was unfinished. He wore a shirt of rough white cloth, a thin white necker tied anyhow, and a dirty green apron, so that he looked like some monstrous sort of footman.
'It's cosy enough, en't it?' I said.
He made no answer.
'But it suits me fine,' I said.
'It's two shilling fer t'night,' he said, and he put his hand out.
'Who sent you?'
'Our lass,' he said, and so he was the brother of Miss Rickerby. I was glad he wasn't her husband.
While her face was made pretty and friendly-seeming by being rather wide, his was pumpkin-like; and while her mass of curls was fetching, his were… well, you didn't often see a man who had too much hair but his allowance was excessive, as though sprouting the stuff was about all he was good for. While his sister was well-spoken (for Scarborough, anyhow) he spoke broad Yorkshire, and his blue eyes were too light, indicating a kind of hollowness inside.
I paid over the coin, and he dropped it directly into the front pocket of his apron.
'Winder rattles,' he said.
'I know,' I said, and he skirted around the bed until he came to the window. There he crouched down and found a bit of paste-board, which he jammed into the frame, afterwards remaining motionless and gazing out to sea for a good few seconds. Rising to his feet again he indicated the paste-board, saying, 'You've to keep that in,' as though it was my fault it had fallen out. I could clearly read the words on the card: 'American Wintergreen Tooth Powder: Unequalled for…' and then came the fold. At any rate, it worked, and the best the wind could do now was to create a small trembling in the frame.
'Seen t'toilet?' enquired the youth, who was standing in the doorway once more.
I gave a quick shake of my head.
'It's on t'floor below… Yer've not seen it?' he repeated.
'Is there something special about it?' I said.
The lad kept silence for a moment, before blurting:
'There en't one in't back yard.'
'But you don't have a back yard, do you?' I asked, thinking of how the rear of the house gave on to what was practically a sheer drop. *
He shook his head.
'So it'd be a bit hard to have a toilet in it, wouldn't it?'
I glanced down under the bed, and Adam Rickerby looked on alarmed as I did so. A fair quantity of dust was down there, but not the object I was looking for.
'There's no chamber pot,' I said.
He eyed me sidelong, looked away, eyed me again.
'This room doesn't have a chamber pot,' he said.
'I know,' I said. 'That's what I'm saying.'
'Want one, do yer?' he said, very fast.
'Yes,' I said, 'that's what I'm also saying.'
A note of music arose: the sea wind in the little iron fireplace – a very pure sound, like a flute.
'Cabinet fer yer clothes,' he said suddenly, indicating the wardrobe.
'Yes,' I said, and the silence that followed was so awkward that I said, 'Thanks for pointing it out.'
Had he taken the point about the chamber pot? It was impossible to tell.
'Coal an' wood in't scuttles,' he said – and just then there came a great bang and a scream from beyond the window.
The lad remained motionless, as I barged the bed aside to get a look. Red lights, like burning embers, drifted peacefully down through the black sky towards the harbour.
'I'd say a maroon's just been let off,' I said, and I looked at the lad, who was frowning down towards the bed.
'Appen,' he said.
'What does it mean?'
'Could mean owt,' he said.
'Well,' I said, 'that can't be right,' at which he looked up at me quite sharply 'If a maroon could mean anything, they wouldn't bother firing one. I'd say a ship's been wrecked.'
And the lad didn't seem to think much of that idea, because he just turned on his heel and quit the room. I went out after him, and caught him up on the floor being decorated.
'There's t'toilet,' he said, indicating a white-painted door. 'Paint's all dry.'
Evidently, then, he did not mean to supply me with a chamber pot. It struck me that he was a very inflexible youth.
'Where's everyone else in the house?' I said. 'I want to see about this shipwreck.'
'Sitting room,' he said. 'Next floor down.'
I followed him down towards the first landing. On the way we passed three framed photographs I hadn't noticed on the way up. I turned towards them expecting to see sea-side scenes. Instead there was an old man giving me the evil eye. He hadn't mustered a smile for any of the three, I noticed, as we descended under his gaze.
'Who's that?' I enquired, although I knew the answer in advance on account of the pile of grey curls atop the old man's head.
The lad stopped on the stairs, but didn't turn about.
'Our dad,' he said.
'Is he in the house?'
'No.'
At the bottom of the staircase, the lad had paused to straighten a crooked stair rod.
'What do you mean?' I said. 'Is he not in the house just at present, or is he never in it?'
The lad straightened up, standing foursquare before me in the narrow space and folding his arms. He looked bullet proof, and big with it. Did he mean to put the frighteners on me? I stood my ground.
'Never,' he said.
'Well, let me see now,' I said. 'Would your old man be dead?'
'He would. How do you take yer tea?'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'I'll be attending yer in t’morning,' he said, taking a step closer towards me. 'I'll be bringin' yer 'ot water in a jug and tea… in a cup.'
'Well, that's just how I like tea,' I said.'… In a cup.'
No flicker of a smile from the lad.
'Two sugars,' I said. 'When did your old man die, if you don't mind my asking?'
'Two year since. Milk?'
I nodded. 'And plenty of it.'
'Seven o'clock suit?'
'Fine.'
The old man hadn't killed Blackburn at any rate… Unless the lad lied, but I somehow didn't think so. He was indicating the nearest closed door, and saying, 'Sitting room. Fire's lit in there.'
He then told me a cold tea was served on Sundays in the dining room, and carried on down the stairs. Remembering about the shipwreck, I approached the door of the sitting room. It faced the right way to give a view of the sea. I could hear muttered voices from within.
Chapter Sixteen
I looked up as the iron wall of the chain room cracked. The door was slowly opening, and it seemed that I was returning to this dark corner of the ship from hundreds of miles away. Blue cigar smoke came in first, like something curious, and I wanted it to go back because it brought the sickness rising up again. The grey Mate stood in the doorway, and he held up an oil lamp, which swung with the ship, and gave his face a bluish tinge.
'The old man wants a word,' he said, the white foam rising at the backs of his teeth.
'What are you talking about?' I said. 'You're the old man.'