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!”
Miggy figured out the total time she would spend with her dad, laughing. “Atty Lok will say it’s eleventeen days. But it’s the longest you’ve been home in ages. What have you got in the bag, Dad? Please tell me.”
Paddy shook his head. “Is that Siamese cook still around? He’s a nice little feller, but he’s teachin’ you your figures all wrong. Proper schoolin’, me girl, that’s what ye need—it’s eleven days, not eleventeen.”
Miggy shrugged. “I know that, Dad, I can count right enough. But you still haven’t told me—what’s in the sack?”
Paddy gave her a broad wink. “I’ll tell ye later, darlin’. Look, we’re home. There’s me brother Eric, waitin’ on the step t’greet me. He looks like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp, but don’t tell him I said that.”
Paddy nodded affably to his scowling elder brother. “Eric, great t’see ye again, mate!”
Eric sucked on his clay pipe, and spat out sourly, “I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ some brekkist. Come on inside. An’ you, girl, get yourself into that kitchen. There’s men need feedin’, an’ not a dish washed in the place. Shift!”
Paddy stroked his daughter’s unruly brown curls. “Go on, darlin’, do as your uncle Eric says.”
Both men watched her go indoors. Eric stowed the pipe in his hatband. “Huh, just like her mother, hungry as a wolf an’ lazy as a sow. By rights she should go to the parish.”
Paddy’s eyes blazed with anger. “No daughter o’ mine is goin’ to end up in the parish workhouse. I pays you good money for Miggy’s keep, ye can’t deny that!”
Eric slouched inside. Indicating a vacant table to his younger brother, they both sat down. Paddy saw Miggy wearing an apron many sizes too large for her. She was carrying out breakfasts to the waiting lodgers.
Eric rapped a grimy finger on the tabletop. “I been waitin’ to have words with ye about the girl. She ain’t a baby no more, Paddy, she’s growin’ up fast. I’ll be needin’ an extra twelve bob off ye. Things bein’ what they are, I can’t afford t’keep her on the money ye give me. Have ye seen the price o’ things nowadays?”
Paddy stared incredulously at his brother. “Another twelve shillings?”
Eric scratched his stomach, replying offhandedly, “It’s either that, or she goes to the parish.”
Paddy counted out money from a small bag strung round his neck. “There, that’s what I usually pays ye, plus the extra twelve bob. Miggy goes to the parish over my dead body. Right?”
Eric watched as he slammed the money down on the table. He skimmed it quickly into his trouser pocket and stood up. “Right, I’m off to the Maid of Erin, got some business there. Stow yer gear in the cellar, I won’t charge ye. ’Tis better than sleepin’ aboard ship.”
Without a backward glance he sauntered out the door, off to the pub and a long day’s drinking.
Miggy shed her apron and ran to sit in the seat her uncle had vacated. Atty Lok appeared, carrying a tray ful of food, which he brought to the table.
Miggy spread her arms grandly. “Brekkist for two, please!”
Paddy shook the Siamese cook’s hand warmly. “Atty Lok, ye old grubroaster, how are ye, my friend?”
Atty continued pumping Paddy’s hand up and down. “Paddy ’Grail, old cockleshell, I fine, how you? Both eat up now, plenny good special I make for you an’ daughter. See, eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, molasses an’ plenny tea!”
Paddy grabbed his knife and fork eagerly.
“All the way from Bombay I’ve been dreamin’ of a good Liverpool feed. Salt horse, ship’s biscuits an’ weevils in the hard tack, that’s what I’ve lived on for six months. Atty, you’re as merciful an’ kind as the Bud dha himself!”
The cook sat and watched until they had finished. “Much good chow, eh?”
Paddy slapped his lean stomach. “Fit for a Mogul of India. Now come with me, I’ve got something to show ye both.”
Between them they carried Paddy’s gear down to the cellar. Placing the bumpy sack on Miggy’s old navy blanket, Paddy undid the drawstring.
“This is a present for you, Miggy, me girl. Wait’ll you see this!” Some cotton waste and ship’s ration scraps tumbled out of the sack, then a small head peeped forth.
The girl stared wide-eyed at the beast emerging from the sack. It had a pointed nose, little whiskers and a pair of eyes which shone like black diamonds. Slightly smaller than a tabby cat, the creature had short legs, a long thick tail and a bristly silver-grey coat, almost blue where the lantern light caught it. Standing on its hind legs, it licked at Miggy’s fingers, which had traces of molasses sticking to them. It was not afraid of the girl, nor she of it. Miggy smiled.
“Oh, isn’t he lovely, Dad! What sort of animal is he?”
Paddy stroked its back with one finger. “This, me darlin’, is the Malabar Egyptian. Right, Atty?”