The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales Read online

  “Have a safe trip, Dad, see you next week. Don’t worry, you-know-who will never catch sight of you-know-what!” She ran to the river wall, waving until the big clipper became a white smudge far up the River Mersey.

  Miggy Mags continued her daily drudge at the Mersey Star Boardinghouse and Chandlery. Scrubbing floors, washing pots and dishes, serving food, plus a hundred and one other chores between dawn and dusk.

  She was forced to take extra care, as her uncle’s illness had not improved. Eric McGrail had not set foot outside in days, sitting in the corner of the dining room, full of self-pity. His expressions alternated between abject misery and rank foul temper. Miggy and Atty were run ragged keeping up with his orders and demands.

  Whenever the girl got a chance, she would creep downstairs to look after Sailor. The cook had provided some things to keep the mongoose amused: an oval white pebble, which resembled an egg, and a small coil of cotton rope, which Sailor treated like a snake. Miggy liked watching her pet wrestle with the stone one moment, then pounce on the rope suddenly. She petted the little creature, feeding him Demerara sugar and some of Atty’s rice cake. Sailor nuzzled her hand, then rummaged in her apron pocket, searching for more. Miggy whispered, “All gone, mate, all gone. Be a good boy an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ nice for dinner tonight. Go an’ play now, I’ve got work to do upstairs.”

  Eric was thumping his boot on the floor, and calling for her. “Girl! Where in the name o’ blazes has that idle scut got to?”

  When Miggy appeared, Eric pressed four pennies into her hand. “Go to the Maid of Erin. Ask Aggie the barmaid for four penn ’orth of dark Jamaica rum. Shift y’self, girl, an’ don’t dare spill any, d’ye hear?”

  Miggy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Uncle Eric.”

  Atty, carrying a pail of rubbish out, escorted Miggy to the door, calling out scornfully, “Hah, four penny of Jamaicy rum, only fool drink that for sick belly. That rum burn holes in man’s gut. Here, I give you two more pennies, get six pennies of Jamaicy rum, finish Eric off proper, for good!”

  The girl trotted off up the cobbled avenue with Eric’s voice echoing in her ears as he bellowed at the cook, “You mind your own business, ye heathen poisoner! If I want Jamaica rum, I’ll have it. I know what’s best fer me!”

  Down in the cellar, Sailor had tired of his play-things. Scampering up into his perch among the ceiling beams, he amused himself by gnawing at the wooden planking overhead. Sniffing the kitchen odours of frying food and molasses from above, Sailor began ripping earnestly into the wood, thinking there might be eggs up there—his favourite food. The little creature’s teeth and claws went furiously to work. He was determined to assess the egg situation of the Mersey Star’s kitchen. Within half an hour, Sailor could see daylight showing through the pine boarding. He redoubled his efforts cheerfully.

  A thick fog fell over the waterfront that evening, enveloping the Liverpool coast in a pall of impenetrable mist. The dining room was empty save for Eric, still ensconced in his corner chair. With a jug of hot water and a bottle containing the dregs of his rum, the boardinghouse keeper sprawled ungracefully, his chin resting on his chest, snoring aloud. Atty and Miggy had crept off, down to the cellar, to feed Sailor. There was not much for him—a few crusts, spread with lard, dipped in sugar. The mongoose stayed up in the rafters, busy at his work. Atty had tried climbing up to coax Sailor down.

  But the mongoose would have none of it. Miggy stared up into the dark shadows, brushing away at the splinters which drifted down on her. “Sailor, come down here this instant! Be a good boy and come down, there’s nice supper for you. Come on, Sailor!”

  The mongoose ignored her for once. It was Atty who came scrambling down, brushing wood splinters from his hair. “No can get near Sailor, him little naughty beast, nearly bite Atty’s finger again. Not listen to you, Miggs.”

  Stretching on tiptoe, the girl peered up into the rafters. “But what’s he doing up there? Sailor, Sailor, come dow—”

  Her voice was drowned out by an almighty bang—the snapping of wood—and Eric McGrail bellowing like a wounded buffalo.

  Sailor had completed his task. He had burrowed through the ceiling, up into the dining room. The problem was that he had been digging directly alongside the leg of Eric’s chair. With the weight of the big fat man, the damaged floor broke. One of the chair legs broke through the weakened timber.

  Sailor shot through the gap just in time as Eric fell awkwardly sideways, the furniture collapsing beneath him. Kicking and howling, he lay on the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreckage of the chair. Sailor nimbly dodged the thrashing legs. He skipped up Eric’s body, over the swollen stomach, across the chest, hopping across the horrified man’s face. Miggy and Atty came rushing upstairs. Eric’s voice rose to a panicked screech.

  “Eeeeeeyaaaah! The big rat! Ooooowaaaahhh, ’elp!”

  Disturbed by the noise, Sailor went shooting round the room like a furred rocket. The girl and the cook had Eric half on his feet when he knocked them roughly aside and thudded off after the mongoose.

  He chased Sailor round the dining room, aiming kicks and curses at him. Miggy screamed, “Leave Sailor alone! Don’t hurt him, Uncle Eric, please!”

  Upsetting chairs and tables, Eric pounded on, his face the colour of a beetroot. Sailor skipped nimbly ahead of him, always just out of reach. Miggy, seeing the mongoose coming her way, held out her arms to it. “Here, Sailor, come on, boy!”

  He leaped into her arms. Holding her pet close, Miggy ran to the door, grappled with the latch, then sped free, out into the fog. Eric booted a table aside and went after her. Like a flash, Atty Lok was blocking the doorway in front of him.

  “Leave girl alone, beast not rat, only mongoose, not harm you!”

  Eric charged him, flooring the smaller man with windmilling fists and hefty boot kicks. He stepped over the cook’s crumpled form, snarling at him, “I’m goin’ to kill that rat, then I’m goin’ to give that brat the beltin’ she deserves, before I drag ’er off to the parish work’ouse. An’ you, huh, you’re finished round my place. Pack yer bags, an’ be gone afore I gets back!”

  Miggy was not sure which way to run, the fog was so dense out on the quayside. Clutching Sailor to her, she hurried about in the cocooning whiteness. Completely lost, the girl ran straight into an iron bollard. A yelp of pain escaped her lips as she staggered to one side, holding her bleeding kneecap. Miggy fell right into her uncle Eric’s bulging stomach. He was standing with his belt off, holding up his trousers with one hand.

  His face was livid with rage as he swung the broad, brass-buckled belt at her. “Gimme that dirty rat, or I’ll skin the hide off yer!”

  Miggy crouched and covered her head with one arm, protecting Sailor with her body, crying out as the belt struck her.

  The force of the blow knocked Miggy off balance. The mongoose jumped from the girl’s shoulders just as Miggy fell backward, hitting her head on the cobbles. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was her uncle Eric. He was gurgling horribly, grabbing at the mongoose, which had him tight by the throat.

  Atty Lok heard the splash and limped forward, his bacon knife in one hand, the other holding down a swelling on his forehead. Ice-cold dock water sprayed into his face, causing him to stop right on the edge of the quay. The Siamese cook peered dazedly about him. He saw Miggy lying on the damp cobbles to his left. There was no sign of Eric McGrail, nor the mongoose.

  A tall, gaunt man wearing a battered top hat and carrying a sack over one shoulder materialised through the swathes of fog. He saw Atty trying to pick Miggy up, and went to help. “What’s been goin’ on round ’ere? I’m Tommy Dyer, the rat catcher. Where’s big Eric from the boardin’ouse? I’ve got business t’do with him.”

  Atty nodded urgently toward the Mersey Star. “Help me get girl inside, I tell you all about it.”

  Three minutes later, Tommy Dyer was at the top of the avenue, shouting around the Dock Road, “Man in the dock! Man in the dock! H
elp, help!”

  In a short time, several folk emerged from the fog. One of them, a constable, took charge of the situation. “Right, someone get ropes and hooks, lanterns, too. Quick as you can. Now, sir, where did the man fall in? Take us there. You stop here, sonny, show the men with the ropes which way we’ve gone. Move sharp now, the tide’s on the ebb!”

  Miggy lay on the dining room counter. Atty was dabbing her knee with a solution of salt stirred into boiled water. She tried to rise, but he pushed her back, whispering instructions. “You not speak, hear nothing, see nothing. If anyone ask you, stay quiet, Miggs, let Atty do all talkin’.”

  It was quite a while before anyone came into the boardinghouse. Sounds of ropes and grappling hooks splashing could be heard amid the shouts from the quay as the constable entered. He was accompanied by Tommy Dyer, two Lock Gate Keepers, an overweight washerwoman, and a well-dressed old gentleman with a carriage driver attending him. Miggy closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness. She listened to what was going on. The constable spoke first.

  “No sign or trace of a body out there, did either of you witness what happened?”

  The well-dressed gentleman nodded politely to Atty. “This chap may know something. I hardly think the little girl would, though. She’s completely unconscious.”

  Miggy felt like a baby as the washerwoman picked her up. “Pore liddle thing! I’ll make ’er a nice cuppa tea, with lots of sugar in it. Come on, queen, let’s get ye in a comfy armchair wid a warm shawl about yeh. Is there any vinegar an’ a clean towel round ’ere? This child’s got a nasty lump, an’ a bruise on the back of ’er skull.”

  Miggy allowed herself to be treated by the kindly washerwoman as she listened to Atty Lok’s explanation. The Siamese cook sounded very believable. “I see all, everythin’, sir. Big rat, more bigger’n cat, he come up through hole in floor over there, see. Girl scream an’ run out onto quay, rat run out, too. But rat not chasin’ girl, he runnin’ away from me, I chase rat with big knife. I trip, fall down steps outside. Owner, Eric ’Grail, very brave feller, he run after big rat. Girl Miggs, she hit bollard, knock herself out in fog. I jump up, come runnin’. See Eric on edge of dock, he kick out at rat, slip. Eric fall on rat, both go over edge into water. Very sad, oh, yes. Eric fine feller, tryin’ to save girl from rat. Cobbles wet, very slippy out there in fog, not see where water is. Girl hurt, man help me bring her in here. Very sad, sir!”

  The constable took it down laboriously in his notebook. Everyone stayed silent until he had finished. He looked to Tommy Dyer. “Did you see any of this, girl being knocked senseless, man and big rat both falling into the dock?”

  Tommy had found the dregs in the rum bottle, so he downed them. Puffing out his narrow chest importantly, he gave what he considered was his expert opinion. “Me name’s Thomas Bernard Dyer. I’m h’employed by the Dock Board as h’official rodent controller. Ho, yes, h’officer, I’ve seen many a great big rat down ’ere, an’ dealt with ’em, too, filfy vermints. I can show ye the scars if’n ye like?”

  The well-dressed old gentleman interrupted. “I’m certain the constable has better things to do than inspecting your battle wounds. Speak straight, man, did you actually witness the incident?”

  The rat catcher tugged his hat brim respectfully. “No, sir, I h’arrived too late. But I knows me rats, sir. If the h’Oriental chap says that’s wot ’appened, then I’ll back ’im h’all the way. Pore Eric McGrail got word to me only a few days back, askin’ me to come round an’ h’investigate a large vermint, said it was h’infestin’ the premises. Huh, wish I’d a-come sooner. They pays me a ’andsome fee for big rats at the University Medical School. Life’s cruel, ain’t it, now I’m out o’ pocket by two shillin’s, an’ big Eric’s dead!”

  The well-dressed gent took a coin from his waist-coat pocket and pressed it into Dyer’s grimy palm. “No doubt you did your duty as you saw it. I don’t think the constable need detain you further, thank you.”

  Tommy Dyer took the hint and departed, tugging at his hat.

  Miggy, taken upstairs by the washerwoman, was installed in her uncle Eric’s huge bed. It was so very comfortable, the stressful evening’s events soon took their toll. She fell quickly into a deep sleep. Downstairs, the policeman had Atty sign his statement of testimony. Further people arrived—more police and two Waterguards in a rowboat with dragging equipment. The search of the dock waters continued throughout the night.

  It was nine o’clock of the following morn when the search for Eric McGrail was abandoned. Miggy was sitting up in bed, where Atty was serving her a fine breakfast he had cooked specially. The constable tapped on the door and entered. He removed his helmet and shuffled awkwardly. “No sign of your uncle Eric, I’m afraid, miss. They think he must have been swept out into the river, what with the lock gates being open and the strong undercurrent. The Mersey can be a treacherous river, so the Waterguards tell me. Your uncle was a brave man, miss, I’m sorry.”

  As the policeman left the room, Miggy called out, “Did they find the big rat, Officer?”

  He shook his head at her, and went downstairs, muttering, “Did they find the rat! Huh, kids these days, what’ll they think of next, I wonder?”

  Miggy buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly. The cook patted her shoulder gently. “Not worry about Eric anymore, Miggs, he gone for good. Always remember Sailor, though, he was brave mongoose, he save you from Eric. Sailor was true friend, just like I say.”

  The Bengal Pearl returned to Liverpool in due course. She was soon cargoed up in record time and set sail once again, outward bound for India. However, the ship sailed minus Paddy McGrail, who had to stay home with his daughter and attend to family business.

  The well-dressed older gentleman was a barrister. He had left his card with Atty. Paddy contacted him. There was much coming and going between the Mersey Star and his offices during the next fortnight. The old gentleman’s name was Mr. Dalzell Rice. He assured Paddy that he would expedite matters on his behalf. Miggy was puzzled by it all, but she never pestered her dad, who seemed as bewildered as herself.

  One month later, a Coroner’s Court was convened. Atty was required to attend, along with Miggy and her dad. Mr. Dalzell Rice was already there on their arrival. The coroner’s verdict was that after the required period deemed by law, and in the light of evidence, Eric McGrail was declared officially missing, presumably dead by misadventure, his body having been swept out to sea.

  They emerged into the sunlight, where Mr. Dalzell Rice showed them to his waiting carriage. He took them to his offices, which he referred to as “Chambers.” Miggy and Atty were given cups of aromatic coffee and some dainty chocolate-covered biscuits. The office clerk raised his eyebrows on seeing Miggy taking coffee with her little finger extended. Atty wrinkled his nose playfully at her.

  “Miggs look like very fine lady now, much growed up. You be eleventeen twenty-two next birthday, I think!”

  The girl frowned over the rim of her cup at him. “Kindly drink your coffee, my good man!”

  Paddy smiled as he signed his name to what looked like sheafs of official-looking papers. When the business was done, everybody shook hands. Miggy had never seen her dad looking so happy, his face a picture of joy.

  Mr. Dalzell Rice gave them the use of his carriage and driver to get back home. They arrived at the Mersey Star Boardinghouse and Chandlery in time for lunch. Paddy McGrail leaped from the carriage and swept his daughter up in both arms.

  “Well, Miggy, me darlin’, welcome home! As the only survivin’ relatives an’ kin of the late Eric McGrail, this all belongs to me an’ you now, lock, stock an’ barrel! No more sailin’ for me. We’re proprietors, me love, boardin’house owners. D’ye know what? I think the first thing I’m goin’ to do is to double Atty’s wages an’ declare him dinin’ room manager. Atty Lok, what d’ye think of that? Huh, where’s that feller gone?”

  Miggy, sitting on the doorstep, gestured inside. “Prob’ly making lunch for us.”
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  Paddy looked down at the girl, who was dabbing her eyes on her sleeve and sniffing quietly. Full of concern, he sat down beside her. “Miggy, girl, what’s the matter, darlin’?”

  She blinked rapidly to dispel the tears and gazed out to sea. “It’s Sailor. I miss him a lot, Dad. I wish he was here now. He was my friend, and I’ll never see him again.”

  Paddy hugged her. “I know, darlin’, I know. But you can’t be sad forever, Miggs, cheer up. You’ll soon be gettin’ nice new clothes an’ goin’ to school . . . bet you’ll make lots o’ mates there. In the holidays we’ll go out together to the beach, an’ to the country, you, an’ me, an’ Atty, too!”

  Miggy stood up slowly. “Won’t be the same without Sailor, though.”

  As they entered the dining room, Miggy gasped. There was Atty, feeding an egg to Sailor. He grinned at them. “He waitin’ here like old drownded cat. Shall I give him another egg? This mongoose look hungry. Where you been, eh?”

  Miggy dashed to the counter with her arms held wide. “Sailor, oh, Sailor, you came back, you’re alive!”

  The mongoose leaped into her arms. He licked the girl’s face, leaving traces of raw egg all over her cheeks.

  Paddy McGrail could only shake his head in wonderment. “Well, can ye beat that, Sailor’s finished goin’ to sea, too!”

  Miggy placed her pet on the counter. “Give him eleventy-seven eggs, Atty, he deserves them!”

  Atty grinned. “I give him eleventy-eight if he tell me where he been. See, Miggs, I tell you, mongoose friend for life!”

  Miggy nodded fervently. “I believe you, Atty, I always did!”

  Rosie’s Pet

  GO LOCK YOUR DOORS EACH EVENING,

  bar all the windows tight—

  young Rosie and her boyfriend

  are on the prowl tonight.

  Don’t snigger at my warning,

  you’ll hear as they pass through.

  Your marrow will freeze to a cry on the