The Ribbajack

“Miggy! Have you trimmed those lamps an’ cleaned the winders yet, yew idle liddle mare?”

The girl grabbed a pail of water and some rags from the stone sink, shouting a reply. “In the minnit, Uncle Eric, I was just havin’ me brekkist!” The sound of clumping boots approaching sent Miggy staggering outside, splashing water from the pail as she went.

Eric McGrail was a big man—big footed, big fisted and big bellied. He strode into the kitchen, wiping lamp paraffin from his hands on the greasy apron tied round his middle. Atty nodded toward the front door.

“Miggy be out there, working hard, plenty hard!”

A blue scar on Eric’s forehead puckered as he glared at the cook. “Who asked yew? Get on with yer work, an’ don’t be cuttin’ those bacon rashers so thick. Yew’ll be the ruin of me!”

Outside, Miggy was perched on a rickety old lard box. One of the two big brass storm lamps, which hung from either side of the door, was receiving her earnest attention. She polished energetically at the red glass lamp panes. Each night both lamps were lit, providing illumination for all to see the sign over the front door.

MERSEY STAR.

SHIP’S CHANDLERS AND

BOARDINGHOUSE.

CLEAN BEDS. QUALITY FOOD.

REASONABLE RATES.

CASH ONLY. NO TRADE OR CREDIT.

PROP. E. MCGRAIL.

Uncle Eric scowled up at Miggy. “When yer finished there, girl, get some sandstone an’ scrub the steps. Anyone asks fer me, I’ll be in the Maid of Erin. I’ve got important business there. Make sure those lamps are prop’ly trimmed, or I’ll trim you if they ain’t!” He gave the lard box a small kick, causing Miggy to hang on to the lamp bracket, lest she fell.

Uncle Eric pulled off his apron, tossing it inside the door. A moment later he was off down the cobbled dock avenue, clad in a dirty blue saloon jacket two sizes too small for him, a high-waisted pair of serge trousers, shiny with wear, with a broad brass-buckled belt holding them up.

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,