The Ribbajack

Miggy Mags and the Malabar Sailor

TYRANTS ARE ALL SHAPES AND SIZES,

their unfortunate victims also,

though when one realises,

’tis a heartening thing to know—

gallant heroes will still appear,

to give aid in the hour of need.

This tale, from my hometown, you may like

to hear,

of a very odd champion, indeed!

Miguela McGrail went barefoot in the summer and wore clogs in the winter. She was never sure of her age, whether it was eleventeen or twelveteen. Atty Lok, the Siamese cook, was largely responsible for this, always making jokes about figures and words. He would tell her she was born in fourteen fifty-eight instead of eighteen fifty-four. Miguela, or Miggy Mags, as she was known around the wharves and quays of Liverpool’s dockland, knew that Atty was just pulling her leg. She would make a funny face at him, and the little man would grin back at her, from ear to ear.

Athanasius Tang Lok was one of the few real friends Miggy had in the world, so she was constantly harassing him with questions. “Alright then, what was the day an’ month of me birth?”

Carving bacon from the half of a salted pig, the cook judged how much he required for breakfast. “You borned in fourteen fifty-eight, on umpty-ninth of Nex tober, that be true!”

Miggy climbed up on the potato sacks, watching a Norwegian whaleship sailing in through the locks. “You’re a terrible fibber, Atty Lok. Last time you said it was on the sixty-seventh of Junevember. Anyhow, when’s my dad’s boat comin’ in, eh?”

The Siamese pared off another rasher, slightly pink, but mostly fat. “Pancake Friday, on Christmas Sat’day, prob’ly.”

Miggy was about to reply when a rough voice from the chandlery startled her.

“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,

an’ all of me money, it was spent, spent spent!

Where it went to now I can’t remember . . . member,

so down to the shippin’ office I went, went went!

Paddy lay back, Paddy lay back,

take in yer slack, take in yer slack,

take a turn around the capstan heave aport ... heave aport.

Oh, bow ships stations boys be handy . . . be handy,

for we’re off to Valparaiso round the horn!”

The sound of heavy footsteps and the creak of the cellar door caused her to fall silent. The curtain was wrenched back suddenly. Uncle Eric stood there, swaying. He held a quart bottle of porter in one hand, a half bottle of rum protruding from his pocket. Eric, who had lost money gambling at pitch and toss, was in a sour mood.

Miggy hid herself beneath the old Royal Navy blanket which covered her mattress. She heard him stumble as he knocked out the ashes from his pipe against a raised boot heel. Her uncle regained his balance and belched loudly.

“No use hidin’ under there, girl, you cut that cater waulin’ an’ get t’sleep! Oh, an’ a little bird told me yer father’s homeward bound. I wouldn’t get too joyful if’n I was you. That footloose brother o’ mine won’t be back too long. Quick turnabout an’ ship out agin, that’s Paddy for ye. Aye, an’ I’ll tell ye summat else, he’d better come up with more money this time. Huh, leavin’ me ’ere to watch out for his brat, after that Spanish bit he called a wife went gallyvantin’ off. An’ him, sailin’ away to where ye please, while I’ve got to look after yew. Givin’ you the best of everythin’, an’ teachin’ yer a respectable trade, too. An’ little enough I gets fer it!”

Eric lurched off, waving his pipe stem at the cook. “Bring me brekkist at nine sharp tomorrer, ye heathen, an’ make sure the tea’s well sugared, or I’ll sling yer in the dock!”

After her uncle had gone upstairs, Miggy peeked out from under her blanket. Atty, rigging up her curtain again, gave her his usual cheery grin. “Not worry about him. Eric like cracked temple bell, alla time making silly noise. Sleep now, father be back soon.”

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?”

The Siamese cook spoke in reverent tones. “That feller mongoose, bravest snake killer in alla world. You wait here, I get friend mongoose some food!”

Whilst Atty was gone, Paddy explained to his daughter about the animal. “Y’see, Migg, this feller ain’t no common mongoose. He comes off a very special strain. His father an’ mother were both prize serpent slayers, bred from rare stock. His bloodline is a mixture of two kinds o’ mongooses. Malabar, an’ Egyptian ichneumon, the bravest there is. They’re also the most lovin’ an’ faithful of pets, ask Atty, he’ll tell ye.”

The cook returned with an egg, which he gave to Miggy. “Hold mongoose, blow in his face gently, soft now.”

She did as he instructed. The mongoose leaned close to her mouth, its nostrils twitching. Atty nodded.

“He know you now. Crack egg a little, put it on floor for mongoose feller. He like egg pretty good.”

Miggy cracked the egg slightly. Liquid leaked from it as she placed it on the floor. Putting the mongoose down next to it, she spoke quietly. “Come on, Sailor, this is for you.”

The little beast leaped on the egg, holding it with its paws and attacking the shell with razor-sharp teeth. Paddy McGrail watched his daughter stroking the mongoose as it lapped up both yolk and white like a hungry kitten. “Sailor, eh? That’s a good name for him.”

Miggy nodded. “Well, he sailed with you, Dad, all the way from India. What do you think, Atty?”

The cook shook his head. “No, should be called Lascar, that name for Indian sailor. Lascar!” He reached forward to stroke the creature’s nose with one finger. It snarled, baring its teeth warningly. Atty pulled his hand away quickly.

“He loyal to you now ’til fifty-sixth of Foreveryear. Best he be called Sailor, he British citizen now. You take care of Sailor, he take care of you, ho, yes!”

Miggy scoffed. “How could a little fellow like him take care of me?”

Atty Lok sounded deadly serious. “I tell you, missy, mongoose fear nothing, not scared of poison serpent or death. He protec’ you good!”

Sailor had finished his egg. He looked up from the well-licked shell fragments at Miggy. Folding him in her arms, she stroked him lovingly. The mongoose snuggled up to his new owner, making rusty little noises of pleasure.

Paddy McGrail cautioned his daughter, “Don’t be carryin’ him round an’ pettin’ him like that. I’ve got a feelin’ that Eric doesn’t like animals of any kind, especially foreign ones. Keep Sailor out of sight when your uncle Eric’s around. No sense invitin’ trouble, darlin’.”

Miggy heeded the warning, it made good sense. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make him a little nest behind my bed, and I’ll only bring him out when Uncle Eric isn’t in.” Whilst she talked, the young mongoose gazed up into her eyes, as if listening intently to every word Miggy said.

Every one of the four days her dad was home, Miggy Mags rose early. She fed Sailor on bacon rinds, crusts spread with molasses and the odd cracked egg, which Atty left out for her. She went about her tasks with a will, the object being to get them out of the way so she could spend time with her father. Everything went well until the third day. Paddy had taken Miggy for a visit aboard the Bengal Pearl, a delightful day out for her. Her dad’s shipmates, both crew and officers, went out of their way to make her happy. Most of the men were bachelors and had no children of their own. They were enchanted with Paddy’s young daughter. Miggy was given a tour of the vessel, from stem to stern, by two whiskery old salts. A wheelhouse officer even let her turn the massive brass-bound mahogany steering wheel, allowing her to wear his peaked cap. She was served afternoon tea in the crew’s mess with the captain, doctor, purser and all hands attending. Miggy was treated to ham sandwiches, Madeira cake and Ceylon tea. The captain showed her how to stick out a little finger when holding the delicate Satsuma china cups, which he had provided for the occasion. The purser asked her to pour tea for them, chuckling as he referred to her as “Mother.” It was early evening when they came ashore, Paddy swaggering proudly alongside his young daughter. Miggy had some coins and handcrafted trinkets donated by her dad’s shipmates. It had been a day to remember.

But disaster awaited them on their return to the Mersey Star Boardinghouse.

Atty Lok came hurrying up the quayside to warn them. “Eric have much sick belly, he come home early from pub. Ho, yes, big bad mood, you stay out of Eric’s way until he go up to room an’ sleep!”

The cook was about to tell more when Eric McGrail appeared at the door. His face was ashen. He crouched, clutching his stomach as he roared, “Where’ve ye both been all day, eh? Leavin’ a poor sick man to fend for hisself. Fine family you two are!”

Paddy pushed Miggy behind him as he enquired about his brother. “Eric, are you alright, mate, what ails ye?”

The boardinghouse keeper allowed himself to be escorted inside by Paddy and Atty. He lowered himself, groaning, into a chair, where he sat wiping slobber from his chin. “I could’ve been dead an’ laid out, for all youse lot care. I was took bad in the Maid of Erin, an’ had t’find me own way home. It musta been somethin’ that foreign heathen put in me brekkist this mornin’.”

He bent forward, wincing, as he pointed at Miggy. “Either that, or I’ve been infected by that rat you been keepin’. Where is it now, ye filthy liddle scut?”

Paddy answered, defending his daughter. “Easy now, Eric, you’re sick. Miggy wouldn’t keep no rat as a pet, she’s scared of rats. There might be some outside, on the wharves an’ under the piers. Talk sense, mate, whoever heard of anyone havin’ a dock rat indoors as a pet, eh?”

Sweat beaded on Eric’s pasty brow as he heaved himself up. “Oh, ye think I’m out o’ me mind, talk sense, is it? I’ll talk sense right enough. I saw the thing with me own eyes, a rat, near big as a cat the damned thing was. It was skulkin’ round in my cellar when I went down to look for the girl. Come an’ see for yer selves!”

Lifting the trapdoor behind the kitchen counter, he beckoned the trio to go down ahead of him. “Go on down there, I’ll show ye. Nobody calls Eric McGrail a liar!”

Paddy called back as they negotiated the single-board steps, “No one’s callin’ ye a liar, mate, I was only sayin’ that my Miggy ain’t keepin’ a rat down here.”

The curtain had been ripped down from Miggy’s alcove. Her navy blanket and few pitiful belongings were strewn about the cellar floor. However, there was no sign of Sailor. Eric shuffled about, squinching his face and holding on to his griping stomach. He kicked the tin of drinking water over and ground his boot down on on the bacon rind, eggshell and bread crusts.

“Tell the truth, girl, you’ve been keepin’ a rat down here!”

Miggy shook her head. “No, I haven’t, I don’t like rats.”

Eric glared at her from under beetling brows. “Don’t take me for a fool, ye liddle liar!”

Atty interrupted his tirade. “Miggy good girl, not tell lies, she never keep rat!”

Eric turned on him furiously. “Then it’s you, poi sonin’ me grub, ye son o’ Satan!”

The Siamese cook folded his arms, gazing implacably at Eric. “If I want to poison you, long time ago you’d be dead. You make plenty foolish talk.”

Completely lost for words, Eric pushed the cook aside and lurched over to the stairs. Then he turned, fixing the three of them with a malicious sneer. “So be it then. I’ll cook me own grub from now on. But I warn ye, I’ll get to the bottom o’ the rat business. When I’m fit again, I’ll send for Tommy Dyer, the rat catcher. Hah, no rat ever escapes Tommy, he’ll catch the vermin alive an’ sell it to the sportin’ gang at the Slaughterhouse pub. They’ll sling it in the pit with two rattin’ terriers, then bet on which one’ll tear your rat to bits first!”

When the trapdoor slammed shut, Miggy searched the cellar, calling out in a loud whisper, “Sailor, where are you, Sailor?” She gave a squeak of surprise when the mongoose dropped lightly onto her shoulders from out of the ceiling crossbeams. He licked Miggy’s ear and curled about her neck. Paddy looked worried.

“I should’ve known it was wrong, bringin’ a mongoose to Eric’s place. I think I’d best take him back aboard ship.”

Large tears popped from Miggy’s eyes as she pleaded with her dad. “Oh, please don’t take Sailor away from me, I love him so much! I’ll hide him better this time, Uncle Eric will never know he’s here. Let me keep him, please, Dad!”

Paddy McGrail had never seen his daughter cry since she was a babe in arms—it upset him. She was usually a tough little soul. He looked to the cook for help. “What d’you think, Atty, would it work out if I left him here?”

Atty Lok had quite firm views on the subject. “Paddy can no give daughter gift, then take away, not honourable! Leave Sailor here with Miggy, she take care of him. I look out for Eric, things be fine again.”

Paddy relented. “Alright, Sailor stays. But Miggy, me darlin’, don’t let Eric see him, whatever ye do!”

At floodtide on the following morn, Paddy McGrail boarded the Bengal Pearl and sailed for Greenock. Miggy stood on the quay, waving, as the ship glided by under sail, like a huge white swan.

“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! Help, 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.”

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!”