The Parting
Margaret arrived on foot.
She was dressed in plain clothes, a brown shawl, woollen and worn
covering her hair; and beneath this, a grey dress, also wool, with a full
skirt. These gave her the appearance of
a working woman, a look modelled on her maid.
Added to this appearance, suggesting that the working woman was living
out some important personal drama, was the expression on her face; this was
strained, flushed from running, out of breath.
The appearance eased as the crowd thickened, Margaret no
longer able to run, walk quickly.
Instead she was reduced to a frustrated hurry, just one of many people –
apologising, side-stepping and occasionally raising her voice. Occasionally too she called out: “Philip;
Philip; Philip Kingston.” Philip could
not hear this, however. He had come by
cab, a hansom paid with a further charity from Arthur Downing; and he was well
advanced, well within sight of the ship he would be boarding.
Philip, younger than his sister, a man or boy of twelve, was
prematurely tall for his years, broad as well, and dressed in a suit rescued
from the sale of his father’s wardrobe and re-tailored to fit. The heir to a bankrupt merchant-business
Philip had the look of one not reliant upon charity. This look was supported by the company of his
mother. Mrs Kingston, however mortgaged
her town-house was, her last fine furnishings due to be sold, wore widows’
weeds – London fashion – and held a handkerchief, lace, black to her nose, to
protect her senses from the offence of people-smell. Together this couple progressed, slowed only
by the clumsy weight of Philip’s bag; they made good progress, those more
poverty-obvious moving out of their way, until they reached one of the more
extraordinary expressions of the Irish famine, a group of people, mostly men,
thrown together, who were playing a lengthy, improvised reel.
The energy, urgency of the music, the rhythms simple,
repeating, alive, gave the scene a festive air, as if the thousands gathered,
many of them in rags and more soon to be so, was some celebration. To an educated mind – that of Margaret when
she reached the crowd – the music was an offence, an insult to suffering. The musicians, however, supported by the
people they attracted, knew nothing of such insult; they were just enjoying
their fun, encouraged to endlessly extend their reel as the audience began to
clap, whoop and dance.
By the time Philip reached them the crowd was a hundred
strong, maybe more, packed tightly in the rear blocking his route and leaving a
space in front for dancers and musicians to perform. Philip waited at first, long impatient moments
that seemed longer still. Then, choosing
some women, a little older than himself, he raised his voice, giving a nervous,
slightly whining command: “let us through.”
The young women reacted slowly. They heard Philip, his command spoken in a
high, thin, unbroken voice; but Philip was irrelevant to their fun and he was
behind. Then, they felt the pressure of
his hand, politely offered at first, ignored and reasserted with the supportive
crush of his bag as Philip tried to force his way through. This obliged them to look, take in the
appearance of the boy/man. When they did
so, Philip’s face young, blushed, weak, offering no threat, they spoke as one:
“Fuck off, will yeh!
We were here first.”
This failure, the young women prepared to defend their spot,
with or without the help of the men around them, caused Philip to blush
further, his face to tense, shake, display a visible prelude to tears. If Philip had been a slighter man, less
man-like in size, the effect might have provoked sympathy, caused the women to
apologise, even let him through; but a man-like figure, one dressed in a suit
of importance and reduced so quickly to the verge of tears invited a different
response: “yeh fuckin’ baby, yeh.”
Margaret heard this, saw its effects as she caught up, Philip crying
freely now, defeated by words.
The anger that Margaret felt was shaped accordingly. It was directed not at the young women – they
had turned away, nor at her mother, though Mrs Kingston, quite typical of her
treatment of her son, had taken Philip into a protective embrace as if to
strengthen him in that manner.
Margaret’s anger was vented rather directly at her brother. She did so by turning him around - a forceful
movement that caused her mother to drop her hold - and addressing Philip in a
cold, forthright manner.
“You are to be a great man, Philip Kingston; so you will stop
your crying at once and get on board that ship.
Go on.”
Helping to enforce this instruction was the music’s gradual end. The captain had appeared, a squad of crew by
his side; and there was movement ahead, people starting to board. Margaret helped further by taking Philip’s
bag, a kindness intended to compensate for her words. Then, whilst Philip drifted on, searching for
then making towards the captain, Margaret turned her frustration on her mother.
“Now, Mother, if you stand there like that Philip will be on
board and gone, and we won’t even have said good bye. So, come on, take this bag.”
Mrs Kingston, unused to such service, did so slowly, leaving
most of the weight for Margaret to carry.
Margaret, meanwhile, who had hurried down to the docks, hoping to unsay
some earlier, harsh words, was trying to force her way forward – catch up with
Philip – whilst dragging the bag and her mother with her. Her failure in this, competing as she was
with so many other important personal dramas was inevitable.
By the time she confirmed this Margaret was part of a slow,
congested shuffle approaching the passenger ramp. The ramp was broad, wooden, improvised for
the purpose of people transport, and guarded by crew. These men showed neither delicacy nor
welcome. Their task - made more
difficult by the volume of people present, the emotions of a great parting, was
to act with a cold efficiency, checking tickets, cross-checking against the
number of passengers admitted. They did
so with rough hands, as if counting any inanimate stock. Margaret’s plea then: “my brother’s on board;
he hasn’t brought his bag” – was ignored off-hand, moved aside, forgotten. Margaret felt the sting of this
mistreatment. Then, not a woman to be so
easily dismissed, she took her plea to a man she guessed to be the
captain. He looked down at the sound of
her educated voice, took in the plainness of Margaret’s clothes – a working
woman – and raised his eyes once more, uninterested.
“I am the widow of Mr Philip Kingston,” Mrs Kingston helped
at this point. The finery of Mrs
Kingston’s clothes, as with the name of the captain’s former employer had a
better effect; “and this is my daughter, Mrs Downing. My son, Master Philip.....”
“I’ve seen him.”
“.......is on board, but he hasn’t brought his bag.”
“Joe, take this bag on board.
Upper deck. Philip Kingston
.....Master.”
The interview finished thus, the vigilant captain returning
to his former task, and having given too much time already to the two
women. Fruitlessly Mrs Kingston, waking
to a reality and spurred to act, continued her plea: “I’d like to see him;” but
Margaret had guessed more quickly at the respone, and had moved on, finding a
space where the crowd was thinner and adding her voice to the many calling out.
“Philip; Philip; I’m sorry.
I want you to know that.
Philip.........Philip..... you will be a great man in New York. Arthur said so.”
Margaret was still doing so, repeating, varying her words, and
crying now - mourning her loss, just as others were doing – when Mrs Kingston
finally joined her.
