Salome: Episode 4.
Chapter 4: We arrived at Liverpool.
Welcome to chapter 4 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.
Last week, Salome learned that the demon is closer to us than we think, and the easiest way to meet a vampyre is to deny its existence.
We arrived in Liverpool a few days later, or possibly a week. I find that I cannot reliably account for most of this journey. I was overcome with sea sickness for most of the passage North, Father John forcing me to drink something or eat something at any moment when the sea was calm. The Bay of Biscay was the start of it. The storms frightened me greatly, for I was far from land. Every hour thereafter was rough and difficult to get through.
I thought of nothing other than how very sick I was and how awful a sensation it was as I rocked in my little bed. Sometimes I joined Father John in prayer, but only when I could stand. He prayed and read to me at my bedside, mostly, or wrote letters at the little bureau. I was glad of his company, even though I wasn’t much use for conversation. A maid came and went, changing my chamber pot and occasionally my blankets, but it was Father John who remained at my side.
The wind grew harder and colder as we approached England, but whatever sickness plagued me alongside France now dissipated. I did not enjoy the change in the weather, because I did not have adequate outerwear for the volatile, wet spring that plagued this island. Dolphins as murky as the choppy waters accompanied the ship for some of our time in the Celtic Sea. When I could, I enjoyed watching them from the bow. We passed a place Father John informed me was called Cornwall, and then Wales, whose great mountains reminded me of those of home. The next stop was Liverpool.
I remember arriving some time in the evening, and the water of the river was as black and opaque as the sky above it. As we waited for the pilot to bring us alongside, Father John encouraged me to drink this hot beverage the locals called tea to stay warm. It was unlike any tea I’d had before: black with a faint bitterness. He informed me that the English enjoyed it with milk and sugar. I found myself desiring coffee more than anything else. I had a bag of beans from Turin in my bag, but I realised I had nothing to grind them with. He assured me that the sisters would accommodate me when we arrived at my new home.
Later I learned that the tea was to calm my nerves as we entered the city. It was a dangerous place, busy with traffic and traders. We passed several insistent hawkers and heavily guarded carts as well as ladies of the night who said nothing to us, but lowered their heads as we passed. They caught my attention most, because they were not what I imagined; they wore no paint on their faces, and they were fully dressed, grouped in twos or threes with their shawls held high over their heads, shielding them from the drizzle. I had heard of Jezebels and show girls who were loose and rouged, but I did not see them here. When our eyes met, I saw that they were just like me.
We walked on to a row of black carriages with drivers sitting atop them or standing nearby, the raindrops rolling off their caps and umbrellas. Father John waved to one driver and approached the horse-drawn box. The driver nodded and opened the door for us, taking our bags from Father John.
“Father, there is—”
He gestured for me to get in.
“Father, may I take confession?” I whispered.
“Right now?”
It had to be there and then. I felt weak, not physically but spiritually, as though someone was watching me, waiting to reveal my secret. “I cannot complete my journey unless I take confession,” I said.
He banged on the roof of the cab with his cane and gave the driver the address, and then he quickly closed the window, made the sign of the cross and turned to me. He removed his hat and sat down in the seat opposite, leaning forwards to hear my confession. He nodded, signalling for me to begin, and lowered his eyes.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been hiding a shameful secret from everyone around me.” My tongue felt too thick for my mouth as I drew breath for the next sentence. “I cannot read.” I took another deep breath, steadying the thumping in my chest. “I have hidden this from you and others because I am ashamed, and I did not want anyone to think less of me because of it. I let my pride get in the way of the truth.”
Father John gave a half smile as his brows knitted in thought. “My child,” he said slowly, looking up at me again, “if the ability to read was all that was required to serve God and help you defeat the Devil, there would have been a very long line of suitable candidates ahead of you.” He sat upright and placed his hand on my head. Its coolness contrasted with the warm sweat on my forehead. “I absolve you of your sin in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, but I would advise that you do not let such trivial matters fester for so long in future.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The driver called the horse to a halt, and we sat there for a few seconds in the silent cab, the cold wind moaning through the gaps in the frame. “Is there anything else before we go in?” Father John asked. “Any more emergency confessions?” He raised his eyebrows. His face was kind, and I believe he knew that if there was anything else, I would have confessed immediately.
“No, Father. Thank you.”
He helped me out of the cab, my right arm clutching the book again as we collected our bags. He paid the driver and led me up a few stone steps, the top one with a black cat lying on it. The cat, probably frightened by our sudden appearance, immediately fled at the sight of Father John’s flapping black cassock and cape. I watched the bristled tail disappear into an alleyway at the side and turned to face the building again. I looked up, surprised to see no religious insignia on the brickwork at all. It had long, thin windows with white painted frames, just like most of the buildings around it, with several floors and a tall, black door like any others on the street. At the back was an enormous brick chimney, not too dissimilar to that of the factories further down the street. “This is it?” I asked. A lamp glowed faintly on the wall beside the door. I squinted and looked at a brass plaque beside it, but I could not read what it said. It was in English.
“This is it,” Father John said, lifting the heavy brass knocker. He beat it down on the door in three precise knocks.
I narrowed my eyes as I took in the contents of everything around me on the street, the stones of it glistening in the moonlight. The cab driver had gone and after the wheels rolled away, there really wasn’t a soul around. I did not know how far we were from the dock, but it was quiet here. My teeth chattered as I stood at the base of the steps. I was exhausted, and I needed to eat something.
The door finally opened, a small sister in her black habit looked up at Father John and then down to me. She seemed to recognise Father John instantly, and widened the door with an enthusiastic welcome. I did not know where she was from, or what she was saying to him. I assumed it was English, as he answered her in a way that she understood, too. We followed her into the house. wiping our wet feet on the mat as she closed the door behind us, stopping once only to let the little black cat in. I later learned that the erratic feline’s name was Jethro.
The sisters had been expecting us, but it was late when we arrived. The small sister took our coats and belongings and brought us into a small dining room with a modest fire lit against the far wall. My book was still in my arms, and she either hadn’t noticed the book or had thought to leave it with me. I placed it on a side table under the window and crossed the room. I was invited to sit down, which I made sure to do as close to the fire as possible without seeming as though I needed to get away from them.
They continued to speak to each other in English while I sat and raised my hands over the fire. The hem of my dress was wet, and my toes were almost numb. A painting of La Madonna rested on the wall above the stone fireplace. I looked around the bare-floored setting to see a crucifix on the wall above the door, and a tall cabinet filled with crockery and some simple candles. In the centre of the dining table was a lit candelabra, the candles halfway through their lifespan.
It was a welcoming dining room. I studied the crocheted tablecloth—made by the sisters, I supposed. Two places were set on the table: one for me and one for Father John. All of these assumptions were just that—assumptions, until I could speak with Father John and have whatever was being discussed translated. “Sister Bridget welcomes you, Sister Salome.”
I smiled and said, “Bueonesara.” It was all I could think to do. She replied to me in English, and bowed slightly.
Sister Bridget left the room, and Father John came to sit at one of the places set at the long table. “You are feeling the cold?”
I nodded.
“It takes some getting used to,” he agreed. “Sister Bridget is bringing some supper for us. She is eager to get to know you and make you feel settled here. I have not explained that you speak not a word of English—that much is obvious. You will learn it eventually.”
“Are there no other Italian sisters here?”
“You are the only one.”
Of course I was. It was just my luck. I sighed, and shuffled over to the place opposite him. “Do not worry. I will be here for some time, before I have to go away again.”
“Where do you have to go?”
“The Vatican. I visit at least twice a year on business.”
“Can you teach me English? Will that be enough time?”
“We will see.”
Sister Bridget came back with a tray carrying two steaming bowls and half a loaf of bread. She laid it down on the table and handed us each a bowl before checking that we had everything that we needed. Father John thanked her and I said thank you in my own tongue and then she left us to eat together. We gave a prayer of thanks before we dined, Father John delivering it in Italian, for my sake I believed. When I looked down at the bowl, I was confused as to what the contents were.
He laughed. A hearty, surprising laugh that made me jump. “Is everything all right, Sister?”
I felt my cheeks and neck burning with embarrassment. “Please, Father… what is this?”
“It is a local delicacy. They call it Lobscouse.”
“Lob…scouse?”
“A stew. Sometimes with lamb or beef, sometimes with shellfish or fish… whatever they can find. The vegetables are the same at all times, I find; potatoes, carrots, onions or leeks. But the meat? Sometimes there is no meat at all. In fact—” He held some to his mouth on the spoon, blew it slightly and then ate it. When he had swallowed it, he slapped his lips together and said, “It is the end of the month I suppose. No money left in the budget for meat. They still made it with a beef gravy though, so I suppose we should count our blessings.”
Sensing that I wasn’t keen on the brown, lumpy meal before me, he sliced some bread, spread some butter on it and handed it to me.
I ate it without thinking. I then broke into a choking cough thanks to the surprising taste. It was not butter on the bread. I quickly drank some water and swallowed. “Ah,” Father John said, realising what the issue was. “That’s beef dripping. Very good for you.”
I remained still. It was very probable that if I remained in Liverpool, I would never taste olive oil again, or freshly-churned butter. He pushed a small glass jar toward me and removed the lid. “This, I find, will brighten up your scouse.”
“What is it?” I peered down at the bright red contents of the jar. The vinegary sourness made me salivate but at the same time, I was repelled by the acidity.
“Pickled red cabbage. Very good for you, also.”
“Is everything pickled in this way here?” At home, we had pickles, but they were mostly in oil. The pickled foods in Liverpool were tangy, and as delicious as they were eye-watering.
He thought for a moment. “Most things. Pickled, canned, dried… you can get fresh fruit and vegetables of course, but there are no fresh olives or lemons carted up here often.”
“Do they have canned tomatoes?”
He shook his head. “My child, you remind me so much of myself when I first came to this bleak place. You will find comfort in the food eventually. It seems to help you withstand the climate. There are many here who thrive on this kind of sustenance.”
“I am sure.”
“I will tell you what we do have plenty of here, however.” He looked at me levelly. “Garlic.”
I did not understand. “You will understand soon enough,” he said, seemingly reading my mind. Perhaps he could read my mind. My belief in all things strange and even improbable was growing. No longer could I afford to doubt.
Garlic. Lol...
Now I want Scouse! Perfect for this weather...