He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (13 page)

I found the bombsite far more beautiful.
 
Each season it changed, even at different times of the day.
 
Eerily it rose from the fog on a winter’s morning like a ghost city.
 
Evening shadows stretched long fingers across it, leading it into the secret night.
 
Dandelions thrived in yellow clouds, afterwards their petals dropping, leaving their fairy-down to be blown away in countless games of “Telling the Time”.
 
Flowers that had once been part of someone’s garden refused to give up and kept up the same colourful display year after year.
 
And when the sun shone on the sycamore tree by the bakers, it actually glimmered, while in the autumn it dropped its seeds like tiny brown helicopters.

‘Dirty orphans!
 
Dirty orphans!’
 
A group of village children began careering towards us, yelling, ‘You’ve got fleas and stink!’

‘I’ll kill you.
 
I’ll kill all of you.’
 
Instant anger flared inside me, but Joe was already dragging me through an opening in the hedge and pushing me down behind it.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?
 
There must be a dozen of ‘em.
 
They’ll murder us.’

‘Nobody’s calling me a dirty orphan.’ I struggled to free myself from Joe’s grip, but his hands were like a vice. He was surprisingly strong for someone with such a small frame.

Reluctantly, I ducked low as the chanting grew louder and the cows in the field munched on, oblivious to the din.
 

‘Come on out, you dirty orphans.’
 
The group of boys was close now.
 
‘Leave it until we get to school.
 
We’ll get ‘em then,’ one of the boys boasted and, satisfied to wait, the group passed by.

‘Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can’t harm you,’ Joe actually laughed.

‘Wait ‘til we get to school, then we’ll see whose bones are going to be broken.’
 
I clenched and unclenched my fists.

‘Don’t be so daft.
 
We couldn’t take that lot on, even if we were Tarzan.
 
There’s other ways round things.
 
Leave it to old Joe.’
 
He touched his nose with his forefinger.

‘We’ve got a horrible disease,’ Joe cautioned the group that confronted us later that morning in the playground.
 
‘If you get too near us, your tongue’ll go black and your eyes pop out of their sockets.
 
The next thing you know, your balls will have dropped off and you’ll be sicking up every last part of your guts.
 
If you don’t believe me, go to the orphanage.
 
There are eyes and balls and guts all over the floor.
 
It’s the most horrible sight you’ve set your eyes on.’
 
Joe pulled a grotesque face and the boys’ eyes widened.
 
Looking from one to the other, they waited for the first one to make a move.

‘If you don’t clear off, we’ll spit on you, then you’ll die in agony.
 
If you snitch about what’s happening at the orphanage, your fingers and toes’ll snap off like twigs!
 

Without waiting to consult with each other, the group fled.

‘I told you to leave it to me.’
 
Joe rubbed his hands together as if he had sent each of them packing with a punch on the nose.

‘Now no-one’ll talk to us.
 
Not that I care,’ I added.

‘Neither do I, so there you are.
 
We’ve got each other.
 
Anyway,
you
won’t be here much longer.
 
Your Mum’ll be collecting you before you can say “balls”’.

In my experience, although you pretended words didn’t hurt you, they punctured your insides, and the pain never went away, not really.
 
Yet words, when they were kind, warmed you like an oven in your belly.
 
It was because of words, written ones, I couldn’t wait to get back to the orphanage every day after school and take my letters from under the mattresses.
 
I knew every letter by heart.
 

Fred was busy helping his son with his business, although he didn’t say exactly what it was.
 
Something to do with tractors, I thought.
 
Lori helped Fred’s son’s wife with their new baby, but she didn’t mention going shopping, or to the library, or having afternoon tea with friends like she did in Blountmere Street.
 
Instead, she asked strange questions like the price of lamb, was I enjoying the winter and how many times we’d had Spam lately.

Mum’s letter wasn’t very long and consisted mainly of news that Angela was in an orphanage in the country, like mine, and that she seemed happy with her new friends.
 
Quite a few times, she told me to be a good boy and seven times – I know because I counted them every day – she told me she loved and missed me, and that it wouldn’t be long before we’d all be back home together in Blountmere Street.

I even read Miss Selska’s letter every day, although it was full of advice on using camphorated oil and eating my vegetables.

My letters filled my mind all day at school, even when Miss Magdalen told the class, looking directly at me and Joe, that there were some children who would never amount to anything.

Every afternoon I tried to get in touch with Paula.
 
It brought a sort of relief being able to pour out the day’s happenings, even if I did feel as if I was talking to myself.
 
Even though I concentrated really hard and wriggled around and squirmed, I couldn’t pick up anything from her.
 
But my letters – well – they were real, not airy-fairy.
 
My letters told me that people were thinking about me.
 
Mum wasn’t going to let me rot in this place.
 
Soon she was going to come and take me home to be with her and Ang.

‘What’re you doing?’
 
Joe lurched into the room in his usual door-swinging fashion.

‘Nothing much, just reading my letters.’
 
I stuffed them into their envelopes and back under the mattresses.

‘It’s a wonder you haven’t read the words off the pages,’ Joe said, at the same time seeming to be having difficulty getting something out of his pocket. ‘Here, I got this for you, seeing as how they won’t let us have the light on at night.’
 
At last he loosened a small torch from his trouser pocket.

‘How did you get hold of it?’

‘Ask no questions, and you’ll hear no lies.’

‘You nicked it!’

‘As if I’d do a thing like that?
 
I knew Joe was pretending to look shocked.

‘Where am I going to keep it?
 
If I put it underneath my pillow they’ll find it, and I can’t put it under the mattress.’

‘I’ve already got the place.
 
They don’t call me Einstein for nothing.’
 
Joe walked across to the window.
 
‘I was having a decko yesterday and behind the curtain, I found a hole.
 
I think that torch will fit it nicely.’

I had never thought to probe behind the curtains.
 
They were covered with tired yellow flowers and dull brown leaves that extended well beyond the window on either side.

‘I reckon they must have been going to put a socket in or something.
 
Anyway, it's big enough to squeeze your letters into it as well.’

I pushed the batteries into the torch, tested it to see that it worked, then wedged it into the cubby hole.
 
Brick dust floated to the floor.
 
Joe knelt and rubbed it into the carpet with the sleeve of his jersey.

‘I’ll put my letters in later.’
 
How could I tell Joe the hole in the wall was too far away to be from my letters?

‘Hurry up will you, or we’ll be put away in that halfway house they’re sending ‘em to.
 
I’ve heard Charlie Butcher and Bruce Levene are off there tomorrow.’

It reminded me of my nightmare and I looked towards the curtain for reassurance.

‘Thanks, Joe.’

‘What for?’

‘The torch and that.’

‘Now don’t go getting soft,’ he said.

Miss Magdalen entered the classroom looking even more sombre than usual.
 
She stood in front of her table, paused, then cleared her throat.
 
‘This is a very sad day for us all.’
  
She paused again, as if not knowing how to bring us the news.
 
‘We have just heard that our dear King George the Sixth has tragically passed away.’ She hesitated, then in a loud voice announced, ‘God Save The Queen.’

Matron declared the next day one of mourning “for our dear departed Majesty”, which meant total silence at breakfast and when we returned from school.
 
A black-framed banner appeared in the hall from which a picture of the late King looked down on us, as if it had been placed there in case we dared utter a sound.
 
The whole orphanage was ordered to attend church to pray for our new Queen.

‘Church is bad enough on Sundays, let alone in the week,’ Joe lisped out of the side of his mouth, even though we were still alone in our room.
  
Matron could hear and see things that normal people couldn’t.

That afternoon I thought I heard Paula speaking to me.
 
It was a vague impression.
 
She was talking about the King.
 
I could visualize the sadness in her face, the expression in her eyes.
 
Or was it because I knew that was what she would have been talking about?
 
Just the same, in my head I responded, telling her about the banner, going to church in the week, even about matron wearing a black ribbon tied around her head with a bow in the front.

‘You’re a dirty, disgusting boy!’
 
Matron was making one of her surprise morning inspections.
 
She didn’t make them often.
 
We never knew when she would appear in our room at seven in the morning, and order us to take the sheets and blankets from our beds.
 
Matron’s face was close to Joe’s.
 
‘What boy of your age wets the bed!
 
Get here.’
 
She grasped the top of Joe’s pyjamas and yanked him towards her.
 
I watched as she ordered him to take the wet sheet off his bed.
 
I knew what was coming, what always happened when a bed wetter was discovered.

‘You know what to do, Joseph.’

‘But Miss, it’s horrible.’

‘It is entirely of your own making.
 
Now put the sheet over your head!
 
Right over!’
 
With the sheet covering Joe like a shroud, matron propelled him through the door and on to the landing, calling, ‘Come here children.
 
Witness a dirty bed-wetter.’
 
Joe stumbled up the corridor, the wet patch sticking to his face, outlining the shape of his nose, his lips pressed together so that they looked like one.
 
At the doors of their rooms, the other boys called out, ‘Wet the bed! Wet the bed!’ as they were expected to.

Although we never mentioned it, I knew Joe often peed himself at night, but he had always managed to get the bed made in time, and it remained a secret.
 
When Monica came to change the sheets, she took no notice of the urine stench and stains, she just stuffed the sheets into a large laundry bag.
 
Now Joe had been caught, and there was nothing I could do, only refuse to go to the door and join in.

‘Get out here immediately, Tony Addington,’ Matron ordered.

‘No I won’t.
 
I’m not going to watch my mate have the mickey taken out of him.
 
It isn’t his fault: he can’t help it.’

‘Are you daring to answer me back?’
 
Matron marched towards me, caught hold of my ear and dragged me behind her.
 
‘You’ll stand there until I tell you to move!
 
Come here and help me take the mattress off this dirty boy’s bed,’ she called to Monica, who, well used to the rigmarole, was sweeping the stairs, appearing not to take any notice.

With a lot of puffing from matron, she and Monica hauled Joe’s mattress clear of the bed.
 
As they did so, Miss Selska’s letter fell on to a blanket.