He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (14 page)

‘Joseph Fisher, get here immediately!’ Matron had forgotten the bed-wetting incident in the light of a greater crime.
 
Joe fumbled with the sheet and, forgetting matron’s warning not to move, I fled to help him free himself

‘What is this?’
 
Matron poked the envelope into Joe’s face.

‘It’s a letter, Miss.’

‘I can see it’s a letter.’
 
She began taking the pages from the envelope and reading them.
 
‘This appears to be yours.’
 
She rounded on me.
 
‘It is yours, isn’t it?’
 

I remained silent.

‘How did you get it?’

I clamped my lips together.

‘If you won’t tell me, there is only one thing to be done.’
 
Deliberately she tore the letter into strips, then the strips into pieces and stuffed them into her pocket.
 

‘I will be calling for both of you in my office later.’
 
She began to leave, then stopped.
 
‘Monica, before you go, perhaps you’ll help me with the other two mattresses and Tony’s as well.
 
Boys like this can’t be trusted.’

My mattress was the last to be taken from the bed.
 
All the time Matron and Monica were turning the other two, I wondered how I could retrieve the letters under mine.
 
I knew I had pushed them well into the middle.
 
Perhaps we could divert matron’s attention.
 
I looked at Joe for help, but he was still recovering from being laughed at by the other boys.
 
He shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless sort of way.

When matron and Monica took my mattress from my bed, matron immediately snatched the envelopes.
 

‘Please don’t tear them up,’ I pleaded.
 
‘I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t get rid of my letters.
 
You can keep them in your office.
 
I swear on God’s honour, I’ll never read them again.’
 
I turned to Monica, ‘Please don’t let her do it.’
 
As if she hadn’t heard me, however, and without opening the envelopes, matron simply tore Mum’s and Fred and Lori’s letters into the same strips and pieces as she had Miss Selska’s.
 
She shoved them into her pocket.
 
Then she swept out of our room, saying, ‘I’ll be calling for you both in my office.’
 

‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ Monica was weeping as she placed her arm round my shoulder.
 
‘She’s an old cow to do that.’

I shrugged her hand off me.
 
My letters had been taken.
 
Nothing was left, except a square that had fluttered from Matron’s bunched hand and concealed itself in the bedclothes strewn across the floor.
 
On it were the words, “Love Mum”.
 

After Monica had gone, I skirted the mound of covers to the window, where I pulled back the curtain and inserted the square of paper next to my torch.
 
No one would ever take it from me, no one, ever.
 
I would kill them if they tried.
 

‘They’re sending me to that half-way house,’ Joe said later that day after he had been summoned to matron’s office.
 
There was still a lingering smell of urine about him.
 
‘They’re sending me somewhere abroad.
 
They said I was a-good-for-nothing and lucky to have the chance of a fresh start.’
 
He cuffed tears across his face.
 
All at once I knew how much I would miss him.
 

‘I wish you were coming with me.’
 
He suddenly seemed very small and frightened, but my sadness for Joe was mingled with relief that I wouldn’t be in this horrible place much longer.
 
Anyway, Joe was going to have an adventure.
 
I was sure he would enjoy that.

It was a couple of weeks before matron ordered me to her office.
 
Every day I had been expecting to have to confront her and explain the letters, but when I passed her she ignored me.
 

One afternoon after school, when the wind was blowing so hard every window in the place rattled and everyone seemed restless, Monica came running to our room, puffing, ‘Matron wants to see you in her office.
 
She’s got some high-up bloke with her, too.’
 
She began brushing me down with her hand, then trying to flatten my hair.
 
‘You’d better make yourself presentable.
 
Rub a flannel over your face.
 
It’s black.
 
If you ask me, it’s something important.’

Monica insisted on taking me to Matron’s office, even though I knew the way perfectly well.
 
She babbled on and on as we walked down the stairs and along the narrow corridor, but I wasn’t listening.
 
At last Mum was better and the man had come to take me back to her.

‘Come on in,’ matron invited me into her office.
 
Her desk was swept clear of everything except a vase of daffodils.
 
She wasn’t scowling as I expected her to be, and my hopes rose.

‘This is Mr Grasley,’ matron indicated the man standing by the window.
 
He walked towards me and put out his hand.
 
His fingers were bony like a skeleton’s.
 

‘I’m afraid we’ve got some rather bad news.’
 
Matron screwed her face into a funny shape.
 
It couldn’t be anything bad.
 
Mum was better.
 
I was going home.
 
The man coughed, swallowed and coughed again.
 
‘Anthony Malcolm Addington?’
 
He enquired, and without waiting for a reply, continued, ‘I have to inform you that your mother has passed away and you are being conscripted on to the Government’s
 
Child Migration Scheme with your destination, New Zealand.’
 

There was no explanation or words of sympathy.
 

I wondered how Mum died and what would happen to Angela.
 
Did the Old Man know or even care, but I was dismissed before I could even form the questions.
 

PART TWO

Chapter Twelve

New Zealand 1953

The wind was whipping the sea into a frenzy when we docked at Wellington.
 
It caused the ship to be tossed about as if it was made of balsa wood, like the ones the kids sailed on the pond Up The Common.

Joe and I were part of a string of orphan boys who clutched on to the rope of the gang plank, as we tottered from the ship and on to the quayside.
 
We clasped our empty cases, and studied our strange surroundings, while the wind slapped at our bare legs and penetrated our jackets.

‘I thought you said it never gets cold here.’
 
Despite the chill, Joe stuffed the cap we were ordered to wear on disembarkation into his pocket.
 
‘It makes me look like Little Lord Fauntleroy,’ he complained.

I hardly heard him as I scanned the waterfront, then up to the bush-clad hills, dotted with wooden bungalows painted different colours like lumps of marshmallow.
 
Even though it was cloudy, the light was bright and I shielded my eyes with my hand.
 
Perhaps Fred and Lori lived in one of the marshmallows and were hurrying down one of the steep streets to meet us.

When I had been in England, a woman from the transit orphanage, wearing gold rimmed spectacles hung round her neck on a chain, had written down Fred and Lori’s names.
 
She had thanked me and smiled.
 
Smiling was something people who worked in orphanages never did.
 
I returned her smile, seeing myself racing down the gangplank into Fred and Lori’s arms.
 
On board, it made the cramped conditions and seasickness bearable.
 
At night it helped me not to cry.

‘I thought you said your precious friends would be waiting for you.’
 
Micky Bricks jeered, waving his arm around at the emptiness.

‘They’ll be here,’ I replied.

Some men in shirts, their sleeves rolled up and wearing caps like the one Old Dibble wore, herded us across the wharf into a long wooden building.
 
We were still not used to being on firm ground, and we staggered and tripped.
 
Inside, people were bunched around the edges of a long room.
 
They stared at us I heard someone say, “You’d think they’d be different coming from the Homeland.”

My gaze travelled from person to person as I searched the knots of people for Fred and Lori.

‘Can yer see ‘em?’
 
Joe enquired as we were manhandled into a row.

‘Give us a mo.’
 
I found a chair, stood on it and continued looking round the room.

‘Get down immediately,’ ordered a man in red plaid shorts and long socks.

‘Well?’
 
Joe asked.

‘They’re a bit late, that’s all.’

When we were in position, an official-looking man with hair parted down the middle, told us we would have opportunities in New Zealand we’d never dreamt of.

Outside the wind howled.
 
Inside it was damp and drab.
 
He droned on.
 
One of the boys wet himself.
 
It made a hissing sound on the floor.

The man used strange words like, ‘New Zealand pride”, while the people nodded, and I stood there not knowing what was going on.

At last the man finished and another man stepped forward.
 
He was from what sounded like “The Agency”.
 
He spoke with the same strange accent, and said things like gidday and nemes instead of names.
 
He said that some of the children would be placed temporarily in orphanages, until they found all of us foster homes, although some of the boys had foster parents waiting to take them immediately.
 
At least, I think that’s what he said.

All the time the speeches were going on, my eyes never stopped sweeping the room for Fred and Lori.
 

The next thing I heard, the Man from the Agency was saying we were very lucky and privileged children.
 
Our lives would be so much better than the ones we’d left behind.
 
We’d actually eat lamb and drink plenty of milk.
 
Then he pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase and began reading names from it.

‘Perhaps your Fred and Lori can’t get here, and they’ll put us in a home while we wait.
 
We mustn’t let them split us up.’
 
Joe moved closer.
 
He clung to the hem of my jacket, while kids started walking towards uplifted hands.
 
It left Joe and me exposed and conspicuous.
 
Someone slipped in the urine and cursed.

‘Mr Eleod Downston?’
 
We were led to a man who had two distinct lines across his face: his eyebrows thick and joining like a black hedge and his lips thin and straight that stretched from one weather-beaten cheek to the other.

‘This is Anthony Addington and Joseph Fisher,’ the man said.

Joe’s grip tightened on my jacket, pulling it off my shoulders.
 
‘Is that the name of your Fred and Lori?’
 
He whispered.

I shrugged myself free of his grip and brushed my sleeve across my eyes, spreading the moisture towards my temples.
 
I didn’t answer.
 
They’d given me to someone else.
 
Fred and Lori didn’t want me.

‘I asked for girls,’ Eleod Downston complained.
 
‘The missus needs ‘em to help her around the place.’

‘I’m afraid there aren’t any girls on this shipment.’
 
The Man from the Agency might as well have been talking about sacks of sugar or flour.
 
‘I’ll definitely put you down for a couple.
 
Any preferences?’

‘Young.’

‘Young?’

‘The Missus likes ‘em young, so she can train ‘em.’

‘Quite, quite, and may I say how generous it is of you and Mrs Downston to offer a home to these deprived children.’

The Man glided away, avoiding the urine.
 

Eleod Downston hawked phlegm into a piece of rag.
 
He looked us up and down and measured the circumference of our upper arms with his circled fingers.
 
‘A couple of scrawny bastards they’ve given me,’ he sneered.
 

‘I’m Joe and this ‘ere’s Tony.’
 
Joe began.
 
His voice sounded funny.

‘When I want to know your names, I’ll ask for ‘em.
 
Until then, keep your mouths shut.’
 
Downston grabbed hold of my chin and forced my face up.
 
My teeth locked together.
 

‘Get your eyes up, boy,’ he ordered.
 
‘Never could stand whingers.
 
Well, pick up your stuff.
 
What d’yer want – a housemaid to do it for yer?
 
We breed ‘em tough here, so you can forget yer fancy mummy’s boys’ ways.’
 
He strode towards the door. We followed, while The Man from the Agency called after him, ‘Hooray, Mr Downston.
 
We’ll be at your place to go over the paperwork and check everything’s all right.
 
Give us time.
 
You’re a fair ways out in the wap-waps.’

‘And don’t forget the girls.
 
Young ‘uns.’

‘Good as gold.’

We exchanged one ship for another, this time sailing from the North Island to the South Island.
 

‘What a carry on, but pretty, though,’ Joe said as we sailed through a channel, flanked on either side by inlets and islands smothered with vegetation.
 
I ignored him. I imagined natives like the one in my nightmare darting from the forest all around.
 
I stood outside on the deck and clutched on to a pole, trying to put another layer of concrete over my heart.
 
I pretended not to care about natives, or Fred and Lori not wanting me, or this godforsaken place, or Eleod Downston below deck drinking.
 

The harbour we sailed into was quiet, with a street of shops and a few houses, the same as the ones in Wellington.
 
Beyond were more and yet more hills.
 

On a strip of grass by the waterfront, a group of kids played games that didn’t look much different from the ones we’d played in Blountmere Street.

We left the ship and Eleod Downston lurched along the jetty.
 
Although he was slower than Joe and me, he shouted, ‘Get a move on!
 
You’re not in bloody London now.’
 
Heaving for breath, he caught up with us and, for no reason, slapped the side of my face with the flat of his hand.
 
He said something, but I couldn’t hear beyond the ringing in my ear.
 
I held my hand to it to ease the stinging.

A truck was parked on the quayside.

‘Well, jump in,’ Downston slurred.
 
He seemed to expect us to know the truck was his.
 
We struggled into the back and immediately slid on animal dung.
 
The stench was so strong it hurt my nostrils, then hit the back of my throat.
 
It made me want to gag.

‘Blimey, what a pong,’ Joe said, holding his nose between two fingers.

Although we couldn’t see through to the cab of the truck, we heard Downston slam the door, turn on the engine and grind the gears.

‘Where d’you reckon we’re going?’
 
Joe asked as Downston revved the motor and began throwing the truck round endless corners.
 
It caused us and our cases to slither from side to side and become coated with animal doings.

The only light came from two small windows at the back of the truck and I slid to the end, wiped a patch in one of the windows with my sleeve and squinted out.
 

‘I can’t see much out there,’ I said.

‘I hope it’s not far.
 
I’m so hungry, my guts are rumbling.’
 
Joe’s voice vibrated, as the truck shook and swayed along gravel tracks and the engine made a graunching noise as we began to climb.

I continued to wipe condensation from the window and looked out at the landscape.
 
Outside, there was nothing but a mat of trees.
 
I wondered how long it would be before we were out of this forest and we would see a house or someone walking along.
 
But the trees stretched on and on.
 
Joe crawled further up the truck and huddled next to me, as our stomachs became emptier.

‘You frightened?’
 
Joe asked.

‘Course I’m not.’ I hoped he couldn’t hear the fear in my voice.

Snippets of light began to appear and the sky became wider.
 
Down below, a river wound its way through a haphazard band of shingle, and mountains rose behind it like monsters with pointed heads.
 
I shivered at the emptiness – nothing but trees; not tall like the ones in Bushey Park, but smaller, a bit like the ones in the spinney Up The Common.
 
It was as if the mountains refused to allow them to compete.
 
The river in its shingle case appeared and disappeared, playing a game of hide and seek, but the mountains stayed there all the time, keeping guard.

‘It’s like
Journey Into Space
,’ Joe yelled, as the road curled round and round, up and down, through the undergrowth, finding and losing the river, all the time watched over by the pointed-headed monsters.

Unexpectedly, the sea appeared and we travelled alongside it for a few miles.
 
We watched the waves break on the rocks.
 
It left them ringed with foam like soap suds.
 

Then we turned inland and away from it.
 
Still there were no houses or people.
 

After we’d travelled for what seemed hours and the daylight had become purple before it finally disappeared, Downston took a sudden turn, causing the truck’s tyres to spin, and the truck to tip as if it was going to topple over.
 

‘Blimey, he’s trying to kill us.’
 
Joe fell across my legs.
 
We slithered in circles, and clutched each other for support.