He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (28 page)

‘Well, they’ve got an inside lav,’ I began.

‘I’m not keen on it, personally.
 
The long drop was healthier.’
 
Joe continued.

Murray took a lingering swig of bitter and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
 
He sighed with contentment.
 
‘My word, the pair of you’ve filled out.
 
Peg Millard feeding you well, is she?’

‘S’ppose.
 
Personally, I preferred the boil-up.’
 
Joe had squeezed in next to Murray.

‘How can you say that?
 
Peg’s food’s a million times better than the horrible stuff the Missus dished up.’
 
I pictured the lumps of meat coated in congealed fat.

‘I can say it, ‘cos that’s what I think.
 
All right?’

‘For something you don’t like, you eat plenty of it.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like Peg’s food, I just said …’

‘I’ve brought you these, Ginger,’ Murray interrupted, and placed a sack on the table.
 
‘We hoped we might see the two of you’s here.
 
We thought you could take them to Peg Millard to see what she could do with them.’

‘Lemons!
 
They’re my lemons!’
 
And the Boss didn’t nick any of them?’

‘No.
 
He seemed to have forgotten about them.’

‘Blimey, who would have thought Joe Fisher would end up growing lemons?’

Murray rested his arm on Joe’s shoulder.
 
This time Joe didn’t shrug or pull away like he had when Jack Millard had done it.

‘You’ve got green thumbs, boy, beggar me but you have.’

Through the haze, Murray caught the eye of a woman straddling young and middle age, and raised the dregs of his glass to her.
 
She was still reasonably pretty.
 
I couldn’t understand why she would want to work in a place that reeked of beer and cigarette smoke among men, who if they were sober when they arrived, didn’t stay that way for long.
 
This was the sort of place the Old Man had swapped us for - Mum, Ang and me.
 
He couldn’t have thought we were worth much.

‘So old Downston’s got no new orphan kids, then?’
 
Joe asked.

‘No, he must have decided he’d be best not drawing attention to himself for a bit,’ Murray replied.
 
Joe let out a relieved breath.
 
I knew it was because he didn’t want anyone else to share Murray’s attention.

‘What’s he say when you told him we’d upped and gone?’

‘Very little.’
 
Fergus’ face was already becoming flushed.
 
Two more foaming jugs sat in front of him waiting to be downed.
 
‘To be sure, we reminded him of a thing or two … We told him if it wasn’t for us … Well, as I said, he didn’t do too much arguing.’

‘It’s true.
 
If it wasn’t for the pair of you, I don’t know where we would have been, d’you, Tone?’

I drew a shape on the table with my finger.
 
What was I supposed to do - kiss their backsides?

‘And who’s doing the jobs we did?’
 
Joe asked.

‘We are, and the sooner we get off the place, the better,’ Murray grumbled.
 
‘Not a pig or a chook bloke, me.
 
If one lot’s not rolling in the mud, the others are pecking at it.
 
Give me my sheep and dogs any day.
 
It’s a sheep cockie I am, and a sheep cockie I’ll stay.’

‘Now you know what it was like for us,’ I said.
 
The three of them irritated me like gravel under my skin.
 
Abruptly, I stood and said to Fergus, ‘I’m off to Old Man Witchery’s.
 
After that, I’ll be in the library if you want to come.’

‘Once I’ve finished these jugs I’ll be there in a leprechaun’s leap.’

I rose from the table without even saying goodbye to Murray.
 
The door slammed behind me.

I crossed the road to Witchery’s.
 
This time, I knew exactly where to look for the trousers I wanted to buy, while Old Man Witchery pigeon-toed his way down the aisles, telling me the latest gossip from the township:
 
Harriet Allsop, her with the glass eye, had up and married a commercial traveller from the North Island, which Witchery swore made both her eyes sparkle.
 
Alan Garitty had chopped the top of his finger off while he was tailing.
 
Grannie had sewed it back on again, her being a seamstress as well as a bloody good cook who could give Peg Millard a run for her money.
 
The weather was in for a warm-up, Old Witchery would bet all Grannie’s lamingtons on it.
 
On he went, while I said yes and no in what I thought were the right places.

At Downston’s, all I’d wanted was to get out of my mission clothes, but now I was getting paid, I was loathe to spend any of my wages.
 
 
If I saved everything I could, in a year I might have as much as a hundred quid.
 
I’d be able to do a lot with that.
 
Joe was right.
 
Having some cash behind you gave you freedom.

But Peg had already made me buy new shoes, and more underwear.
 
A few weeks ago, she’d pestered me into getting a couple of new shirts.
 
Now it was trousers.
 
She threatened she wouldn’t feed me if I didn’t get them, although I couldn’t see Peg not feeding anyone.

‘I don’t know how
those people
could let you go around like ragamuffins.
 
Disgraceful!’
 
she’d said, making loud disapproving sounds.

After rummaging through only two boxes, I found the trousers I was looking for.
 
I measured them against me and was surprised at their length.
 
I’d thought they’d be too long.
 
At least I was growing upwards, Peg said, although I was sure she’d be more satisfied if, at the same time, it had been outwards.
 
I declined Old Witchery’s offer to try them on in Grannie Witchery’s kitchen.
 
‘You don’t have anything Grannie hasn’t seen plenty of afore,’ Old Witchery chuckled.
 
I counted the money into his hand and fled before he could cross the counter and manhandle me towards Grannie.

Outside the shop, I slowed my pace and made my way to the Community Hall, where the library was crammed into a room at the back.
 
After thumbing through a few books, I placed them back on the shelves.
 
It didn’t seem as if Fergus would be coming.
 
I wasn’t surprised.
 
By now he would be well on his way to becoming legless, and Joe and Murray would in all likelihood be talking about the gee gees.
 
Joe still
studied form
at night, while Peg shook her head.
 
‘Fifteen and already gambling.
 
You’re on a downward spiral,’ she forecast, but she laughed just the same.
 

I liked the evenings when we all sat together.
 
It soothed away some of my pain.

I left the library and began walking towards the sound of the sea.
 
I could already taste the salt on my lips.
 
Even though it was winter, the sun was warm on my face.
 
In a couple of hours, the air would cool again.
 
Back at the homestead, Peg would be making soup for our evening meal, thick and meaty; roasting a leg of mutton perhaps; baking an apple pie.
 

The thought reminded me I hadn’t eaten the lunch Peg had made for me.
 
The package was still in the inside pocket of my jacket.
 
I perched myself on a churchyard wall, pulled out the package and unwrapped the paper.
 
The sandwiches were fat with cheese and Peg’s homemade chutney.
 
In a smaller packet were two ginger gems, oozing cream.
 
Mrs Dibble might have known about ginger gems and pavlovas, but I’m sure Mum wouldn’t have had any idea.
 
Who cared if she couldn’t cook like Peg Millard!
  
She had never had Peg Millard’s money for one thing, nor a husband to call her
his good lady
.
 
She had been the best mother she could be.
 
I squared my shoulders and blinked to refocus the fading picture of her in my mind.

I manoeuvred myself on the wall and turned to look behind me at the church.
 
It was made of wood with an arch-shaped entrance.
 
Surrounding it was a small graveyard.
 
The ground around the gravestones was still white with frost.

I slid from the wall and for no reason wandered into the church.
 
I remembered Mum’s church as being like a cathedral.
 
It was made of stone and had a pointed roof covered with all sorts of carvings, which I could still picture clearly.
 
Perhaps it was because I had spent so long staring up at them every Sunday, while the Reverend Roberts droned the sermon.
 
I supposed Mum’s funeral had taken place there.
 
How many pews had been filled?
 
Not many.
 
Not one whole row.
 
There would have been the Dibbles – Mrs Dibble and Paula, at any rate - and a couple of neighbours.
 
I imagined Ang standing there alone and defiant.
 
The Old Man wouldn’t have turned up.
 
He probably didn’t know even now that Mum was dead. The Reverend Roberts would have given another one of his sermons, and they would have sung
Onward Christian Soldiers
, Mum’s favourite.

I ambled round, reading various memorials.
 
On a side wall was a brass plaque with the names of the blokes from the township who had died in the First World War.
 
It was a long list for a small township.
 
Next to it was a headstone that read,
To Elija Pullston and his dear wife, Eliza – gone to their eternal rest
.

On the opposite wall, an embroidered banner spelt out
Mother’s Union
.
 
To the right of the altar, a board announced
Hymns
.
 
I climbed up into the wooden pulpit, not as high as the one in Mum’s church - only three steps - and turned a few pages of the large black Bible resting on it.
 
What had happened to the Bible Fred and Lori had given me when I was christened?
 
I turned to the altar with a wooden cross in the middle.
 
Even with the light falling on it from the window behind,
I thought it looked sort of sad and alone
.
 

I descended the pulpit steps and sat for a while just looking at the cross.
 
Then I felt under the pew with my feet for one of the cushion things they had at Mum’s church.
 
There was one there and I pushed it out.
 
It was embroidered with flowers.
 
I expected
The Mothers
had made it.
 
I’d seen Mum kneel to pray, although Ang and I had stayed glued to our pew.

Despite the church’s simplicity, the window behind the altar was of stained glass in vivid colours, showing men with beards and wearing long robes.
 
Some seemed to be flying, while others had their arms outstretched.
 
They all had bright yellow circles above their heads.
 
The window reminded me of the pieces of coloured glass Paula used to collect from the bombsite.
 
She kept them in a wooden box and called them her jewels.

In the middle of the window, a man stood with his arms outstretched and underneath were written the words,
Jesus said, I will never leave you nor forsake you.
 
Even though my memories of Blountmere Street were becoming a bit muddy, I could still see the look on Mum’s face when she talked about Jesus.
 
She’d said He wouldn’t leave you nor forsake you.
 
But He had, hadn’t He?
 
Where was Jesus when they’d taken Ang and me away?
 
Where had He been when they’d sent me to New Zealand?
 
Why had He taken Mum when we needed her the most?

I lowered my gaze to the cross on the altar and tried to recall the hymns we used to sing about it.
 
I remembered the Reverend Roberts saying Jesus had died on the cross because he loved everyone individually.
 
Mum had said the same but Ang had argued it was a load of codswallop.
 
She would have said, if God loved us, he had a pretty funny way of showing it.
 
But somewhere in the valleys of my mind, I heard him saying the cross brought hope as well.
 
A bit of hope and some help thrown in for luck wouldn’t come amiss.
 
Only God, if there was one, could know about the hole in the middle of me.
 
Not just a space, a whopping bombsite crater I’d given up on ever filling.
 
And what could Jesus do about that?
 
Could He do the same for me as He had for Mum?
 
I supposed I could give God a chance.
 
If it didn’t work, I hadn’t lost anything.
 
After all, if God didn’t exist, He wouldn’t know I’d prayed. If He did exist, and had decided I wasn’t one of the people at the top of His list, what had changed?
 
 
I hesitated, clasped my hands together and squeezed my eyes shut.
 
I tried to recall all the wrong things I’d ever done so that I could say I was sorry.
 
Would God really care?
  
I started on
Our Father
, but got stuck halfway through.
 
Then, opening my eyes, I looked up at the man in the window.
 
‘All right, I’ll give you one last chance,’ I called up to him.