Robert Dinsdale - Little Exiles

Judah Reed looks down at him, along the line of his crooked nose. ‘Let me see your hands,’ he says.

Jon could not resist, even if he wanted to. A force he does not know compels him to stand up, and he finds his hands coming out of his pockets, his fists unfurling to reveal those blood-red palms.

Judah Reed crouches and takes Jon’s hands, one at a time, in his own. It seems as if they are both wearing gloves: Judah Reed’s, monstrous and leathery; Jon’s, tiny and red.

‘It was a very good goat,’ says Judah Reed. A smile blossoms on his face. ‘You did a very good job. You fed the whole Mission. I hope you are proud.’ He pauses. ‘Are you proud, boy?’

There is a look in Judah Reed’s eyes like fire, a look that tells Jon: there is only one answer to this question. Being ashamed, he sees, is not an option. So he nods, because nodding is all he can do.

‘Some of the boys in this Mission could learn a thing or two from you. Australia will be grateful that you came.’

‘It won’t come off,’ blurts out Jon. His inside crawls, for surely he should be petrified, surely he should want to take flight – but, strangely, he finds that he wants to be here. It is the most peculiar sensation. There are a thousand things he wants to ask. It is, he realizes, only Judah Reed who really knows the way across the big bad nowhere and back to England. ‘I scrubbed and scrubbed but it wouldn’t come off.’

Judah Reed says, ‘It never does,’ and, smiling, returns through the sandstone door.

Two days later, Judah Reed leads them in a Sunday service and, afterwards, they are permitted to write letters. In the assembly hall, Jon finds a seat at a long trestle table, and begins to dream of an opening sentence. At the far end, one of the cottage mothers looming on his shoulder, George wriggles onto his stool and stares, puzzled, at his paper.

Jon throws a look around the room and sees, for the first time, that none of the older boys of the Mission have come. He wonders why they do not care about writing to their mothers – and then he feels George’s sticky hand on his shoulder.

The little boy is standing beside him, stubby pencil in his fist.

‘You’ll have to sit down, George. If one of them sees …’

‘What can I write, Jon?’

Jon shuffles over, offering George half of his stool. Eagerly, George flops down, almost upending Jon.

‘Will I write to the Home, do you think?’ he wonders. ‘Or Peter?’ He stops. ‘Where would I write to Peter, do you think?’

Jon looks into George’s expectant eyes, recalls vividly that morning in the Home when George was crying behind the chantry.

‘You can write to my mother, if you like.’

Jon lifts the pencil out of George’s fingers and pushes it back in, the right way round.

‘What will I say?’

‘I don’t know, George. It’s your letter.’

‘Can I have a look at yours?’

Quickly, Jon wraps his arm around the page. Isn’t it enough that he’s sharing his stool and his mother, without George having to share every single word?

Bewildered, George mirrors the action around his own page.

‘I might tell her about being a sailor,’ he decides, and promptly breaks the point of his pencil.

While George is scratching away, Jon ponders every word. This letter has to be perfect. The perfect line could send his sisters scurrying halfway across the world. He sketches sentences lightly, using only the very tip of his pencil, and when it does not sound right he starts again, pressing harder this time to disguise what went before. He wonders if he should tell her he is well. He wants to tell her – but perhaps she might think he is better where he is, and not come for him at all. He wonders if he should tell her how terribly they live, how there is no food but the food they forage and butcher, how Judah Reed might appear at any moment to take boys into his study for a beating – but he does not want to upset her; she does not deserve that.

At last, Jon decides that he will tell the truth, without any fancy. His mother will surely appreciate that.

He writes each letter perfectly, just the way she always liked.

Dear Mother,

There has been a dreadful mistake, and I am in Australia. I know you did not mean this for me, because you love me, but the men from the Children’s Crusade say we have to be Australian boys. I promise, mother, I am forever your English son.

I know home is hard and there is not money until my father comes home. I promise I will help. I’ll be eleven soon, and then I can find work, in a shop or on a bike. Or I can come and clean houses with you. I wouldn’t be a nuisance. I don’t need Christmases and I don’t need birthdays and I don’t even need a Sunday dinner. I’ll have bread and gravy.

I’m sorry I made it so you had to give me away. But anything bad I’ve done or anything bad I’ve said, I haven’t meant a thing. I want to be good for you. I love you and I love my sisters, and I’d love you wherever we lived, even if we never go back to the old house.

I’ll be your best boy, if only you come and take me back. I’ll get you anything you want – and, mother, if I haven’t got it, why, I’ll go for and get it.

I am your son who loves you,

Jon (Heather)

It fills one side of the paper and, rearing back, Jon is tremendously proud. He suddenly thinks of what Peter might have said if he had seen such a display, and inwardly he cringes. This is nothing of Peter’s business. Peter is gone, and Jon can think whatever he wants.

He glances at George, who has made a mess of one side of his paper and started again on the reverse. His displays are big and crude, but he has made more words than Jon thought possible.

You will be ever pleased to know Jonn looks after me like my one brother. Its not the same as peter but he is in deed a very good boy. He promises I can live with you when we are to get back in England

Jon wants to rip the paper away – and perhaps George senses it, for he shifts his body around and the words are gone from sight. It is better this way. Let him think whatever he wants – but there will not be room for him at the old house.

Some of the boys have finished their displays and, sealing them diligently, hand them to the cottage mother sitting at the front of the hall. On the other side of the hall, Jon spies Ernest, creasing his page and carefully displaying an address on front.

‘I’ll catch you up, Georgie …’

Jon sees Ernest almost at the cottage mother’s desk, and scurries around the long table to catch up. Ernest seems eager to avoid him, for he is almost at the door by the time Jon’s hand lands on his shoulder.

‘I’m …’ Jon does not know what to say. ‘… sorry ,’ he whispers. ‘I didn’t …’ All his words have failed him. He does not know what to say sorry for, but for some reason he can picture himself with a stick in his hand, beating Ernest over and over. ‘I just got scared.’

Ernest shrugs. ‘I didn’t tell, you know. They were sure they’d seen me with another boy, but I said I was on my own.’

Jon nods, dumbly. ‘Did it … hurt?’ he finds himself asking.

‘He had a hockey stick.’

A curious sensation spreads, like warmth, across Jon’s stomach, up his chest and down his arms, as if he has too much energy, as if he should jump up and sprint in circles. He remembers Judah Reed telling him he ought to be proud, and realizes what the feeling is: guilt, not for letting Ernest be beaten, but for something else.

They stand, neither one really looking at the other, complicit in some secret.