Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

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It is early afternoon, and her eyes remain closed. Her dear sister has shared with her the hushed news that she reclines now on the black horsehair sofa in the more agreeable dining room. She can sense the presence of a quietly sobbing Charlotte continuing to sit vigil by her side, and she is obliged. Sadly, the eagerly anticipated gift of warmth has failed to materialize, and an icy draught pierces the room, for in her distress Charlotte has neglected to summon the maid to lay a new fire in the grate. However, it is too late, for she is overwhelmed and can fight no more. Charlotte, I have waited for Papa, but now I must leave. Too tired to raise her head, in her mind she whispers, like smoke, out through the window and onto her cherished moors. In the distance she is able to discern the silhouetted figures of three men on the horizon who appear to have just completed the digging of a hole in the earth. But for what or for whom? A dog, perhaps? She stands a safe distance off and clasps her bonnet to her head before the gust can strip it from her face. The fresh, dry air is healthier at this level and a pleasing substitute for the absent rustle of leaves. She was once forced to beat obedience into her dog, who loved her, but it was so, so exhausting, both the beating and the love. Now the three men lean against their tools and stare down into the chasm they have rent, and they wait. Having turned on her heels, she moves off slowly to the small stone farmhouse that is Top Withens and sits exhausted on a crumbling wall. What better place than this to commit a soul into the bosom of eternity? A beautifully bleak aspect and the steady flow of a beck, trickling unseen, in the valley below. Supported by stone and earth, she is ready now. She stands and pulls the hair from her eyes and begins to move down in the direction of home. She passes a craggy pillar with moss creeping up its foot; it marks the place where the pathway branches off to the right and back in the direction of the moors, which are now shrouded behind a thin veil of mist. She watchfully steps over the bare outcrops of rock that at this point litter the shallow earth that is too ravaged to nourish even the most stunted of trees. Wait, I’m coming. As the chapel bells begin to peal in the distance, she is blessed by the steady weeping of rain, which occasions a momentary smile to decorate her thin lips. She raises her eyes and sees Papa and Charlotte and Anne walking towards her at a lugubrious pace, the sisters flanked on either side of Papa as though ready to help him maintain his balance should he falter. She watches their leaden approach, and then she raises a hand in greeting. May I join you? They refuse to lift up their bereaved heads as they trudge past, leaving her rooted to the earth. She turns and follows them with her eyes as they walk towards the three men, who wait in silence. The rain begins to surge and swirl, and it saturates her bonnet. The first man moves urgently as he notices the approach of the father and his daughters, and he digs into a mound of freshly turned soil and carefully balances the stony dirt on the face of his shovel, before jettisoning it into the breach. She hears the noise of the debris thundering against the wooden box. She lifts her weak, gloved hands and covers her ears. She lives now in two worlds. She understands.

The school secretary stops him as he is leaving the staff room and tells Mr. Hedges that a new boy will be joining his class, but he doesn’t loiter to hear what else the woman might have to say, for her reputation as a gossip has been long established, and he doesn’t like to get involved. A simple life uncluttered by marital obligations at home or any entanglement in petty disputes at school has served him well for nearly forty years, and he isn’t about to lower his guard this morning. And now here is the boy, in the third row to the left, seated quietly behind a desk and looking pathetically out of place. She had shouted after him that the ten-year-old boy was in the care of the council, or a foster home, he couldn’t remember which, but plainly something had happened to the lad, for it was highly unusual to be asked to try to assimilate a new face into the scheme of things once the term had started.

That morning Mrs. Swinson had made it her business to ensure that Tommy got to school in plenty of time to be introduced to the headmaster, who looked at them with a vacant squint and eventually remembered that it was this boy’s older brother, Ben, who began school yesterday. Having delivered his long-winded speech about the new premises’ being only two years old and the pride of the local education authority, and how in this school they’d given up the Eleven plus and brought juniors and seniors together (although, for administrative purposes, they liked them to start on separate days), he formally welcomed the new pupil and then pressed a dismissive button and let them know that his secretary in the outer office was ready now to receive them. An irritated Mrs. Swinson levered herself out of the chair, feeling put out by this man’s rude button pushing, but Tommy, fascinated by the bald head behind the desk, bided his time for a few moments.

“Come on then,” she hissed, glaring impatiently at Tommy.

Her stage whisper brought him back to reality, and he followed her into the outer office, where they were greeted by the jolly face of the school secretary. A humiliated Mrs. Swinson couldn’t bring herself to speak to the woman, so she made a pantomime of buttoning up her coat and tying on a headscarf over her bun of grey hair.

“I’ll see you after school.”

She didn’t wait for a response, and simply abandoned him to the care of the nice fidgety lady, who looked as if she would be better served working behind a shop counter and dishing out sweets.

“Are you ready to meet your new friends?”

He nodded and half walked, half ran after her down the full length of a long corridor and followed the secretary as she turned and entered an empty classroom.

“Just take this seat, love. The other boys will soon be coming in from the playground, but meanwhile I’ll go and find your form teacher, Mr. Hedges. I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

He sat with his arms folded and resting on top of the desk, but he was careful to pull himself upright so he wasn’t slouching. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the other pupils began to drift noisily into the classroom and look at him with curiosity before thumping themselves down behind their desks. Nobody sat beside him, which made him wonder if the desk was always free or if their hesitation was something to do with him.

“Quiet everybody.” Mr. Hedges is looking directly at him. A round-shouldered, white-haired man with a chiseled face that appeared to have been manufactured in a quarry, he seems out of place in this modern school whose desktops remain unscarred by graffiti. “Well, stand up, young man, and tell us your name and where you’re from.”

Every head in the classroom turns, and thirty pairs of eyes are suddenly trained upon him. He pushes himself back from the desk and climbs to his feet, aware of how bizarre he must look in his oversize school uniform.

“My name’s Tommy Wilson.”

“And where are you from, Thomas?”

“I’m from England.”

His fellow pupils release a volley of scornful cackling that threatens to swell into hysteria.

“Alright, alright, I’m not sure what you all find so amusing.” Mr. Hedges scans the room before once again turning his attention to the new boy. “Well, Thomas, we were hoping for something a little more specific, but for now ‘England’ will suffice.”

But every one of the thirty boys, who continue to stifle their laughter, feels sure that the queer apparition standing behind the desk has nothing whatsoever to do with their world, where despite the evidence of their brand-new modern school, people continue to live in back-to-back houses and washing is strung out across cobbled streets to dry on the breeze. They all know that the church is at the top of the hill, and the butcher, the baker, and the post office are at the foot of the hill, and the pub is somewhere in between, and it’s blatantly obvious to each of them that this Tommy Wilson is most definitely a stranger.