Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

“Hey Jude”—The Beatles

While Mam was around, badgering us to unpack our suitcases and get settled in our new bedroom with its nice comfy twin beds and flannelette matching sheets and pillowcases, the woman was really nice. She even brought us a tray with three cups of tea on it, and a big plate of custard creams and digestives. Mam smiled and thanked the woman, and then Mrs. Swinson backed out of the bedroom and said she’d give us some time to ourselves and told us that there was no rush. She said this twice, about there being no rush. Tommy and I began to cram the biscuits into our mouths, but Mam got mad and said we had to behave properly. She insisted that Mrs. Swinson was a kind lady, so we had to be careful not to do anything to annoy her. Mam looked around the room. She has a beautiful home, she said. Me and Tommy nodded and promised that we would behave, but neither of us took our eyes off the biscuits.

Eventually we stood up and followed Mam down the stairs and into the hallway, where we watched the two women talking for a minute or so until Mrs. Swinson opened the front door. Mam looked back at us both, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Mrs. Swinson closed in the door quickly and didn’t even give us time to listen to Mam’s footsteps finally fade away before she started up on us about our clothes and about Mam. Upstairs, she said, and get yourselves in the bathroom. Once you’ve had a good wash you can come down, and then we’ll have to go out and try and get you kitted out with something respectable to wear. And dry yourself properly in your small areas or you’ll get chapped. She didn’t smile, but then again we’d already noticed that she never smiled. Later, after tea, we had to do the washing-up, and she shouted at us to be careful with the dishes as they were antique. We were to take it in turns. One day I’d wash and Tommy would wipe, then the following day we’d change around, did we understand? We nodded but tried not to look at Mrs. Swinson, for she’d now plonked herself on a chair and was slowly rolling a stocking down the full length of her veined leg.

That first night we lay in our beds and wondered what our new school would be like. Tommy was ten now, two years younger than me, and Mam had told us that in this town we’d both be going to the same school, as juniors and seniors weren’t split up. Mrs. Swinson had already taken us out and bought us our new school uniforms, but everything was too big on us. I didn’t say anything to Tommy, but it occurred to me that we might have to fight at this new school, and I worried that it might well be the type of school where there was no point in reporting anything to the prefects as they might be the ones doing most of the beating up. That’s how it was at my grammar school, and I reckoned that it was no doubt even rougher at John Wardle’s. On our estate it was always me who had to scrap and stick up for our Tommy, as kids obviously saw something that made them want to pick on him, but Tommy couldn’t fight to save his life. However, with me it was different, and although I was never going to be cock of the school or the estate, I also wasn’t ever going to back down. I knew I was clever, as I was already top of the class at the grammar school, and I did like to show off a bit, so hardly a day went by when I didn’t hear the words “Do you wanna make something of it?” coming out of my mouth. However, on Monday morning, I soon discovered that things at this new school seemed to be a bit easier.

After we’d got through the first couple of days, I started to keep an eye on Tommy, and we began to hang out together. We seemed to always get chosen on the same side for football, but these kids didn’t have a proper ball, only a dirty grey tennis ball. Everyone quickly worked out that our Tommy was the best player by a mile, but being a new boy, he inevitably took a bit of a kicking, and so even when we were supposed to be having fun, I still had to stand up for him and occasionally belt a few people. Back at Mrs. Swinson’s, we soon discovered that we were a disappointment to her and she was only interested in her three husky dogs and not much else. The drill was we were to come home, get changed, then come down for our tea and afterwards wash and wipe the dishes and pile them up neatly next to the draining board. Mrs. Swinson soon gave up asking us about our school or if we had any homework to do, and she just made it clear that after we’d finished our chores, we were allowed to go down to the basement and watch telly for one hour, and one hour only, and then we had to go to bed. She never came down there with us; she’d just sit upstairs and play with her dogs, particularly the young one, Simla, who she talked to more than the other two.

She once got mad when she caught us watching television when we should have been in bed, but it wasn’t our fault. The Beatles had just split up, and there was a programme about them, and at the end of it they played “Hey Jude” and it just kept going on and on and on. It was great because it looked like the song would never stop, but then Mrs. Swinson burst in and turned off the telly and started to shout. When you two reach the age of majority and live under your own roof, then, and only then, can you do as you please. We could hear the dogs barking at the top of the stairs, and that was frightening. She wanted to know just who the hell did we think we were, disobeying her? Did we want to feel the flat of her hand? She said one hour, and she meant one hour. Then she started talking about God, and she said that back in the old days they had built a ship and people said that even God couldn’t sink it, but he did and everyone drowned. Didn’t we believe her? Well? She suddenly moved towards us like she was going to slap us across our heads, and we both flinched back into the settee. Your mother’s a fast one, isn’t she, fobbing you off on me so she can carry on like a minx? Like it’s not manifest. And you, she pointed at me, you want to be careful looking at folks like that. One day somebody’s going to give you a good leathering, and it might well be me. I can be mother, father, and magistrate all rolled into one if needs be, so if it gives the two of you a thrill to disobey me, you’d better think again and modify your ideas. Do you know what I do with dumb, insolent tykes like you two? And then she threatened to put us down in the cellar with the rats and throw away the key, and our Tommy started to cry, and I watched her face change shape as she began to laugh. There was some spit at the edges of her mouth. I’ve got your flaming number. Both of you. After all, you don’t even know how to wipe around the toilet after you’ve used it, do you? But I’m not surprised. I mean, look at your mother’s coat. Red’s a common colour; everyone knows that. Frock, coat, or hat, it doesn’t matter: it’s common.

Later that night, in the quiet of our bedroom, Tommy whispered that he wanted to go home. He said he didn’t like being fostered. I agreed with him, but I reminded him that Mam wasn’t well and the doctor said she needed a break. She was having a hard time pleasing her boss at the library, and I had a feeling that if she lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to afford to look after us anymore. We just had to be patient. I said all of this, but inside I was angry at her. Although I enjoyed being a popular boy, the smallest thing would set me off. I don’t know where I got the idea from, but I used to imagine it was my fault that Dad had left us both. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong, but somehow I just got the sense that I was the problem, and this just made me even more frustrated. That night our Tommy wet the bed for the first time.

“In the Summertime”—Mungo Jerry

It was Terry Neat’s party, and his parents had completely abandoned the house to us. There were six of us boys and five girls, and to start with, I was a bit disappointed that there were more of us than them. His parents had put out bowls of crisps and peanuts and some bottles of pop and a sleeve of plastic cups. We had a choice: either Tizer or ginger beer. And, of course, we had use of their record player. Everybody’s favourite song was Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime,” and I remember it really well because it was the first time I’d ever been tempted to sing along. Not dance, of course. At twelve years old, dancing was out of the question. We just sat around and filled our faces and then made slightly muffled efforts to sing along to the chorus. At some point Mr. and Mrs. Neat came back, and it was clear that it was time for us to leave. The other kids’ parents started to turn up to fetch them. They came in and said hello to Mr. and Mrs. Neat, and thanked them before leaving with their son or daughter. Nobody came to pick me up.