About the Author
Maggie Allder was born and brought up in Gamlingay in Cambridgeshire, the second daughter of a village police officer. She studied at King Alfred’s College, Winchester (now the University of Winchester), in Richmond, Virginia, and later at Reading university, and taught for 36 years in a comprehensive school. After exploring and appreciating more orthodox forms of Christianity, Maggie became a Quaker, and is happy and settled in the Quaker community in Winchester. She has previously written three novels which form a trilogy: ‘Courting Rendition, ‘Living with the Leopard’ and ‘A Vision Softly Creeping.’Maggie volunteers for a not-for-profit organisation, Human Writes, which aims to provide friendship to prisoners on death row in the USA.
the song of the lost boy
Maggie Allder
Copyright © 2018 Maggie Allder
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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To everyone in Winchester Quaker Meeting, who together have created such a welcoming and challenging community.
Contents
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Home
There is an Old Man who lives on top of the Hill. St Catherine’s Hill, they call it, although as far as I can tell, St Catherine has never done anything to lay claim to it. She does not send police or anti-terrorist people in riot gear, to defend her hill and to turf us off. Perhaps that is because she is a saint? When the People bring us food and water, the Old Man says that they must be saints. Saints do good to other people, but property is a crime, so how can Catherine be a saint and own a hill?
It seems to me as if the Hill belongs to the Old Man. Not belongs the way that cars belong to their drivers, so that if you break into them and drive away, or even just take a device from the dashboard, they can lock you up or put you in care (which is the same thing), but belongs like washing hanging on a line belongs to people. It is their clothes. When they are dry the people the clothes belong to will want to wear them again, and if you creep into their garden and take their clothes, for example, if you really like the colour or your own shorts have worn a hole in them, then what will the previous owners do? Wear their pyjamas to work? Or take clothes from someone else’s line? The problem would go on forever that way.
I think that the Hill belongs to the Old Man because if someone were to take it away from him, where would he go? We usually live up there, and we sometimes live in the nature reserve, and sometimes in the winter we go north to Basingstoke and hide in an old warehouse, but only if we really have to, if it snows or is frosty for a long time, or if the police are after us. But the Old Man is always there. Skye said he is like a rock, and calls him Peter, because she says Peter was a rock. I do not know this Peter, the rock, but I like the colour of his name. In my head Peter is a bluish-green colour, a little bit shiny. Catherine, the owner of the Hill, has a name which is softly grey and beige, and maybe a little pink, a gentle name, but not a name that goes with the Hill. The Hill is quite high (but, Skye says, not as high as the hills in Wales, which she would like me to see sometime). It has a copse of trees on the top, and circular earthworks made a long time ago, before I was born, even before the Old Man was born. There is a sort of maze too, cut into the turf. Turf is one of the few words that looks the same colour in my head as it is in real life, pale green with a sort of straw colour mixed in. Turf is a word with lots of meanings. The first meaning is territory, like when a beggar in the High Street told me to scram, because that was his turf. The second meaning is, Skye says, a verb. A verb is a doing word, and Sky has been trying to teach us about them because, she says, everyone should know a little grammar. When turf is a doing word it means you get thrown out. They turfed us out of the multi-storey car park once, and we were lucky they did not lock the lot of us up, they said, and throw away the key. But turf also means a patch of grass, with the roots all knotted up together underneath and sometimes some daisy roots in the mix, and if you cut it carefully you can make a fire on the bare earth underneath, and when you move on you can put the turf back and it will grow into place again, and after a little while it will be hard to tell you were ever there.
The Hill is green which, as I pointed out earlier, is not the colour of Catherine in my head, so I sometimes wonder whether Catherine took the Hill from someone else. Who knows? Skye says the world is full of things we do not know, and from my experience I would say that seems true. I am trying to learn, though. We are all learning, all the kids. I heard Skye say so, to the Old Man. “They learn something new every day,” she said, and the Old Man grunted, which means he is pleased.
I can count as high as anyone, but I cannot count the number of kids here, in our camp. For one thing, the numbers keep changing. People come and go, which is normal, and once a new baby came, with a lot of screaming and fuss. But there is another problem with trying to count the number of kids, and that is not knowing when a kid turns into an adult. Kid means baby goat and it does not have a strong colour in my head, but it also means a child who is not yet old enough to go to prison or into a labour camp. A kid goes into care, but Skye says they always end up in prison in the long run.
I am definitely still a kid. None of us knows how old I am because, somewhere along the line, I lost my mum and dad. I do not know how I did that, but I know I lost them, because I heard Skye tell some other adults one night, when we were sitting round the fire after drinking the hot soup the People brought (the people who are supposed to be saints), and I was almost asleep with my head on Skye’s lap and my feet towards the warm, crackling fire.
“Is he your grandchild?” one of the adults had asked. Nobody would think I was Skye’s son because she is an old lady with a long white plait down her back and a wrinkled face.
“No, he’s not mine,” said Skye, “although he feels like mine, sometimes. I just picked him up when he was scrounging outside a supermarket. It seems he has lost his parents.”
I lost my favourite toy once. It was a little droid, a solar-powered thing with a cracked screen that I found down by the river. Skye said that I couldn’t get the internet on it, but I do not really know about the internet so I did not mind. If I left it in the sun, though, and it powered up, I could play games on it. Then I t
ook it with me, in the pocket of my shorts, when we went to the High Street one Wednesday night, when all the shops put out the rubbish and we go gleaning, and when I got back, my toy had gone. I must have dropped it. I wanted to go back and find it, but it was beginning to get light, and they collect the rubbish early, and Skye said I might be caught and, although she did not say so, we both knew that they might put me in care. Skye said, “You’d better just accept it’s lost,” and gave me a hug. It was easy to lose that toy, but how could I have lost my parents, two fully grown adults?
I have a feeling in my tummy, or maybe it is in my head, that I will try to find my lost parents. I would like to have a mum and a dad, like some of the other kids have.
* * *
I like it best when Skye is in the camp, and I like it best when we are on the Hill, not in the nature reserve or in a warehouse, so the very best times for me are in the summer, on the Hill, sitting round a fire on a night when they are not going to go gleaning, and we talk and sing songs. The evenings usually go like this: during the day the camp is quite empty. Mums who have got young babies or really little kids stay near the shelters, but everyone else goes off to do whatever it is they do. Usually I play with the other boys. My friends are Dylan, Big Bear and Little Bear (who are brothers), Storm and Limpy; but any other boys who happen to be in the camp can play with us too. We do not play with the girls because girls play different games. They usually make a camp in the trees and pretend to be mothers, or fairies, which to be honest seems pretty boring. We play Police and Squatters. Half of us are police and we carry sticks which we pretend are tasers, and the other half are squatters. The squatters make a shelter and lie down to go to sleep. The police hide behind one of the earthworks, and then at a particular signal they rush over the top of the bank and shout and point at the squatters. Then there is a fight. In real life, the squatters would always lose, but in our games it is fifty-fifty and that is because the tasers are only sticks and the squatters can pick up sticks too.
Usually, before the sun is right overhead (if there is any sun) someone calls us together to give us lessons. We are Scum of the Earth (I read that in a piece of newspaper) and so we are not allowed to go to real schools, but we do not care. We like our lessons, which anyone from the camp can give us, as long as the Old Man approves of what they plan to teach. We can learn myths and legends, but not religion, because religion is the cause of so much trouble. We learn letters and words, and now Skye is teaching us the basics of grammar, and we learn how numbers work. Numbers are a sort of magic. We learn about places and things that have happened long ago, before we were born. One summer when I was still really small a man taught us how to make pottery out of clay, but my pot collapsed in the fire so I have nothing to show for that, and the man went away and did not come back.
When the shadows get long everyone starts coming back up the Hill. Some go and talk to the Old Man about whatever has happened that day, others find their partners or their children and have drinks together, and people light, or stoke up, their fires ready for cooking. If she is there I always eat at Skye’s fire, and usually there are quite a lot of other people sitting round too, because Skye is funny and kind. Sometimes she goes away. She used to want me to go with her but I want to stay here, on the Hill, because I think Winchester is the place where I lost my mum and dad, and I always have it in my mind that I might find them again. If Skye is away I usually hang around with Big Bear and Little Bear. They have a mum, and their mum has a bloke, who is not their dad, called Walking Tall. Walking Tall is actually a short man, the same height as their mum, but Big Bear told me that he walks tall, which means he does not give in to other people, and has self-respect, and that is a good thing. I think maybe the Old Man gave him the name Walking Tall when he first came to us. Big Bear said his mum was very sad in those days, but she is happy now. Walking Tall used to carry me round on his shoulders when I was small but he says I am a big fella now and he is not strong enough. Last time Skye went away, Walking Tall built a bit extra onto their shelter, which is the one nearest to the trees, with the grassy roof. He said it was getting to be a tight squeeze now that we are all growing into such likely lads. It is fun in their shelter but I like Skye’s better, and best of all I would like to live in a shelter with my own mum and dad.
* * *
I was very little when Skye found me, but not so little that I could not talk. Skye says I kept asking for my mummy, but there was nobody around in the supermarket car park who seemed to be a likely candidate, and the police were systematically searching the undergrowth where people sometimes hide. Skye told me that she went back every day for a week trying to find someone to claim me, but without success. It was the Old Man who told her that the best thing to do was to keep me with her. “I couldn’t take you to Social Services myself,” she explained, “I was a wanted person, and anyhow they would have put you in care. I couldn’t live with myself…”
Care is the scariest thing for us kids at the camp. We tell each other endless stories about the things that go on in care, but sometimes I think that most of what we say is made up. Still, we can feel the adults’ anxiety, and we know to stay well away from anyone in a uniform, or those sorts of people in the city who wrinkle up their noses and look indignant when they see us. Care is a creamy-white word so you would think that being in care would be a good thing, but it is the stuff of nightmares. That is what Skye says.
It seems the only useful thing I could tell Skye when she found me was my name, and even then it was incomplete. People who are not feckless, as we are, have at least two names: a given name and a family name. Their friends call them by their given name but the government and the police call them by both names, like the politician Joseph Lloyd, who wanted to build houses for the homeless and who has escaped to Scotland now. Skye says I probably had two names too, most people do to begin with, but all I could tell her when she found me was that I was called Giorgio.
When I was quite a lot smaller I did not like my name. When I started to play with the other boys they would call out to me, making the name sound long and silly: “Gi-or-gi-o!” they would shout, and I would stamp my foot and say, “Not Gi-or-gi-o!”
So one day I asked Skye if I could change my name, like Walking Tall had done. Skye laughed. “What would you like to be called?” she asked.
I thought about it, and about the person I wanted to be, and I thought about Walking Tall’s name, so I said, “Running Fast!”
She laughed and tickled me a little behind my knees, the way I liked her to. Then she said, “But your name is special, Giorgi. Every name is special. Names are given for a reason, and we don’t know why your parents called you Giorgio, but it must have mattered to them.” I suppose she read the doubt on my face. “Maybe it was the name of your dad, or your grandpa, or someone really important to your mum and dad. Your name is a thing they gave you, and you shouldn’t throw it away.”
We were sitting on the old earthworks while we had this conversation, halfway round to the piss-pit, looking down the Hill to the river and the wide, green meadows before you get to the city. I think I said, “But Walking Tall threw his old name away!”
“Ah,” said Skye. “Yes. Well, it’s rather different. He didn’t throw his name away, he left it behind.”
I thought about that while a couple of birds swooped low overhead and some tiny, blue butterflies settled on flowers close to my hand. “So, could Walking Tall go back and collect his name again, sometime, if he wanted to?”
Skye wrinkled up her nose. “He could,” she said. “But I don’t think he will. I hope he won’t.”
* * *
I do not remember anything about the time Skye found me, and I am not sure that the memories I have of before those days are proper memories, or dreams, or things I just made up. I think I remember someone rocking me and singing to me. I remember snatches of songs. Or did I hear them somewhere else, at this camp, maybe? One son
g said, Bed is too small for my tired head, and another asked, How can I keep from singing? We know lots of songs, on the Hill. We sing them round the fire in the evenings and mums and dads sing to help their little ones go to sleep. We boys have some songs with very rude words in them, about the police, and there is a man, called Music Maker, who has a guitar and sings lonely songs on his own, sitting up among the trees on top of the Hill. I think that Music Maker has lost someone he loves, as I have done, because so many of his songs are about someone who is no longer with him. One song is about all the things he can remember about the one he has lost, and then there is a haunting chorus, but you’re not there, and another is about red lights in the night, as a girl drives away. Not all of Music Maker’s songs are sad, though, or at least not in the lost sort of way. Sad is a golden-yellow word and it has two different meanings. Sometimes, like when Music Maker sings about the girlfriend who is not there, sad means that you feel like crying. But when Music Maker sings the song that says, I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder, your works throughout the universe displayed, then sad means something serious and still, something which is not so lost that you can never find it again. I once asked Music Maker if he would teach us the mighty thunder song, to sing round the fire, but he just smiled his odd smile (Music Maker does not have many teeth) and said, “No religion here, young Giorgio!”
I think that perhaps religion is allowed in the trees, but I do not really know what religion is, only that it causes lots of trouble. I cannot quite see how the mighty thunder song could cause trouble, but I am still quite young and learning something every day, so perhaps that is one of the things I will learn soon.
The Song of the Lost Boy Page 1
