The Song of the Lost Boy
Page 4
* * *
At dinner this evening we are all talking about our research. Some of us know exactly what we want to do. I want to find out about the name Giorgio, of course, and George, which is the English form, and Firefly wants to research Jamaica, which will include using the atlas, but also talking to other people. At first Little Bear wants to research the name Justin, because his mum told him that his real dad was called Justin, and Little Bear knows I am researching a name which might have been my dad’s real name. But Little Bear’s mum says, “You don’t want to do that, Little Bear. He was nothing but a waster. A bully and a waster. Research something else.”
That has put Little Bear into a muddle because he does not know what else to research. Then Walking Tall says, “Why don’t you do research about food?” and Little Bear looks happy, because food is a really good subject. Big Bear wants to research songs and music, after the Music Maker’s lesson about California yesterday, and I am almost envious of him, because perhaps that could have been my second choice. If I researched music I might find out about Bed is too small for my tired head and How can I keep from singing? Then Skye says that in a month we will all do presentations, which is when each one of us will tell the others what they have discovered, so if Big Bear does find out a clue to help me, I should learn about it then.
We are all quite excited, but a bit disappointed when they tell us we still have to do maths and English as well. Never mind, I especially like numbers, which are a sort of magic.
* * *
I suppose I knew really that they would not be able to get us those coloured notebooks. It is the following morning and we have had an English lesson about adverbs, which describe verbs, like he walked hurriedly or she spoke grumpily. Both these things are true today because it is still raining and we have to rush from one shelter to another to stop ourselves getting too wet, and the people doing the cooking are grumpy because the smoke from our fires does not go straight up in the air on days like this. It sort of hangs around, and gets in your eyes, and makes you cough.
And here comes Spanner-in-the-Works, walking up the Hill with his hood up and a bin liner full of stuff over one shoulder. He waves cheerfully to us and shouts, “Join me in the big shelter!”
We all go over to the bikers’ shelter and Spanner-in-the-Works puts his bin bag on the ground.
Everyone gathers round. Spanner-in-the-Works puts his hoody, dry side up, on the ground and starts to take things out of the bin bag and put them in neat piles on the hoody. There are lots of things, but none of them are brightly coloured, and my heart sinks. Sometimes I really wish my parents had not been feckless, and I could have colourful notebooks and a box with a sliding lid to keep my pens in. Even so, there is quite a selection of useful items.
On one pile Spanner-in-the-Works puts writing pads. These have large sheets of paper in them which tear out easily. There is a smaller pile of notepads with curly wire round the top. He has two big folders you can open and put paper into, or take it out, and three green plastic envelopes with studs on them, for keeping things safely inside and not dropping paper in the mud by mistake. He has two orange boxes which are full of pens. Skye says, “Spanner?” in a sort of doubtful tone, as if she is not quite happy about those pens, but Spanner-in-the-Works winks at me and says, “They were past their sell-by date.”
Then he reaches into his bin bag again, and he has a small pile of proper school notebooks. They are not brightly coloured, they are maroon and bottle-green, like a fir tree in the autumn. Spanner-in-the-Works says, “These aren’t new, but they’ve got lots of clean pages in them.”
We all lean over the pile of notebooks. They each have a crest on the front, and the words, St Mark’s Primary School. Then, underneath, The home of excellence. I open the top one. Someone has been writing on the first and the second page, and the rest is blank. It is nearly new. I don’t like the dark green, but I like the cleanness of the rest of the notebook, and I think it will do nicely for my research.
Then Dylan says, sounding really excited, “Hey, Giorgio, this one has your name on it!”
He passes me a maroon notebook. It is not my name on the cover, but it is the English version of my first name, and somebody else’s family name. George Pearson, it says, and then the letters ‘VIP’ which have been crossed out in red. Inside, George has been making lists of words. I think they might be for spelling tests. The words are easy and I wonder if George Pearson is younger than me. I give the green notebook to Dylan in exchange for George Pearson’s maroon notebook.
Skye says, “Where…?” and does not finish her sentence.
“Most of the stuff comes from that office supply shop,” Spanner-in-the-Works says, sitting back on his heels in a sort of squatting position. “The one near the top of town. It was piled up outside the back door, in boxes. I had to go through quite a lot of stuff because the top things were all soggy from this blessed rain.”
“They weren’t throwing out the pens,” suggests Skye, who is looking a bit unhappy.
Walking Tall says, “They’re really cheap, Skye, those sorts of pens. I wouldn’t worry.”
“The notebooks,” Spanner-in-the-Works goes on, “are another matter altogether. I came back past St Mark’s and thought I would just check their bins, and what a find! Kids,” he says, looking at us, “you have these notebooks at the taxpayers’ expense! As is your due!”
I do not know what he means, but I do not mind.
Skye says to me, “Do you want to tear out the first few pages, Giorgi? Then you will have a perfectly clean book to start your research.”
But I say, “No, thanks.” I like to think that a boy with a name nearly like mine has started the book, and I will go on with it. “I like this notebook just as it is.”
“Altogether,” says Walking Tall, “a pretty good bit of gleaning. Thanks, mate.”
“You’re welcome,” says Spanner-in-the-Works. “I’ll just pop up and talk to the Old Man.”
* * *
The Professor says we should do our work in an orderly way. Walking Tall says, “They’re just kids, Professor!”
But she insists. She talks to each one of us about how we are going to conduct our research, and she wants each kid to have one adult they report back to as they go along. “It’s how these things are done,” says the Professor, and although Walking Tall has a grumpy look on his face he does not argue. Dylan is going to report to the Professor about his weather research, and Little Bear is going to report to Dragon’s Child. Dragon’s Child is not very happy about this at first. She says, “I haven’t had no education!” but Skye says, “No, but Little Bear is researching food, and you’re the best cook in the camp!” Baby Girl gurgles as if she agrees, but I do not know how she would know. She just drinks milk.
I expect that Skye will be my research adult but she says, “I might need to go away again, quite soon.” I suppose I look disappointed, so she says, “Who would you like to report to? If it could be absolutely anyone in the camp?”
I think about this. I like the Music Maker a lot but he is the one Big Bear will report to, and anyhow, does he know much about names? I like Walking Tall too, but I do not think of him or Spanner-in-the-Works, as people who know lots of things. I know who I would really like.
“Can the Old Man be my adult?” I ask.
Everyone looks surprised. They say things like,
“Well…”
“But…”
“The thing is…”
And “If it were not for…”
And none of them finishes their sentence.
Then Skye says, “We could always ask him.”
All the others look at each other, the way grown-ups do when they are giving a matter serious consideration.
Then Walking Tall says, “Why not?”
And Skye says, “I’ll go and see him now,” and heads off up the Hill.
I wait in the shelter Skye and I share until she comes back out of the trees, looking happy. I go to meet her. She is smiling. “He says yes,” she tells me, and gives me a hug.
* * *
Before I can go to see the Old Man again I have to have a plan. The Professor makes us all write our plans on the first clean page of our notebooks. We have to have a goal and a methodology. A methodology is a way of doing things. It is a maroon word, almost exactly the same colour as my notebook, and I think that this is a good sign. I write:
Goal: To find out as much as I can about famous people with the name Giorgio or George.
Methodology: I will talk to everyone in the camp (except Baby Girl) and ask them to tell me about anyone with those names that they know about.
I show this to the Professor and she says, “It’s good as far as it goes. Why aren’t you going to ask Baby Girl?”
I think she is nuts. “Baby Girl is just a baby!” I point out. “She cannot talk and she doesn’t know anything!”
“Right,” says the Professor. “You know that, and I know that, but a stranger reading your research would not know that. Always write your research as if a stranger were going to read it!”
I think this is a bit silly, but the Professor is quite particular about the way things are done, and she is giving us all a lot of help on this project, more help than I think she has ever done before. So I say, “Okay,” and I add after Baby Girl the words because she is not old enough to talk yet.
* * *
When I go up the Hill to show the Old Man I think he is waiting for me. The billy can is already bubbling over the fire and there is a different sort of tea, not mint, this time. He looks very seriously at my goal and my methodology, and he smiles, I think because of the bit about Baby Girl not being old enough to tell me anything yet.
Then he says, “Have you thought about where to start?”
I say, “With the grown-ups, whoever is not too busy.”
“Sensible,” he says, and goes on drinking his tea. Then he adds, “There might be one or two people you don’t feel like asking. Perhaps you don’t feel close to them, or you think they won’t know anything. Don’t fall into that trap, Giorgio; you’ll be surprised at what some people know.”
We both drink our tea for a bit more, then he says, “I hope you’ll be surprised, anyhow.”
So I say, “Thank you, Old Man,” and pick up my notebook and go back down the Hill.
* * *
The Music Maker is coming up the Hill, in the opposite direction. He is carrying his guitar and humming to himself. When he sees me he says, “Finished with the Old Man for now?”
“For now,” I agree. Then I see my opportunity. “Please can I ask you some questions, Music Maker?”
He looks a bit doubtful. He says, “I need to fix my spirit first.” Then perhaps he sees me looking disappointed, and he says, “Give me half an hour. I’ll see you by my fire.”
I cannot tell when half an hour has passed because I have not noticed the cathedral clock strike, but I say, “Okay,” and I go down to Skye’s shelter.
“Are you really going away soon?” I ask her. She is looking carefully at her walking boots, to see if there are any holes or weak bits.
“I’m afraid so,” says Skye. “Sorry, mate.” Then she says, “You’re all right with Walking Tall, aren’t you?”
And I think about it, and I say, “Yes, I’m good with Walking Tall and I’m even better with the Old Man.”
Then Skye laughs and looks relieved, and gives me a hug.
“Where are you going?” I ask her, although I know she will not tell me.
“There and back, to see how far it is!” she says, and we both grin.
* * *
I sit by the fire, which has been damped right down for the day. It is not raining, but the sky is grey and I need my jacket, which is a bit small for me but quite snugly. It used to belong to Big Bear. I can hear the Music Man in the woods at the top of the hill, fixing his spirit. He is singing songs which are not too sad. He sings the mighty thunder song more than once, then he is very quiet, and then he sings another song. I can only partly hear the words. Oh come, oh come, Emmanuelle… I think that Emmanuelle must be the woman he has lost, and I think that she will never hear him, singing for her to come back, if he sings quietly like that in the woods. I think he ought to go down into the city and busk on the pavements, and sing there, and perhaps Emmanuelle will hear him, or her friend might hear him, and go to Emmanuelle and say, “Music Maker is singing for you to come back.”
When he comes down the Hill, Music Maker looks quite happy, like his normal self. He comes straight over to Skye’s fire, and he says, “Right, Giorgi, fire away!”
At first I do not know what to ask him. I say, “I am researching my name. Giorgio, or George.”
“Right,” says Music Maker.
Then I think, The Professor told us to ask specific questions. A specific question is a question that the person cannot answer in a woolly way. I say, “Can you tell me about the most famous George you know about?”
“Ah,” says the Music Man. “Indeed I can.”
Then he tells me about a man called George Harrison. George Harrison was part of a singing group. They wrote and sang lots of songs, together, then they split up and all went their separate ways. “George Harrison was the quiet one,” says Music Maker. “Quiet and spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” I ask, because that is a golden and silver word but I do not know what it means. If I look at the word sideways it has flecks of shiny red in it too.
“His spirit came alive,” says the Music Maker, “when he went to India.”
I am a bit lost. “Was his spirit dead before he went to India?” I am a bit concerned. I am not sure what a person’s spirit is, exactly, but I do not like to think that anyone could go around with something dead inside them.
Music Maker smiles at me. “No, not dead,” he reassures me, “just asleep. Nobody’s spirit is dead, whatever they might say.”
I think about this. “How did he know his spirit had woken up?” I ask.
The Music Maker thinks and drums his hand on the wooden part of his guitar. “I hope I’m not teaching you religion…” he says.
Inside our shelter Skye says, “You’re all right, Music Maker,” and I realise she has been listening all along.
“I think he felt it,” says Music Maker, smiling towards the shelter and answering my question. “And then he wrote a song to say how he was waking up.” Then the Music Maker plays on his guitar and sings, only very quietly, about his sweet lord, and about wanting to serve him, and I wonder who this lord was, and why anyone who is free, and who lives in a shelter, would want to serve another person, even a lord.
Skye crawls out of the shelter and stands up. She is smiling at Music Maker and I think her eyes look a little watery.
I feel a sort of gentleness inside me. “Was that George a good man?” I ask.
“He tried to be good,” says Music Maker. “And that’s all we can hope for, in this life.”
I think about that. “Do you think my parents might have called me Giorgio after that George?” I asked.
“If they did,” says the Music Maker, not exactly answering my question, “then you are the carrier of a noble name and you should try to live up to it. And it would mean that your parents had taste and discernment.”
I do not know about taste and discernment but I can tell that they are good things, and I feel proud. I think probably my parents did call me after that George, and I think that my research is going really well.
Then Skye says, “Can you sing ‘The Tax Man’ to Giorgi? I think it will amuse him.”
So Music Maker strums his guitar and starts to sing, and I see Little Bear up th
e Hill by their fire, and I call, “Little Bear, Little Bear, come and listen!”
Then Little Bear runs down the Hill to our fire and listens to Music Maker, and Music Maker sings a really funny song about a tax man taking lots of money from people. It is funny because the tax man is cheating people, but it is also funny to think of a man, a real, living man, collecting taxes, when I expect that it is all done by a droid in real life. If a proper man did it, as in the song, I think that he would have no friends.
“Yeah!” says Little Bear and we insist that Music Maker teaches us all the words until we can sing it from beginning to end, and everyone is laughing, and other people gather round the fire and some join in. Then Big Bear comes and says, “I’m supposed to be doing research about music!”
And the Professor says, “This does not sound like serious study to me!”
Then the group breaks up, and Music Maker takes Big Bear off for a lesson, because he is going to teach him how to play the guitar, and Little Bear wanders over to Dragon’s Child’s fire to learn about cooking, and I start a new page in my George Pearson notebook, and put the title George Harrison and write down all the things Music Maker has told me.
* * *
The next day I think I will talk to Sputnik. Sputnik often goes out in the daytime, gleaning or looking for work off the books. This means that the people who pay him for doing the work will not write it down in a book, or on their devices, or anywhere at all, so that the police and the anti-terrorists will not be able to track Sputnik down. Today, though, he is at home by his fire, holding Baby Girl and talking seriously to Dragon’s Child.
Dragon’s Child looks upset. She is saying to Sputnik, “But I don’t know how to look after babies!”
And Sputnik says, “But shouldn’t it come naturally? Doesn’t everyone know how to look after a baby?”
Then Dragon’s Child says, “Well, I don’t! I’m useless! You look after her,” and she goes away, round the Hill, and Sputnik is holding Baby Girl, and Baby Girl is crying.