The Song of the Lost Boy

by Maggie Allder

  Vishna says, to a lady with orange hair, who is looking despairingly at the shelves in her shop where all the device casings she sells are wet and bedraggled, “You seem to have been hit hard.”

  The woman gives a sort of grunt, and says, “The second time in as many years. When I bought this place, they said floods would be a one-in-a-hundred-years event. Huh!”

  “Are you insured?” asks Vishna, sounding very grown up.

  “Thank God, yes!” says the orange-haired woman. “But it’s all the fuss of starting all over again. I thought this would be a nice little business to see me into my old age…”

  Vishna says, “Can we help?”

  The woman looks at us properly for the first time. “No, love,” she says, “but thank you. Were you badly hit?”

  “Hardly at all,” says Vishna. “We live on higher ground.”

  I want to giggle. I do not think this woman would be so nice to us if she knew which higher ground we lived on. But we do not stand out today. Lots of people look bedraggled, and we are both wearing shoes.

  It is the same story all up and down the High Street. It seems that two different catastrophes happened. One thing was that there was so much water in the river that it went over its banks and flooded houses and a pizza restaurant. The other thing was that such torrents of water poured down the High Street that it invaded shops and soaked everything that was close to the ground. There are piles of wet things beside the benches where people sit to make phone calls and to say to the person they have gone shopping with, “Where are you? I’m in the High Street opposite F&F,” or “Okay, I’ll see you at the car park in ten minutes.”

  A man is shouting at a police officer. “Where were the emergency services when we needed you?” he yells. “I’m ruined! Nobody came to help!”

  The police officer is staying calm. “We were evacuating houses by the river,” she says. “Human life comes before property, you know, sir.”

  The man is not impressed. His face is red and his forehead is sweating. “But I’m ruined!” he exclaims again. “Look in there!” and he points to his café. “Ruined!”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” says the officer. She does not look angry although the man is shouting at her, because he is not feckless. If one of us shouted at her we would be arrested for causing a disturbance.

  She says, “The mayor has requested assistance with the clearing up, if that is any help?” she says.

  The man stops shouting. “What sort of assistance?” he says in a voice that is doubtful but eager at the same time.

  “A labour crew,” says the officer. “From the South Stockbridge Labour Camp.”

  The man still looks interested, but he says, “They’ll steal everything they can get their filthy hands on!”

  The officer says, “They’ll be very well supervised.”

  The man says, “Well, I’m prepared to give them a try,” as if he is doing the people in the work crew a great favour, instead of the other way around. “What will it cost me?”

  “Oh, nothing,” says the officer. “You’ve already paid for their services through your taxes. Shall I put you on the list?” And she gets her little droid out and starts talking into it.

  When she is done she says, “Right. That’s sorted. Will eight in the morning be too early?”

  The man is still not happy. “I don’t want any murderers in the crew,” he says, “or sex offenders.”

  “No, no!” reassures the police officer. “These people are just work-shy. Taken off the streets to be re-educated. You’re doing society a favour if you give them some real work.”

  “Well, in that case…” says the man. “And if it won’t cost me anything…”

  “No, no! Not a cent!” says the officer, and off she goes to speak to a woman who is gazing in at the closed pharmacy and looking worried.

  I say to Vishna, “Do you think Dragon’s Child will be in the work crew?”

  Vishna holds my hand, not like a girlfriend, and not like Skye. Like a big sister, I think. “That’s what I was thinking,” she says.

  Vishna has some money in her skirt pocket. We go into a shop by the market where they sell milkshakes which you can drink in the café or take away. We sit at a table with a red and white checked tablecloth. I have never sat in this sort of place before and I feel quite grand. When the girl comes to take our order Vishna says, “Two chocolate milkshakes, please,” as if we have every right to be there, and the waitress says, “Right you are. Terrible storm last night, wasn’t it?”

  Vishna says, “Awful,” and we wait for our milkshakes and drink them slowly, looking out of the window at smart people and just-about-managing people, kids out of school because of the flooding, business people talking into their devices and women with babies in buggies. Then Vishna leaves her money on the table and we wander out, giving our waitress a wave as we go, and head back toward our Hill.

  And after all that, we are still home before all the other grown-ups.

  * * *

  The talk at dinner is all about the work crew. The grown-ups know Vishna and I went into the city because Vishna tells Skye at once, as soon as they all arrive home.

  Skye says, “Hi, kids, had a good afternoon?” and Vishna says, “I took Giorgio into the city.”

  “You did?” says Skye, and I cannot tell from her voice whether or not she minds.

  I am glad Vishna is telling the truth. I say, “We had a milkshake. One each. Sitting down.”

  Skye sort of laughs, and says, “Was it good?”

  “Uh-ha,” I say.

  Skye says to Vishna, “You bought it?”

  Vishna says, “I still have some money. Was that okay?”

  “Of course,” says Skye. “Good. The kids need to know how the world works, in case they ever join it again.”

  Vishna says, “Oh!” Then she smiles at Skye and says, “I didn’t think of that; I just wanted a milkshake!”

  Then they both laugh, little chuckles, and I wonder what is so funny about wanting a milkshake.

  Then Vishna says, “They’re bringing in a work crew tomorrow, to help clear up.”

  “Yes,” says Walking Tall, “I heard that too.”

  “From South Stockbridge,” she adds, as if that means something.

  Sputnik looks at Vishna very sharply and says, “South Stockbridge?”

  Walking Tall says, “She might not be there, Sputnik. They could have put her anywhere.”

  “And even if she’s there,” says Walking Tall, “it doesn’t mean she’ll be part of the work crew.”

  “Even so…” says Sputnik, and I know he wants to go back into the city the next day to see if he can find Dragon’s Child.

  Then they talk about work crews, and chain gangs in America, which is where the idea comes from, and paying them nineteen cents an hour, which is not enough to buy even one fag, and about work crews undercutting free workers, so we become bored, and Little Bear takes me to see the paddling pool which he and Dylan have dug. I am sure it will not work.

  * * *

  I want to go into the city again the next day, to see the work crew for myself, and to see if we can find Dragon’s Child and rescue her. Skye says to me, “You know, Giorgi, she may not want to be rescued,” which is an odd thing to say, and she says to Sputnik, “The world is a very frightening place if you’ve always lived in an institution.”

  Even so, Sputnik goes off down the Hill. He borrows a smarter jacket from Spanner-in-the-Works and wears shiny shoes, and he borrows the Professor’s briefcase, so that he looks like a just-about-managing man, not like a feckless individual. We all wish him luck, and then the Professor says, “Have these children stopped studying altogether?” and we know that we are back into our normal routine.

  I have several pages full of notes about different Georges, but the Professor had said, “Ask
Vishna about Giorgio Armani.” I think this is the ideal moment. Vishna is squatting at the Professor’s fire. They are looking at the books the Professor turfed out of her briefcase, in order to lend it to Sputnik.

  Vishna is asking, “And can you read Greek?” and the Professor is saying, “A little. I really need a Greek-English dictionary but I lost it, somewhere along the line.”

  Then they see me, and the Professor says, “Ah-ha, here comes our great researcher!”

  I say, “Good morning, Professor. Would it be convenient for Vishna to tell me about Giorgio Armani now?”

  “Ah!” says the Professor. “Very nicely asked. The days of good manners have not fled entirely!” To Vishna she says, “Go ahead, young lady. There stands the future of our nation.” And she takes her glasses off her nose so that they hang round her neck, and looks away across the valley, although I do not think she can see very much.

  Giorgio Armani is the first person I have been told about who is actually called Giorgio and not George. I am full of excitement in case this Giorgio turns out to be something special to do with my mum and dad. Vishna says, “I’ll tell you what I know,” and she tells me about him being Italian, and being a fashion designer, and earning a lot of money, and about how the best stores in London and New York stocked his designs. I write it down, but I feel a bit disappointed.

  “So was he a good man?” I ask.

  “He was a very gifted man,” says Vishna.

  I think about that a bit, and I ask, “But do you think a mum and a dad would call their boy after him, because he was gifted?”

  Vishna says, “Not unless they were really into handbags. And perfume!”

  I say, “I don’t think I want a mum and dad who are really into handbags and perfume.”

  Vishna says, “We don’t get any choice. My mum and dad are really into right-wing politics and military support groups.”

  Then she must notice that I am looking worried, and she says, “But I can’t believe your parents called you Giorgio after a handbag designer! I wouldn’t worry, if I were you!”

  * * *

  The Old Man is tending his herbs when I go to see him. He is talking to them, encouraging them to grow, and congratulating them on new leaves. I stand and watch him, and then I ask, “Do they understand you?”

  The Old Man stands up. “They don’t understand my words,” he says. “But they understand my care.”

  “That’s like babies,” I say, as we walk through the trees to his fire.

  He stops and looks at me, and I think he is surprised. He says slowly, “You are absolutely right.”

  He waves at me to sit down, and blows on his fire to make it flare up to boil water. “Mint, I think, today,” he says.

  Then he asks, “Talking of babies, how is Sputnik today?”

  I am surprised the Old Man asks me this. I always feel he knows everything already.

  “He cried the night Dragon’s Child left,” I say. “And Walking Tall took him round the Hill to let him get it out of his system, but he still cries.”

  The Old Man says nothing. I think of Sputnik, who walked around the city all day looking for Dragon’s Child in the work crews, and did not find her.

  “And how are you, now that Skye has gone?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, and it is true.

  “Living with the Bears,” he says, stating a fact and thinking about Big Bear and Little Bear.

  “Yes,” I agree. Then I add, “Little Bear is learning to cook.”

  “And Big Bear is learning to play the guitar,” says the Old Man. “What a gifted bunch you all are!” Then he says, “And how’s the research?”

  So we talk about all the Georges and the one Giorgio in my George Pearson notebook, and we drink the mint tea, and the Old Man stares into the smouldering fire. There are questions I would like to ask him, not about my research but about him, the Old Man himself. Then I think it would be cheeky, and before she left, the evening before the storm, when Skye said, ‘Goodnight,’ to me, as I was snuggled up next to Little Bear, she said, “And remember, Giorgi, treat the Old Man with respect!”

  So I ask no questions, and we sit quietly until I have finished my tea, and then I say, “Thank you, Old Man,” and I go back down the Hill.

  * * *

  Things have changed a bit since Skye last went away. I am still friends with Little Bear and Big Bear, but especially with Little Bear. Big Bear is having a growth spurt and suddenly seems much bigger than us, nearly as tall as Walking Tall, and he spends a lot of time playing Music Man’s guitar. He goes gleaning with the adults at night, too, and I saw him smoking a fag end with Spanner-in-the-Works. Little Bear is doing a lot of cooking with Sputnik, but he is also playing with Dylan. They have made up a rain dance so that it will pour and fill their paddling pool with water.

  I sometimes play with Little Bear and Dylan and they are always friendly, but I like to go across to Vishna’s fireplace, and if Vishna is at the Professor’s I wander down there. Vishna and the Professor talk about artists and writers and about the things Vishna was studying at the art school before she dropped out and became feckless. The Professor sits on her high log, and Vishna sits on the ground and wraps her skirt round her legs, and hugs her knees, and listens, and asks questions. I do not understand what they are talking about, but I love the words and I think about the colours, sparkling in the air as they talk, flashing backwards and forwards between them, painting the air with purples and blues, violets and pinks, and deep, dark black.

  Vishna looks at me during one of those conversations and says, “What are you thinking about, Giorgio?”

  And I say, “The colours.”

  She says, looking confused, “Which colours?”

  I do not usually talk about the colours of words. I used to think everyone saw them, but when Skye discovered what I was talking about, when I was still very little, she explained that words do not have colours for lots of people. This is something I cannot quite imagine, but I asked Little Bear once what he thought was the colour of the word bread, and he said, “It depends whether it is brown bread or white bread, and whether it has gone mouldy!”

  Then I knew that Little Bear does not see colours like me, because the word bread is a beige colour whatever the actual colour of the bread in real life.

  So I say, “In my head, words have colours. I like them.”

  Vishna looks at the Professor with a worried look on her face. She thinks there is something wrong with me. The Professor says, “Synaesthesia! Perfectly normal! Nothing to worry about!”

  Then to me she says, “Consider it a gift, young Giorgio. Treasure it.”

  * * *

  Vishna and the Professor do not ignore me. If Vishna is making tea, she always offers me a mug too. If they hear Walking Tall calling us to classes they say, at once, “Off you go, Giorgio!” They always know I am there.

  But they do not bother me. I have a knife which Spanner-in-the-Works gave me, and I am carving a small totem pole to help make it pour and fill up the paddling pool. I carve and listen, and watch the colours in my head. Sometimes I hear the Music Maker singing in the woods, and I notice that the trees are turning to brown and gold, and I feel that I am happy, even though Skye is not there. When Music Maker sings his But you’re not there song I try to send messages in the air to keep Skye safe.

  One day the Professor says, “How’s the research going, young man?”

  I have not done any for several days, since Skye left. I say, “Slowly.”

  She says, “Not at all, I think!”

  Then she says, “I always used to tell my students, you start off keen and then somewhere down the road you lose your enthusiasm. It happens to most people. That is when you have to start on the real graft. That’s where half my higher degree students failed.”

  Vishna says, “Where did you teach, Professor?�
��

  The Professor says, “Here.” Then she waves her hand across the valley to the other side, where the old prison is (not the new, private enterprise prison called Greenhill Reformatory), and she says, “At the university.”

  “Was it good?” asks Vishna.

  “For years it was wonderful,” says the Professor. “We were only a small university, by most standards, but we were going up in the world. I loved teaching. All those bright, young minds! And my colleagues – you could not ask for a more interesting bunch of people, although none of us were really first in our fields.”

  “Then what?” I ask, because obviously something went wrong, or the Professor would not be sitting on a tall log by a fireplace on the Hill, with us.

  The Professor sighs. “Well, Giorgio,” she says, “it’s the same old story. The university has connections with the church. The church has connections with the government. The government has connections with the Americans. And the Americans did not like what I was teaching.”

  She sighs, and says again, “No, they really did not like what I was teaching!”

  “So what happened?” asks Vishna.

  For a few minutes the Professor is quiet. Then, “To cut a long story short,” she says, “I heard on the grapevine that I was going to be called in for questioning. So I packed my bags and went to the nature reserve. We were raided, but I got away, and I ended up here.”

  I could not imagine the Professor fleeing into the nature reserve, hobbling with her stick and her briefcase filled with books. I say, “Wow!”

  The Professor chuckles and says, “Oh, I was younger then!”

  * * *

  After this the Professor says she wants to help me with my research. She says, “Aren’t you supposed to ask everyone in the camp? You haven’t asked me!”

  “Sorry, Professor,” I say, and I am, because I really like her and I do not think she is at all scary anymore, and I do not want her to feel left out. “Can you tell me about a George I don’t already have in my notebook?”