Little Bear is my friend. I know how he feels, too. I think about going with them all. If we got to Scotland would I count as one of their family? Would I go to school, and grow up free to say what I think? But if we were caught on the way…
Then I think of my mum and dad, and the bright, golden green of my dad’s word, and I think, If I go to Scotland I might never find my parents.
I say to Little Bear, “I don’t think you’ll be caught.” Then I say, “I have to stay here. I have to find my mum and dad.”
Little Bear says, “But…” and I think he is going to say, there’s not much chance of that! But instead he says, “Yeah, I know.”
* * *
After dinner we have a big meeting. Everyone is there. We are sitting round the Old Man’s fire circle and people have brought things to share. Martha has made some cookies. Sputnik and Little Bear have made sweets out of honey and a sort of pastry. They are very sticky, and Sputnik says, “Well, what do you expect, with the wrong ingredients and the wrong temperature for cooking!” But everyone likes them, and they are gone in no time.
The grown-ups have been talking in pairs and around fire circles for two days, ever since Skye came back. Everyone has his or her own point of view. The children are either nervous, like Little Bear, or excited, like Dylan and Limpy, who are always up for adventure. I think that none of this has much to do with me because I am not going anywhere, whatever they decide.
The Old Man says, “We have two big decisions to make. Where shall we start?”
Half the adults say, “The journalist!” The other half say, “Going north!”
The Music Maker says, “If we agree to talk to the journalist we more or less have to agree to go north. Once there is an article written about us, we won’t be safe here anymore.”
Spanner-in-the-Works says, “Isn’t it the other way around? If we decide to go north then we’ll be free to talk to the journalist. If we want to stay here we can’t go talking to anyone.”
Walking Tall and Little Bear’s mum are holding hands. Walking Tall says, “I don’t know if this is relevant, but we’re going north anyhow. Soon. We need to give our kids a future.”
Everyone looks at Walking Tall. Little Bear, who is sitting with them, shuffles his bare feet in the leaves that have started to fall. He does not look across the circle to me.
Sputnik says, “Wow!”
Martha says, “Well, I would do the same in your place. In fact…”
Firefly’s mum says, “There isn’t really a future for our kids here.”
Scott, who has a girlfriend in the city, asks, “How big a risk is it, going north? I mean…”
Everyone looks at Skye. She says, “Well, of course it is a risk, but quite a lot of people have done it. There’s an escape route that is working quite well just now, and more sympathy for us in Scotland than there used to be.” Then she says, “In Kent and Buckinghamshire the number of kids in care has rocketed. We have to think about that, too.”
We all know what she means. If we stay here we are running big risks, so it is a question of balancing one risk against another.
Firefly’s mum says, “I’m for going north.”
Florence, Limpy’s mum, says, “Would Limpy’s bad leg be a problem? On the journey, I mean?”
Skye says reassuringly, “No, I don’t think so.”
The Old Man says, “It is beginning to sound as if people favour going north.”
All round the circle people say:
“Yes,”
“It looks like it.”
“Well, we want to go north.”
And, “Do we really have a choice?”
The Old Man asks, “Is there anyone who does not want to leave here?”
The Professor says, “Well, I’m way past going anywhere. I’ll stay here until the Grim Reaper comes to claim me!”
And I say, “I’ll stay here too. I need to find my mum and dad.”
The circle goes quiet. Skye holds my hand, and in the colours of all the talking we have done I think I see the bright green-gold of my dad.
* * *
After that there is a whole lot of serious discussion. People want Skye to tell them about the escape route which is working pretty well just now, but although she is very reassuring she does not actually answer anyone’s questions. It seems nearly everyone intends to go. Scott says he will talk his girlfriend into it, because although she is not feckless, and has a job, and lives in a house with her mum and dad, there is no future for them as a couple if they stay here. Martha wants to know if she can contact her sister, who got out of a labour camp a few months ago, and lives in a halfway house and picks watercress for a pittance. People ask questions about travelling together, and about papers, and about the cost of all this, and remember terrible stories they heard once about people smugglers.
Skye listens to it all, but she just says, to comfort everyone, “I don’t have anything to do with people smugglers. My contacts have better motives than that!”
It is only late in the evening, when children are asleep on the laps of parents, or lying on their tummies facing the fire, and poking it lazily with sticks, that the grown-ups talk about the journalist. Now that they have decided to go north, nobody cares too much about this Swedish writer. She will want to write about our camp, but the days of our camp are nearly over.
* * *
I am sure that Skye will want me to think again about my decision not to go north. I am half expecting her to say something when, after midnight, with all the city blacked out in the valley below us, we finally stop talking and go back to our shelters. But she just says, “Sweet dreams, Giorgio,” and ruffles my hair.
Next morning the Professor comes to our fireplace while I am still eating bread. Skye has cut the green bits off, and I am toasting it because then it tastes better. The Professor has her usual stick, and a second, long piece of wood I have not seen before, to keep her steady. She sits down without asking, and sighs.
“It’s all very well,” she says, to no one in particular, “living on the side of a hill in the summer, when the grass is dry, but my feet can’t keep their grip in all this damp autumn weather.”
I am bare-footed, but I have not noticed how heavy the dew is until now. Perhaps it even rained a little in the night. I go around without shoes so much that my feet do not notice things like wet grass or small stones. The Professor always wears shoes.
Skye says, “All the more reason for coming north with the rest of us.”
The Professor says, “No! No! If I had been going to do that, I would have done it years ago. I’ll just stay here and face whatever is coming my way.”
Then she says to me, “And are you going to stay and keep me company, young man?”
I look at Skye. I say, “Skye wants me to go north, and Little Bear wants me to travel with them…”
Skye says, “I haven’t said that, Giorgi.”
“No,” I say, “but I know.”
Skye is washing up mugs in a little dribble of water. She sits down again, next to me, and says, “I never, ever want to make you do something against your will, Giorgi, but have you really thought about this? How will you live if we are all gone? I will worry about you every day.”
I practise picking up a stick with my toes, so that I do not have to look at her. I do not want to make Skye worry every day, but I do not want to leave Winchester.
The Professor says, “She has a point, Giorgio.”
I try picking up sticks with my other foot. My left toes are not as clever as my right toes.
The Professor says to Skye, “Should I go? Leave you to talk to our Giorgio alone?”
Skye thinks for a moment, and says, “It makes no difference. Giorgi has a mind of his own. If he wants to stay…”
I say, “I really want to find my mum and dad!”
&
nbsp; Skye puts her hand on my arm and says sadly, “I know. I do know that. But you know, Giorgi, it’s already years since you came to live here. They could be anywhere.”
The Professor says, sounding suddenly bright, “Many years ago, when I lived over there…” she waves across the misty valley to the university buildings by the old prison, “there used to be a television programme. They would trace people’s long-lost families and put them back in touch again. It was a very popular series.” Then she says, sounding a little disgruntled for a moment, “Very emotional, I seem to remember.” Then her grumpiness goes again. “Perhaps they have programmes like that in Scotland, Giorgi. Perhaps they would be able to find your family.”
I look at the Professor. I see that she means well, but I do not think a Scottish television company will want to help me find my mum and dad. I look at Skye. She has wrinkled up her forehead, because she is thinking hard. She says, “Giorgi, if you’re really set on staying, maybe I can fix something up for you. You’re too young to be left on your own. And I’ll come back and check on you, whenever I can.”
“That’s the ticket!” says the Professor.
* * *
After maths, I say to Spanner-in-the-Works, “How can I look something up on the internet?”
Spanner-in-the-Works says, “The short answer to that, Giorgi my boy, is that you can’t!”
“But I really need to,” I say.
He stops what he is doing. They are all making bags or sacks for carrying their stuff north. Every bag has to be waterproof and small enough for the owner to carry all day. They can only take the minimum of stuff.
He says, “The thing is, Giorgi, our government does not much want people like us finding out things, or contacting each other privately. There was a time when it was easy, what with encryption and data roaming, but they’ve more or less put a stop to that now.”
I do not know what these things are, but I ask, “Can people who aren’t feckless look at the internet?”
“They can,” says Spanner-in-the-Works. “But the anti-terrorists are always spying on them, to see what they’re up to.”
I ask, “So, how would a boy who is not feckless look something up? If he was doing research for school?”
Spanner-in-the-Works thinks about this. “Schools all have droids,” he says, “and kids have them at home. And there are devices in libraries. But none of them are secret from the anti-terrorists.”
“Thank you,” I say, and wander back to our fireplace. I am trying to think whether the anti-terrorists would mind a boy looking up religious symbols. I think it seems like quite harmless research.
There is a library in the city. It is run by volunteers, and I saw a notice that said children under ten can use it for free.
I say to Big Bear, who is strumming the Music Maker’s guitar, “Do you think I’m under ten, Big Bear?”
He looks me up and down. “Yea,” he says, “you’re a little squirt of a kid!” He is teasing me, but I have got my answer.
* * *
The journalist wants to meet Skye in a coffee shop in the city. Skye thinks it is funny. “Does she really think,” she asks Walking Tall and Little Bear’s mum, “that I could sit and talk to her, about all this, in public, in a coffee shop in Winchester?”
Little Bear’s mum says, “So what did you say?”
“I suggested the nature reserve,” she says. “I know pretty much all the ways in and out of there, if need be, and it’s not such an odd thing, to suggest a walk by the river on a beautiful autumn day.”
“Well, good luck to you,” says Little Bear’s mum. Now that they know for sure that they are going, she is much happier and more relaxed, and she holds Walking Tall’s hand a lot, and smiles at me as if she has never shouted at me for listening to their row.
I say, “Skye, can I come? I’ve never met a journalist.”
Skye laughs. “Not this time,” she says, as if there might be lots of other opportunities in the future, journalists just queuing up in coffee shops and nature reserves all around the country wanting to talk to me.
So I decide to follow her. Everyone else is making preparations, and there is nobody to play with.
* * *
We used to camp in the nature reserve, years ago, when the police used to raid the Hill. It is a huge, flat area very close to the river, and it floods a lot, and foxes live there and swans nest besides the paths. It is called Winnall Moors. We used to go as far upriver as we could, beyond the part where walkers and joggers go. It was never as safe as the Hill. We were not allowed to play noisy games there. It was just a place to hide.
I do not follow Skye down the Hill. I know where she is going anyhow, and I think she is quite good at noticing if somebody is keeping an eye on her. I take the long, back path down to the road. Then I put my new socks and trainers on and comb my hair, and try to look as if I am not at all feckless, and I just walk along the road, past houses and cars and people walking dogs, until I get to the little bridge where the feeding station used to be. One of the ways into the nature reserve is there.
A man is standing by the wooden arch which is the entry. He is wearing a badge which says Volunteer. He does not look very happy, and I wonder why he volunteers to work there if he does not enjoy it. When he sees me, he says, “Hurry up! Hurry up! All the others are at the hide. Take the left path and then turn right. You can’t miss them!” Under his breath he says, “Making enough noise to wake the dead. Frightening away every living creature for miles!”
I do not know where Skye and the journalist plan to meet. There are benches all around this end of the nature reserve, and they could be anywhere. I plan to walk once round the edge, the way most people seem to go. Beyond the gate in the north end is the area where we used to hide, but it is wilder there and not so many people want to go that far.
I start to follow the path, and I see at once why the volunteer was so grumpy. There is a crowd of boys, whooping and yelling. A woman is in charge of them. She is saying, “Now then, boys!” and, “That’s enough, please!” and they are paying no attention at all.
Then I see the greenish-grey jacket that Skye wears, and a tall woman walking beside her, wearing smart boots almost up to her knees, and a swishy skirt. I hide in the reeds behind them and pretend I am an anti-terrorist spy and I am going to catch them in the act.
Skye and the journalist sit on a bench made of carved wood, looking across at the art school. The journalist has one of those devices you talk into, which the police use, and she also writes notes on a piece of paper. I think she has a hoody on under her coat, the way some people dress in the winter, and it is surprising at this time of the year. I can picture where Sweden is on the map in our atlas, and it is north of England, and colder I think. So why is the journalist dressed like that now? Every now and again, Skye points at something, and sometimes they both laugh. I am not close enough to hear what they are saying.
After a while I get bored. There was so much discussion about the risks of talking to a journalist, and how it could not be done in a coffee shop, and how it would have been the end of our camp if they had not decided already to go north, that somehow I thought it would be more dramatic than this. It is just two women sitting on a bench talking, one scruffy and one very smart, with her hood up.
I decide that I will go back to the Hill, but first I want to see if I can find any living creatures. I follow the path around the other way, away from Skye and the journalist, and look besides the track, where once Dylan and I found tiny, green frogs wanting to cross from one side to the other.
I do not see any; I think it must be the wrong time of year. So I am about to give up when I notice that Skye and the journalist have finished talking. Skye is walking slowly towards the exit, looking relaxed, like a person who is not feckless, going for a stroll. The journalist continues to sit on the bench. She is looking through her notes and s
witching the recording device on and off. I think she is checking to see that everything Skye said is safely stored. I decide that I will spy on her a little bit more, before I go back to the Hill.
There is no path behind the bench, just the reeds where I was hiding a few minutes ago, and some very boggy ground. It is a pity I am wearing good trainers and socks because I have made them really dirty with black mud, but the harm has already been done. I creep up behind the journalist. She does not seem to hear me, and I am very quiet. I pretend I am an anti-terrorist man about to capture someone who is a threat to civilisation as we know it, and I think I will creep right up behind her.
About ten feet away from her I think I have done enough. The woman is sitting very still, not looking at her droid or notes, staring at the art school. I suppose she is thinking. She does not look like a suspicious subversive. Just as I am deciding to creep away again she says, out of the blue, “Fancy some chocolate?”
I freeze. It feels as if she is talking to me, then I wonder if she has one of those hands-free devices people sometimes talk into as they walk around. I stand absolutely still, as if I am playing statues at the camp, and wait.
The journalist is still looking straight ahead. Then she speaks again. “You’ll get wet feet standing in the marshes like that. Much better to sit on this bench and have some chocolate.” She adds, as an afterthought, “It’s very good. Belgian. My kids love it.”
Now I know she is talking to me. I am amazed she even realises I am here. If I did not know that she was okay, a contact of Skye’s, I would be really scared, and perhaps I would run away. I do like chocolate, though.
I squelch out of the boggy land where the reeds are and approach the bench. The journalist is not at all what I expected. I see now that she does not have a hood up at all, she is wearing one of those head coverings you sometimes see in newspapers, and her skin is quite tanned, like Firefly’s.
The Song of the Lost Boy Page 11
