Little Exiles

by Robert Dinsdale

  ‘I wish you was coming too,’ says Jon.

  The sun is climbing. Today he was meant to be back in the dairy. Probably McAllister is there already.

  ‘Breaking into prison,’ says Peter. ‘Now, there’s an idea.’

  They pass the watering hole and follow another dirt track down, through scrub as tall as the wagon. There are gates here, at the end of a long drive, with the same old inscription that Jon first saw in Leeds. We fight for the orphaned, the lost and the lonely …

  They do not stop here, but cut a circle around the back of the Mission. Over a plain of tiny bulbous bushes, a row of eucalyptus trees mark the beginning of what must be the shadow wood.

  Cormac kills the engine and climbs out. At the back of the ute, he reaches out with big hands and lifts Jon aloft. Plopping him down, he puts a rough hand to his face and whispers, ‘You’ll be all right, lad. I can tell. You’re a fighter. Same as I used to be.’ When he hears Peter vaulting out of the ute, he turns. ‘Pete, stick here, mate. I don’t want you …’

  ‘Come on, Cormac, if Jon’s going in, I got to …’

  Cormac’s eyes fall. ‘It’s Jon knows the way back. It’s Jon who’s got to go. You don’t have to set foot in that place.’

  Between them, Jon Heather freezes, trying to work out on what battleground the argument is being fought.

  ‘I know how it goes, Cormac.’ When Peter next speaks, he seems to be parroting an old saying Jon does not know. ‘You’ll set foot in the Children’s Crusade when there’s snow on the Nullarbor Plain … but I can’t hardly let Jon go on hisself. Just take a look at him!’ He turns to Jon. ‘Come on, let’s find out how much bother you’re in …’ Then, after he has taken a few steps, he throws a look back at the dwindling figure that is Cormac Tate. ‘I’m coming back, Cormac. I just want to … see.’

  Jon and Peter trudge off through the scrub. As they go, Peter keeps asking questions — but Jon barely answers a single one. It is about George that Peter keeps asking. He hasn’t once asked how things are for Jon.

  ‘What was wrong with Cormac?’

  ‘It’s your little play school through these trees. He …’ Peter doesn’t know how to say it. In truth, he hardly knows. ‘He’s got stuff he doesn’t like,’ is all he can muster.

  They reach the edge of the shadow wood and push within. It is new territory for Peter, and he keeps stopping to marvel at the alien trees, the creatures that dart hither and thither. Before they have got even halfway, it is Jon urging Peter to hurry. The higher the sun climbs, the more certain he is he’s already been found out.

  At last, they drop through the last of the trees and can see, over the untilled fields, the dairy buildings beyond. The little ones are nowhere to be seen, and neither is Tommy Crowe.

  ‘We keep goats in there,’ Jon says, pointing for Peter. ‘For milking and … eating.’

  ‘Is that why you got blood on your shirt?’

  Jon stops.

  ‘I noticed it just now, but thought you was just being grubby.’

  Peter pushes forward, careful not to break the final line of trees. ‘I had no idea this is what the old men in black were up to when we were back at the Home.’ He stops, cocks a look at Jon. Something, it seems, does not feel right. ‘Hey, Jon — where is everybody?’

  Jon does not know. He comes to Peter’s side, still obscured by a low eucalyptus. It is not midday yet; he is almost certain of it. Now he’s in Australia, he doesn’t need a clock on the wall to tell the time. The little ones should be all over this stretch of the compound. He should hear the hue and cry of boys further inside the Mission, in the woodworking shacks or the sheds where the ploughs are wintered.

  Peter pulls Jon back into the cover of the trees.

  ‘They’re onto you, aren’t they?’

  Jon shakes him off. If they’re onto him, it’s his problem; Peter can go back to running free with Cormac Tate. Jon isn’t like George. Jon can handle it himself.

  ‘Jon Heather, what are you doing?’

  Jon scurries down the bank, almost losing his footing as he cartwheels onto the untilled earth. ‘Get out of here, Peter. You don’t have to worry about me.’

  ‘Jon!’ Peter cries. He pushes onto the top of the bank himself, but something stops him from dropping down. ‘Jon, stop!’

  Jon stops dead in the middle of the field, looks back.

  ‘What do you even want, Peter?’ he demands. ‘You brought me back, didn’t you? You got rid of me!’

  ‘Stop being such a baby! It’s …’ He stops, lowers his voice to such a whisper that, from the field, Jon can barely hear. ‘It’s just that — well, I know where you are now, don’t I?’

  The words untwist the horrible knots in Jon’s tummy.

  ‘And, Jon … they ship us around, all us boys they farmed out. But — I’ve kept that atlas, and …’ He hesitates. The words don’t sound right. ‘I’ll be coming back this way when winter’s out.’

  ‘This winter?’ Jon asks, squinting at the sun almost directly overhead.

  ‘The English winter,’ Peter grins back. ‘Christmas, Jon. Make sure you’ve got me a present!’

  With that, Peter is gone.

  Jon hurries over the field and creeps up on the dairy house with his back pressed carefully to the wall. It is certainly not Tommy Crowe inside, for he can see the figure moving back and forth in the window: definitely old McAllister.

  He only has one chance, then. He’ll lie. Tell McAllister he’s been running errands for Judah Reed — or, better still, one of the lesser men in black, the ones not deserving of names. Even if McAllister suspects, he won’t dare question one of them. He’s as cowardly as the little ones in that regard.

  Jon takes a deep breath and leaps into the open doorway. McAllister is bent over one of the stalls, cooing at the goats, but when Jon lands, he turns suddenly around, his beak craning forward like a storybook stepfather. He seems puzzled by Jon’s appearance, but this is not as it should be. He should be raging, demanding to know why the muck hasn’t been shovelled from his precious goats.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in the assembly hall, boy?’

  Jon darts looks into the corners of the dairy. Some of the goats have been milked this morning — but others are standing there with teats red and swollen.

  ‘Answer me when you’re spoken to!’ McAllister barks. ‘Why aren’t you up there with the others?’

  In three quick strides, McAllister falls upon Jon, hoisting him up by his collar and heaving him around. Half-dangling and half-scurrying to keep up with McAllister, he leaves the dairy with the old man and follows the track into the centre of the compound.

  The assembly hall sits between the sandstone buildings, a great wooden construction that the first boys of the Children’s Crusade had to build themselves. McAllister kicks the door with the flat of his foot, hoists Jon across the threshold and propels him forward. Jon lands on the floorboards, bloodies his face against the heavy grain.

  ‘A straggler,’ McAllister rasps. ‘Didn’t want him missing out.’

  Jon gets up, kneading at watery eyes, and sees that the assembly hall is full. Tables have been shifted and stacked along its side, and chairs lined up to face the front, where a big ledge of earth acts as a stage. There must be every boy from the Children’s Crusade in here.

  Judah Reed is on the earthen stage. Jon’s own cottage mother is at his side, along with another of the men in black.

  Again, Jon is harried forward, until he is almost at the stage itself. From on high, the cottage mother looks imperiously down. This must be it, thinks Jon. Somebody has spied him sneaking back into the Mission. This is his welcoming party.

  He decides he will not scream. He will not beg them to stop.

  ‘Put him with the rest,’ says Judah Reed.

  A man in black has a hand on each of Jon’s shoulders, and shepherds him to the very bottom of the stage. At last, Jon sees faces he knows from his dormitory. They are all lined up, in chairs facing the assembled b
oys. Jon looks out, tries to see why they are here. He catches sight of Tommy Crowe, sitting slumped in the crowd with his eyes downcast.

  There is a seat at the end of the row, and Jon is forced down into it.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jon whispers.

  Before the boy beside him can reply, a cane catches Jon on the side of the head.

  Judah Reed stands, parades the edge of the stage. When he is satisfied, he nods. The cottage mother drifts off, out of sight for only a second — and when she returns, she is pushing a boy before her. He is rigid, his feet hardly moving, but still he finds himself propelled forward.

  It is George.

  Up there, his eyes are closed, but Jon wills them to open. He wants him to know. He came back. He’s found Peter. They can be together again.

  Judah Reed is making a speech, but Jon can hardly focus. George stands at the foot of the stage, and as the cottage mother delivers an order, all the boys of the dormitory stand up. Judah Reed counts down and, in turn, each of the boys leaves the column and approaches George. He is shaking now — but at last his eyes are open. Jon rises on his tip-toes, tries to see down the line, but the cottage mother bawls at him to get down.

  There is a yelp, and the line moves forward. Another, and it shuffles forward again. By the time Jon has advanced halfway, he knows what each of those cries are. George must have suffered a dozen blows by now, but not one of them has been at the hands of Judah Reed; they have come from his brothers in the dormitory.

  Some of them are pulling their punches — but Jon can tell by the pitch of George’s cries which boys are doing exactly as they have been told, and thumping with all of their strength. He starts counting: one, two, three, four …

  At last, he comes near the head of the column. George’s face is streaked in tears, but he is crying out no longer. He is only whispering, the same apology over and again. Jon is not sure what he is apologizing for; perhaps simply for being George.

  The boy in front of him throws a blow that catches George on the shoulder. It is a soft blow, thrown with the flat of the hand.

  Jon steps forward. George peers at him. Whether he can see through his red, swollen eyes, Jon can only guess.

  ‘I came back,’ Jon whispers.

  Judah Reed barks out, and Jon can say nothing more. George hangs his head, shaking swiftly from side to side.

  Jon steps forward. His fist is clenched, but he keeps it loose. He has never hit a boy before, never brawled in a park or playground. He brings it back, desperately trying to think which part would hurt George the least. He still has puppy fat, even after all these weeks — perhaps if he feigns a punch to the stomach, George will understand.

  He brings his fist back, just the same as he has seen the other boys do. He lunges forward.

  He stops.

  Judah Reed’s eyes are on him — but that doesn’t matter now; it’s Jon’s eyes that are on Judah Reed. It’s Judah Reed who should be afraid. He lets the silence stretch. Then, just as the man in black is about to speak, he cuts him off. It isn’t his turn to speak yet. Even if he is Jon’s mother and Jon’s father all rolled together, it just isn’t his right.

  He remembers George’s words: it’s my fingers; it’s my hands.

  ‘I won’t,’ Jon says. He says it softly — but then he says it again, bold as he can. He is shaking, and he holds himself so that he might stop. ‘I’m not going to.’

  George looks up. Even if he can’t see through those bleary eyes, certainly he can hear.

  ‘You can’t make me,’ says Jon.

  Judah Reed turns on his heel, purpling with rage. He whispers something in the cottage mother’s ear and she nods, sagely. Marching along the line of boys who have already struck George, she harries them until they turn on the spot.

  A new column has been formed. Jon feels Judah Reed’s hands on his shoulders, angling him so that the watching boys might see. His body is tight, but then it is suddenly loose; his arms and his feet tingle, and, absurdly, he is acutely aware of how much he needs the toilet.

  ‘Back of the line,’ says Judah Reed, crouching low and putting a consoling hand on George’s shoulder. More than anything else, it is the softness of that touch that stiffens Jon again. He will not be afraid.

  George shuffles to the end of the line. Even before he has reached it, the hazing has started all over again. The first boy pulls his punch, catching Jon softly on the shoulder — but the second has no such inhibitions. Jon doubles over, and before he has drawn himself upright the next boy has already approached.

  When it comes to George’s turn, he lets fly with both fists. Jon hardly feels it, but they rain at his chest, over and over again, until Judah Reed himself has to lift the fat little boy away.

  Later, in the dormitory, the boys are silent. The tell-tale does not come in until late, his belly filled with whatever treats Judah Reed and the cottage mother have concocted for him.

  George has no mattress tonight; he must sleep on the wire frame until his mattress is properly dry. He’ll have to beat it with sticks in the morning, to give it air and get rid of the smell. Jon has promised to help him, but George isn’t allowed any help.

  Jon kicks the sheets off his own mattress and makes space for George to sit. Reluctant at first, he burrows down, bringing the sheet to his chin, desperate to cover every inch of him up. They sit in silence for the longest time.

  George’s voice breaks. ‘You left me all alone,’ he finally says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  Jon tells him everything, not missing out a single detail. George sits, rapt, listening as if it is one of the stories Jon used to spin. Every time Jon mentions Peter, his eyes widen fractionally. It is enough to know that Peter is out there, running free. He’ll shake off the Children’s Crusade in no time. And, one day, Peter will come back for them. George is certain.

  Jon could stop there — but something compels him to go on. It isn’t enough to tell George about the plains and the ranch and the black man in the wagon. The story isn’t complete until he confesses.

  ‘I didn’t want to come back, Georgie. I would’ve gone bush, just like that old Cormac said, if only they’d let me.’

  George’s face crumples, he opens his mouth to bawl out — but he is choked of all breath. Jon shuffles over, puts an arm around him — and, suddenly, George’s arms are around him, hugging tight, the fat little boy dangling from his neck and refusing to let go.

  ‘Don’t run away, Jon,’ he sobs. ‘Please don’t run away.’

  The boys in the neighbouring beds avert their eyes. One of them sniggers.

  ‘I promise, George.’

  George hardly lets go all night. He has to return to his wire bed for the cottage mother’s inspection, but after lights out Jon feels him crawling into the sheets alongside him. He shuffles over and makes space; there’s not quite room for two, but there’s room enough. Yet, as far as he shuffles, George shuffles further still. At last they sleep, each wrapped around the other, George still holding on with arms, legs, fingers and toes.

  Jon wakes in the dead of night, strangely chill. He is sodden. He rolls George over, shakes him softly until he too wakes.

  It takes George a moment to come round. When realization dawns, he gulps down a cry. Jon pushes a finger to his mouth and whispers for him to be quiet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean …’

  Jon eases himself quietly out of bed. The boys around them are all sleeping. There is still some luck in the world, he thinks.

  Over his shoulder, the dormitory door is closed. He helps George down from the bed and, with furtive glances to make sure nobody is watching, strips off the sheets.

  ‘Come on, Georgie boy,’ he whispers. ‘We’ve still got two hours before dawn …’

  VIII

  They keep it up for a while. Jon barters with the tell-tales in the dorm, buying their silence by promising to write letters back home on their behalf. Jon is a good letter-writ
er and some of them, who can hardly hold a pencil, are changed when he helps them, as if the thing making them rotten has simply fluttered away. He makes friends with a girl from the laundry too, and she proves herself invaluable in hiding evidence. She is called Laura, from a foster family in Stockport, and she and Jon spend secret hours devising more and more elaborate plans to hide George’s shame.

  For a while, it works — but, for all their best efforts, by the end of the winter, George is living in the bedwetters’ dorm. Jon goes to see him every night and every morning. He finds time to play games. There’s one they’ve made up together, where they throw stones in the air and catch them on the backs of their hands, and Jon lets George win. He lets him win so often that any other boy might suspect foul play — but George just thrills, every time.

  He wets the bed almost every night now, but so do the boys he bunks with, so it’s never remarked upon. He smells funny to Jon, but that must only be the horrible, foetid dorm. The men in black make them wash their mouths out with soap. Jon thinks it a silly waste — the boys in his dorm don’t even have soap with which to bathe.

  In the middle month of summer, in the year of 1951, Jon Heather turns eleven years old. He remembers the date vividly, but this year there will be no celebrations. Lots of the other boys, Tommy Crowe tells him, don’t have a birthday at all. Most of them only know the month by the turning of the seasons and, if they came here as little ones, they don’t even know the date of their birthday at all.

  When he finds out that George can’t remember his birthday, Jon says they can share the same one. They get up early that day, and play an extra special game of stones at the back of the dairy shed. George wins, but Jon gives him a good challenge. Some of the little ones see what’s going on and gravitate towards them. George says it is the best birthday party he’s ever had.

  That same month, Christmas comes to the Children’s Crusade. The boys assemble in the main hall and there is a bird to share, something that tastes a little like turkey but the bigger boys call ‘scrub fowl’. Jon does not sit at the same table as George, but they catch each other’s eyes across the crowd. George has a present for him, a toy train he has whittled from a scrap in the woodworking shed; Jon, too, has one for George, a jar filled with honey the boys of his dorm have stolen from a wild nest in the shadow wood.