Breathing in her first taste of freedom in ages, Winny left the tent and floated toward the happy voices in the field. She slipped off her boots and stretched her feet, savouring the feel of soft grass beneath them as she scouted the pasture. Where was Mary? Since Winny hadn’t seen her with the adults, she figured she’d be with the children, so she headed that way.
At the bottom of the hill, a group of older boys was playing some sort of game. They stood in a semicircle while one of the boys threw a ball to another, who tried to hit it with a stick. She was impressed when he did, then even more when another lad farther afield caught the ball. He chased the hitter around until everyone cheered and yelled, including Winny.
A younger group of children stood a ways over, holding hands in two facing rows. “Red Rover, Red Rover, we call Ronny Renfrew over!” one line chorused.
The other line gathered in a group around one boy, talking about something, then they all stood back and watched him run across the field toward the other team.
“Faster! Go faster!”
“Don’t let him through!”
“You’ll never make it, Ronny!”
But Ronny did make it, bursting through the line with a cry of victory, his arms over his head.
Winny had never seen games like these. In England, people played dice in doorways and alleys, but nothing like this. As she watched them play, she felt an unexpected pang of longing. She’d never done that. She’d never run in the grass with friends, laughing.
“Where are you, Mary?” Winny asked out loud, impatient to find her.
In another corner of the field, a couple of toddlers staggered through the grass, toppling over then struggling to their feet again. Bundled nearby, in baskets repacked as cradles, slept two little infants. An older girl with long black hair stood in the midst of the little ones, her back to Winny. There was something about the set of her shoulders, the slight tilt of her head… Winny took a step forward, holding her breath. If it wasn’t Mary, she’d be crushed, but—
The girl turned toward her, and the world dropped beneath Winny’s feet. “Mary!” she cried, already running.
Mary glanced up, and her mouth formed Winny’s name. Then she was racing as well, her face collapsing as she began to cry. The girls came together like two halves of a magnet, and Winny held on for all she was worth. She could feel the bumps of Mary’s spine against her palms, hear Mary’s sobs in her ear. Winny let her knees go, and they dropped onto the grass, a weeping tumble of long-lost sisters.
When they could breathe again, they laid on their sides and faced each other. Winny was deliriously happy to see Mary again, but what she saw troubled her—the sharp jut of her collarbone, the dark rings beneath her dear friend’s eyes, and—
“Your face,” she said softly, reaching for Mary’s cheek.
Mary covered the bruise with a trembling hand before Winny could touch it. “It’s nothing.”
“Are these nothing?” Winny’s fingers skimmed Mary’s neck, dotted by bruises in a pattern that looked a lot like fingertips.
“Bruises don’t matter, Winny.”
“Who put them there?”
Her smile quivered. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course I won’t, if you say so.”
“It’s Master Renfrew. He… he comes after me something bad.”
David’s warning and the memory of Master Renfrew’s thick arm wrapped tight around the woman’s waist flashed in Winny’s mind. Apprehension coiled in her belly like a snake. Was this more than beatings? “What’s happened?”
Mary sat up and glanced at the toddlers, now rolling contentedly in the grass. “I want to hear about you. Is everything all right where you live?”
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Mary, you know you can trust me.”
“I can’t talk about it!” she cried, and she covered her face with her hands. “I can’t even let myself think about it. Please don’t ask me.” She dropped her hands and reached for Winny’s. “Every night I dream of you and Jack and Edward and Cecil, and I wonder how you all are, and now that you’re here… Oh, Winny, I kept thinking that if you was livin’ like me—” She pressed her lips together, keeping the words trapped inside.
“Have you contacted Barnardo’s?”
She let go of Winny’s hands and sagged in defeat. “How am I supposed to do that when I can’t leave this farm? All I do is milk cows and tend to other people’s children.”
“I will. I’ll make sure Barnardo’s knows about you.”
Mary’s nostrils flared. “Do you know how powerful the name Herbert Renfrew is around here? He owns everyone. He’s gonna be mayor or something. No one is going to do anything against him. Especially not for some Home Girl.”
“Let me help you,” Winny whispered. “Mary—”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
The finality in Mary’s voice told Winny everything she needed to know, and her entire being ached for her friend. She had to get Mary out of this place, away from Master Renfrew. Mary had always been the strong one, standing up to bullies and protecting Winny, but something had changed in Mary that Winny couldn’t put into words. Other than the bruises she still looked like herself, but it was as if Mary was hollow, as if the fight had gone from her.
“Have you seen Jack?” Mary finally asked.
Winny shook her head. “Have you?”
“No.” Mary set her jaw. “But he will survive. He always has.”
“So will you. Do you remember the letter you put in my pocket?”
She nodded.
“You told me in that letter that I was stronger than I thought. The truth is, so are you. You’re just as strong as Jack is, and smarter.”
Mary’s lips lifted slightly at the corners. “Don’t tell him you think I’m smarter than he is.”
“Well, you are.”
The brief light she’d seen in Mary’s eyes faded. “He said he would find us, so he will. He’s never lied to me. And when he comes for us, we can all run away together, all right?”
Winny squeezed her hand again. “I wish we could go now.”
“Me too,” Mary replied. “Now, tell me about you, Winny. Give me something else to think about.”
So she did. She told her about the Adams farm, about making yarn, and about David. “He’s even more alone than I am,” she said. “He has no one.”
They reminisced about the streets of London and the comforts of Barkingside, with its classes and choir. Winny did all she could to bring back the happy times, because when she did that, when she spoke of the boys, she saw Mary relax a little, even smile.
The sun was beginning to set, the shadows of maple and birch reaching their long fingers down the hill. The children playing in the background were making their way up, toward the smells of food. Winny shivered as dusk stole the day’s warmth. When she heard Mistress Adams call from across the field, she stood slowly then held out a hand to help Mary to her feet.
“Will you come do the washing with me?” Winny asked.
“I’m not allowed up there. I live here.” Mary gestured toward a small shed mostly concealed in the trees. “I have to stay here.”
“But… but I have to go.”
“I know.” Mary looked at the ground between them. “Will you come see me again? Please?”
“I will.” She had no idea how she would manage it, but she had to for both their sakes. “I will come back soon. I promise.”
She threw her arms around Mary and held her tight, as if she could keep all the pieces of her dear friend in place. “Be strong,” she whispered. “I will be back.”
But when she pulled away, the Mary she remembered was already gone.
Winny climbed the hill alone, passing by a pile of red and yellow leaves stirred into a clattering dance by the wind. She turned away, shivering at the sight. The autumn wind was cold and the fallen leaves were dead, and all she could think of was her last glimpse of Mary’s eyes.
thirt
een JACK
The sound of Warren’s truck rumbled up the drive, and Jack turned from the replacement board he was hammering onto the barn and watched the vehicle approach from across the snow-covered field. He would never forget what it had been like to be tied to the back of that truck as it sped along the bumpy roads, returning to the farm. The burn of the dirt and gravel grinding into his skin every time he fell would never leave him. Every time he’d gone down, Warren had stopped the truck just long enough for him to get to his feet before he’d hit the gas once more.
None of the boys had said a word when he’d returned from town, defeated, but they’d tended his cuts and bruises and brought him supper. The next day, they all got back to work, including Jack. But every nail he hit, every fence post he drove into the ground was Warren. In the months following that day, Jack’s physical wounds healed, though they left scars, but something else had changed. The hurt inside him had spread and thickened, like sap in winter, and when his anger flared, it rushed in without warning.
“Who’s that?” Cecil asked as two girls, clad in layers of skirts and fur-collared coats, emerged from the truck with Warren. Jack thought they looked about his age, but they obviously weren’t Home Girls: they were too well dressed.
“It’s girls,” Quinn said softly.
Except for during Jack’s recent trip to town, it had been months since any of them had seen a woman other than Mistress Warren.
“His daughters?” Jack guessed. None of them had considered the possibility that Warren might have children, but who else could they be?
They watched the girls follow Warren inside the house, then Cecil picked up his hammer. “They sure are pretty.”
“Funny how something so nice can come from something so ugly,” Edward said, and Quinn barked out a laugh, surprising them all.
They turned back to work, anxious to be done and out of the cold. They were almost finished with the barn wall when they heard the unexpected sound of giggling coming from behind them. The girls were strolling toward the barn, their hands warm inside fur muffs and their cheeks pink from exposure. They stopped at the fence, just a stone’s throw away from the boys.
Cecil paused in his work.
“Ain’t worth the beating,” Jack muttered to him.
“Hello, Home Boys,” one of the girls called, her voice like honey. She was the taller one, with long black hair neatly arranged over one shoulder.
“Hello,” Cecil replied. “Who are you?”
“We’re your mistresses,” the other one said, and they both laughed with delight.
“What’s that mean?” he asked.
“Our father’s your master, boy. That makes us your mistresses.”
They might look sweet, but the tone of their voices and the haughty expressions on their faces told Jack everything he needed to know. “Cecil, get back to work,” he said quietly, nudging him with a board. “Help me with this one.”
“What’s going on out here?” Warren yelled, storming toward them. Jack and the others quickly turned back to the barn. “These boys causing trouble?”
“We’re only having fun, Daddy,” the tall girl said sweetly. “Saying hello is all.”
“You stay away from these conniving bastards, Stella,” he told her. “Can’t trust them an inch.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. We know how to look after ourselves, don’t we, Agnes?”
“Of course we do.” She rolled her eyes, then sighed. “I wish we were back in Toronto. I’m bored already.”
Warren banged his stick on the fence post to get the boys’ attention, then he locked eyes with Jack. “If any of you touch my daughters, I’ll kill you with my own hands, you understand?”
Jack had no doubt that he meant it.
“Yes, sir,” they replied.
“Come on, girls. Your mother’s got supper ready.”
They left, but once Warren’s back was turned, Agnes glanced behind and gave Cecil a coquettish wave. Jack caught Edward’s eye.
“They’re bad news, Cecil,” Edward said. “You gotta stay away.”
Cecil shrugged and picked up another board. “Yeah, yeah. I’m not stupid.”
* * *
A few nights later, a vicious snowstorm blew in, and the blizzard consumed the farm all day and night. But that evening, the boys were sheltered and safe inside the newly repaired barn, and that was just fine with Jack. On nights like this, they would all prefer to sleep with the cows rather than shiver in the bunkhouse. They were in the midst of milking, the warm steam of the milk like a balm to Jack’s chilled skin, when the barn door creaked open. They spun toward the sound, braced for Warren. At the other end of the barn, always near Quinn, Cat spooked and leapt silently into the rafters.
But it wasn’t Warren. It was his daughters. The boys hadn’t seen them since that first day, and Jack had hoped they were gone.
“Evening, boys,” Stella purred. The girls’ smiles shone in the light of their lanterns. “My sister and I thought tonight would be a perfect night to get better acquainted with you.”
“Evening, ladies.” Cecil’s voice was confident, but Jack could hear the strain within. This was dangerous territory, and they all knew it.
“Isn’t that nice. A Home Boy with manners,” drawled Agnes. “Do you have names?”
“Other than Home Boys.” Her sister giggled.
“That’s Edward, Jack, and Quinn. And I’m Cecil.”
As he spoke, the girls’ keen eyes examined each boy in turn.
“You talk funny,” Agnes noted.
Stella wandered toward Jack, her head tilted coyly. “They’re from England, silly. That’s the way they talk. They aren’t like us. They’re poor and stupid and dirty. Nobody wants them, so we bought them.”
At least we’re not hateful like you, Jack wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Why are you here?”
“We’re home for Christmas.” She scanned the barn. “Toronto is so much more fun than this place. There’s nothing to do here.”
“Although, things are more interesting now,” Agnes noted, skimming her gloved fingertips across Cecil’s chest. Jack could see sweat shine on his forehead despite the cold. “Maybe we can have some fun.”
“I don’t think your father would like that,” Jack said.
“Oh poo. He’ll never know.”
“You should go,” Edward said.
“That’s rude,” Agnes snapped. “It’s our farm, not yours. You’re just the help. Bunch of dirty gutter rats who got nothing to say for themselves. You work for my daddy, which means you’re ours.” She took a step toward Cecil. “We can do whatever we want to you.”
She kissed two of her fingers then touched them to Cecil’s cheek. He turned his face away, but she took his hands and placed them on her waist. “Just like that, see? Not so bad.”
“Not so bad,” Cecil murmured.
“And not so boring.”
“Cecil…,” Edward said, but his brother didn’t move away from Agnes.
Stella smiled at Jack and came closer, but all he could see in her eyes was her father’s malice. He held up his hands and took a step back. “Your father would beat me to death.”
“Looks like Cecil isn’t scared,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I guess he’s just a whole lot braver than you.”
Jack snorted with disgust as Cecil leaned in to kiss Agnes. “Or stupider.”
Stella lifted her chin and walked deeper into the barn. “I can choose from any of you. How about you?” she asked, strolling towards Quinn.
“Leave him alone,” Edward said.
“Why should I?”
“Hey, Stella, leave him alone,” Jack repeated, following her. He could see the frightened look on Quinn’s face in the glow of the lantern. The boy was a full head taller than she was, and strong enough to physically throw her out of the way, but he had no idea how to escape. “He don’t understand what you’re up to. Come on. I’m sorry about what I said. You and I can—”
“
No,” Stella said, a smile in her voice. “I want this big fellow.”
She put her palm on Quinn’s chest, and he made a small sound of alarm. Jack rushed in and grabbed her arm before she could go any further, and he pulled her away. Quinn retreated behind one of the cows and hid there. At the commotion, Cecil broke apart from Agnes, looking sheepish and concerned.
“Let go of me,” Stella cried, shaking out of Jack’s grasp. “He’s his own man. Just because you’re too chicken, that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy himself.”
“He doesn’t want you,” Jack said.
“Why, I never!”
“You’re putting us all in danger. You have to leave. Now.”
“What do you think?” Agnes slid back toward Cecil, but he moved away from her and toward Edward.
“Sorry,” he said, “but Jack’s right. A bit of fun ain’t worth your father’s belt buckle.”
Agnes seethed. “Oh, Jack’s right, is he? You think you can tell us what to do?”
“I guess we just did,” Jack replied, nerves racing.
“We’ll see about that.” Stella gave Jack a withering glare as she pushed past him. “Let’s go, Agnes.”
A gust of snow blew in as the door opened, and then the girls were gone. Quinn crept out from his hiding place, eyes wide.
Jack let out a long breath. “That was bad.”
Edward shoved his brother’s chest, knocking him backwards. “What were you thinking, you fool?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t.” Cecil looked away. “You all right, Quinn?”
Quinn nodded, but he was pale.
“Sure he is,” Jack said, reaching toward the hayloft. He wrapped his hands around Cat’s slender chest and laid her in Quinn’s hands. “Just a couple of girls, aye? Nothing to fuss over. Let’s finish up here and go. We’ll forget it happened.”
But inside he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. There was no way the girls were going to let this thing go.
The next morning Warren stormed toward them from the house with Stella and Agnes trailing behind, making a show of tears.
“It’s my fault,” Cecil said quietly. “I’ll take the belt.”
The Forgotten Home Child Page 11
