A Different Boy

by Paul Jennings

But there was nowhere to go. His empty stomach rumbled. He had no money. No friends. He would probably end up returning to Wolfdog Hall just to get something to eat. Or he would have to steal food. The officer’s words rang in his ears. Now he understood them.

  ‘Most likely you’ll end up a C.’

  Anton was standing on the side of a grassy slope. In the distance, the grey sea was visible over the bombed-out rooftops. Smoke curled slowly up from the distant mountains where the fighting had been so fierce.

  The clouds were grey and unfriendly and bore the threat of rain. He shivered inside his jumper.

  A loud, deep horn sounded across the town. He could see the funnel of the ship etched against the sky. Maybe it was still tied to the pier.

  He began walking down the hill.

  Two

  The ship was a towering fortress. That’s the way Anton thought about it. He had never even seen a building as big as the ocean liner that loomed over the pier. But he knew what it was and where it was going.

  He stared enviously at the people lining up in front of the wide gangplank.

  How he wished that he was one of the chosen ones. Heading off on a voyage to a land of peace and plenty. Leaving the land of broken buildings and crushed hopes behind. Looking forward to sunshine and steaks. To adventures in the forests and mountains. A place to grow and prosper.

  Parents were herding their happy children onto the gangplank and on to the waiting deck above. A band played a tune to the huge crowd lining the pier. A sad, sweet melody of longing and hope. Teary relatives waved as they farewelled the lucky emigrants.

  A blanket of sadness swept over Anton. Even if he had a place on the ship, there would be no one to remember him. There would be no tears or goodbyes. If he sailed away to the New Land, not one person would miss him. No one at Wolfdog Hall even knew his first name.

  He stood there transfixed as the line of impatient travellers began to dwindle. Eventually, only a few stragglers were left waiting for the two uniformed officers to check their boarding passes. How Anton wished he was holding one of those magic pieces of paper.

  A thin woman dressed from head to foot in black was one of those left to board. An impatient official was waiting for her to find something in the bottom of a bulging bag. A tall boy of about fourteen or fifteen was standing behind her.

  The boy grinned at Anton with an overgenerous smile and pulled his coloured beanie down over his ears.

  ‘Don’t go near the edge, Max,’ the woman said without looking up.

  The boy didn’t seem to hear his mother. She called out over her shoulder.

  ‘Stay there, Max.’

  ‘Stay there, Max,’ the grinning boy mumbled back. He wasn’t really listening. He was staring at Anton.

  One of the ship’s crew was already loosening the gangplank ropes. He paid no attention to the boy or Anton.

  There was something odd about this boy’s face. It seemed unusually smooth. It reminded Anton of a porcelain doll’s head, without a blemish or a wrinkle.

  The boy’s jumper was covered in ribbons, badges and labels – awards for everything from dog shows to athletic events. There were also buttons with pictures proclaiming dozens of causes. Anton smiled. The boy looked like a human noticeboard.

  His smile faded when he saw that the boy was also wearing a black armband. It reminded Anton of the one he had been wearing himself only a few weeks ago.

  Almost hidden among the clutter on the boy’s chest were two brass medals, which Anton knew were awarded to brave soldiers who had died in battle.

  The boy was grinning and nodding and pointing at Anton, who smiled in return.

  ‘I’m Anton,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Anton,’ said the boy.

  ‘No, you’re Max,’ said Anton.

  ‘You’re Max,’ said Max. He tapped Anton’s chest with one finger.

  ‘Ah, that’s what you want,’ said Anton. He unclipped the small safety pin and handed over his label. He smiled back as the boy clumsily pinned it on himself.

  The boy began pointing to his own chest. ‘Read, read, read,’ he yelled excitedly.

  ‘O Muller,’ said Anton.

  Anton looked at the boy’s face for a response. But there was none. He suddenly realised the reason for the boy’s porcelain appearance. He had no eyelashes. Or eyebrows. Anton guessed that under the beanie he had no hair either.

  One of the sailors looked up. He was anxious to go.

  ‘Are you two together?’ he asked.

  ‘Two together,’ said Max.

  The sailor nodded and turned back to his rope.

  Max held out a hand and started to laugh crazily.

  ‘Shake, shake, shake,’ he yelled.

  Anton took Max’s hand and the boy pumped it up and down. They grinned at each other.

  Max took a step towards the gangplank and, still hanging tightly on to Anton’s hand, pulled him along behind.

  Anton felt himself being led up the gangplank. He followed like a small child. He could not believe that he was allowing this to happen. He was boarding the ship. Without a pass. His feet seemed to belong to someone else. They were taking him up towards the deck.

  For a moment, he looked back across the streets, still littered with rubble from the war. It was dreary and dangerous. A land full of orphans and queues for food. And places with pools full of piss. It was a dangerous land. But it was all he knew. Bad as it was – it was home.

  He looked up the gangplank. The boat beckoned. It might lead him to rugged mountain ranges and jewel seas. But what about droughts and flooding rains?

  He was possessed by an overwhelming sense that something huge was happening. That if he took another step, nothing would ever be the same again. He hesitated.

  And took another step.

  He followed Max up onto the deck where the boy’s mother was waiting. She wore a sad expression but seemed pleased to see them arrive hand in hand.

  ‘You’ve found a friend, Max,’ she said. ‘That’s lovely …’ She shouted something else but it was drowned out by a mournful growl from the ship’s funnel.

  The railings were lined with waving people. Pleased that they had reached the top of the long waiting list and held tickets to better place. Unhappy that their loved ones were not able to follow. Those sailing and those staying all knew the same thing. The ship held six hundred people. It was the last voyage and the people left behind would stay behind.

  The deck was crowded and there was much jostling as the emigrants sought one last glimpse of their loved ones. Ropes were released. The gangplank withdrawn. A deep-throated whoop, whoop filled the air. Tugs pushed and churned.

  The band played on as an ever-widening river of sea emerged between the dock and the ship. It seemed to Anton that the people on the pier below were receding into the past like sad memories. The tugs departed and the ship’s propellers began to thrash and bite into the water. Finally, the farewelling crowd faded altogether and the pier became nothing but a thin line floating on the edge of the bay.

  The passengers began to desert the railings and go searching for their cabins. The excitement seemed to have drained into the grey sea as the emigrants accepted that they had left home forever – loss made their good fortune hard to enjoy.

  ‘New friend, new friend, new friend,’ laughed Max.

  His mother threw a questioning smile at Anton. ‘Where are your parents?’ she asked as she took Max’s hand.

  Anton tried to stop the fear showing itself on his face. He scrabbled unsuccessfully to find an answer. He stared at the numbers on the cabin doors behind her but they were of no use. He pointed at a row of doors further along the deck. She looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you lucky.

  A deck-cabin.’ She started to walk away but Max pulled back.

  ‘Want friend, want friend, want friend,’ he yelled.

  ‘It’s all right dear,’ said Max’s mother. ‘He can visit whenever he likes.’ Then she added, ‘If his parents agree.’

&nbs
p; ‘Parents agree,’ said Max.

  ‘We are in C 32,’ she told Anton. ‘In steerage.’

  Anton smiled at Max. ‘I’ll see you later, Max,’ he said.

  ‘Later, Max,’ the boy replied with a pout. Then he shouted, ‘Don’t go, don’t go. Like boy. Like boy.’

  Anton knew that he had to go. He also knew that he had nowhere to go.

  He turned and hurried along the deck.

  ‘Come and visit,’ Max’s mother called after him. ‘My name is Pat.’

  The crowd on the deck had gone and it was growing cold. A chill wind was blowing from the north. And the sun was sinking into a cold and unforgiving sea.

  Three

  The midwife was old. Her cheeks drooped like the jowls on a bulldog. Her manner was gruff but her face was kindly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve done this before. Thousands of times.’

  ‘Thousands?’ said the woman.

  ‘At least a hundred a year. For forty years. You work it out.’

  ‘Twins?’ said the expectant mother.

  ‘I’ve brought dozens of twins into this world. Scores,’ said the midwife.

  The mother still looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping for a …’

  ‘Doctor,’ said the midwife. ‘I know. But the fighting took so many of …’

  ‘It took my husband as well,’ said the mother, ‘and …’ She gasped and held her swollen belly.

  ‘They are coming,’ she groaned.

  And come they did.

  * * *

  The mother could tell by the midwife’s expression that something was not quite right, but she held out her hands with an eager smile. The midwife placed one baby in each of her arms.

  The mother peered at the little pink faces. She beamed at them and then said, ‘Not identical?’

  ‘Yes, identical but … different,’ said the midwife.

  The mother was puzzled. ‘They’ve got no hair. But most babies are bald, aren’t they?’ she said.

  ‘Hypotrichosis,’ said the midwife. ‘They won’t have hair or eyebrows. Or eyelashes.’

  ‘This one is smaller,’ said the mother.

  The midwife nodded. ‘Usually twins have a separate supply of blood in the womb,’ she said. ‘But these shared an artery.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the big one got more of the blood. And more of the oxygen. Both boys will look the same when the little one catches up. But he may have problems.’

  ‘What sort of problems?’ said the mother.

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ said the midwife. ‘But there could be brain damage.’

  The mother let this sink in as she gave a loving smile to the smaller twin. ‘He might need special help,’ she said. ‘He’s the same but different.’

  ‘Special,’ said the midwife.

  ‘No,’ said the mother. ‘They are both special.’

  Four

  Anton stared at the choppy grey sea. Now that the wintry sun had dipped below the horizon he was cold. He shivered and leaned over the solid rail that ran around the ship. Far below, the waves reached up as the bow dug into a trough.

  He looked around at the deserted deck. He had to find somewhere to hide. Somewhere warm.

  The realisation began to sink in. He was a stowaway. If he was discovered he would be sent back to the orphanage. Maybe not right away, but at the first port.

  There would be other migrant ships returning from the land of his dreams. They could put him on one of them. He would never get to the top of the waiting list. There was no waiting list.

  He had heard stories about stowaways on sailing ships. Adventure, fun, pirates and buried gold. But this was the real world. A steel boat with empty decks and closed doors. With hatches and ladders so cold they could rip the skin off your fingers.

  He was wearing only thin trousers, a shirt and his jumper. Salty spray was whipping his face. Down below there would be snug cabins and a dining room with regular meals. Families. Possibly a makeshift schoolroom and a sick bay.

  The ship dug into another wave and his empty stomach heaved. He gagged and choked but nothing came. The dry-retching was worse than vomiting. There was no relief for his empty stomach.

  A heavy hand suddenly fell on his shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing here, lad?’ said a voice. ‘You shouldn’t be on deck alone in this weather.’

  He turned and saw a man wearing a thick woollen coat and a navy peaked cap.

  ‘What’s the number of your cabin, son?’ he said. ‘I’ll take you back. And have a few words with your parents.’

  Anton’s head began to spin. Tears filled his eyes. He was caught. Already. On the first day. He didn’t know what to say. Images flashed before him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said the man. ‘What is it?’

  Anton fought for clarity but none came. He was so tired. Dreamlike images passed through his aching head.

  ‘Sunshine and steaks,’ he mumbled. He fought to dismiss the wandering thoughts as scraps of a poem flitted through his mind.

  ‘Droughts and flooding rains. Ringbarked forests. A sunburnt country.’

  The man shook his head and smiled. ‘You’ll get there soon enough,’ he said. ‘It only takes five weeks. But if you stay up here you might end up feeding the fishes.’

  Anton looked puzzled.

  ‘Washed overboard,’ the man said grimly.

  A large wave hit the side of the ship and lashed them with spray.

  The man still held Anton’s shoulder with a firm hand. He turned the boy like someone twisting a lid on a jar.

  ‘This way,’ he yelled. His words were snatched away by the roar of the sea.

  He steered Anton across the deck and through a door. It closed behind them with a clang. They were in a large empty hallway with several doors on each side and a staircase leading down into the gloom.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man said.

  The cold and the fear made it hard to think. He just told the truth.

  ‘Anton.’ He trembled.

  ‘What’s your cabin number?’

  He searched his mind. But found only one answer.

  ‘C 32,’ he whispered. And then he added, ‘In steerage.’

  The man gave an amused grin. ‘Come on then,’ he said. He led Anton down the staircase and along a narrow corridor. It twisted and turned. Down another staircase. More gloomy corridors. Dim flickering lights. No windows.

  The boy followed blindly, his head swimming with images and memories. It was like a waking dream. His father fighting in the never-ending war. His mother, dead in her coffin as they lowered it into the grave. The lady from the government giving him a handful of dirt to throw onto the lid. Staying in the foster home for a few days. And then, and then …Wolfdog Hall. The leather strap. A dozen leather straps. Labels and rude drawings. He began to shake uncontrollably.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said the man.

  Anton nodded wearily. He was so tired. Like a criminal being led to the gallows, he just wanted it to be over.

  They stopped at a cabin door. C 32. The man rapped on it three times.

  The door opened. Max’s shining face stared out.

  ‘Is your mother here?’ said the man. ‘This boy was alone on deck.’

  ‘On deck,’ repeated Max. ‘Is Anton. Nice boy, nice boy, Anton,’ he yelled. He jumped up and down and clapped his hands excitedly.

  ‘He’s with you then?’ said the man.

  ‘With you,’ mumbled Max. He grabbed Anton’s wrist and yanked him inside the cabin. Then he slammed the steel door in the face of the surprised man.

  Anton stared around. The cabin was small and dark without a porthole. Against one wall was a small single bed. Opposite was a pair of bunks and a desk. On the desk was a photograph of two boys smiling at the camera with their arms around each other. It was Max and … Max again. Both of the boys were bald with smooth shiny faces. Before he could make sense of this he was distracted by the sound of wate
r running. He guessed it was from a bathroom.

  Max ran over to an open suitcase on the floor. He pulled out two glove puppets. Identical boy puppets with bald heads. Identical except for their small knitted jumpers. One was green and the other red. Max slipped his hand inside the red puppet and threw the green one at Anton. ‘Talk, talk,’ he yelled.

  Anton sighed wearily. By now his stomach was settled and the gnawing hunger had returned. He looked at the bottom bunk. If only he could get under the blanket and close his eyes.

  ‘Talk, talk,’ shouted Max. He was becoming upset.

  Anton threw a glance at the bathroom door. ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Shh …’

  Max seemed not to hear. He opened and shut the lips of the red puppet.

  ‘Talk, talk,’ he shouted.

  Anton threw another glance at the bathroom door and then at the empty bunk. He sighed. Then he sat down on the bunk and slipped his hand into the green puppet.

  ‘Christopher,’ said Max happily.

  He started jabbing Anton with the red puppet. ‘Talk, talk,’ he yelled. ‘Make Christopher talk.’

  Anton used his thumb and forefinger to open the little mouth on the puppet. He spoke with his teeth clenched together in the manner of a ventriloquist.

  ‘I have run away,’ he said. ‘I’m a stowaway.’ He tried to continue but he couldn’t keep it up. He let the puppet drop to his knee, his fingers still working the little lips like a goldfish left in the bottom of a basket. Finally he found the words.

  ‘My father was killed by a mortar shell,’ he said, ‘in the fighting. Then my mother died. She drowned.’ He said the next bit hesitantly. ‘They put me in an orphanage. A terrible place. I ran away. I want to get to the New Land. Sunshine, steaks and … someone, anyone, who …’ He searched for the words. ‘… knows my name.’

  Max sat next to him holding up the red puppet as if it was listening. His eyes were glassy.

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ mumbled Anton.

  Max’s nose was running and he sniffed loudly. He reached over with his free hand and patted Anton on the knee.

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ said a voice. ‘But I do.’