by M J Lee
The man looked happy.
Chapter Thirty-Four
May 28, 1952
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
That evening, Harry lay in his bed, his stomach empty. Brother Keaney had been as good as his word; there had been nothing to eat. They had worked in Brother Thomas’s gang, helping to put the final touches to the roof of a new kitchen block. Harry and Little Tom were told to stack the roof tiles on the hods ready for the older boys, who were aged around 12, to carry them up the ladder to the even older boys, aged 14, who were laying them on the roof, guided by the oldest boy, a strapping lad called Peter, who was 15.
‘No, no, do it like the other boys.’ Brother Thomas waved his hand in front of his face, warding off a particularly aggressive fly. ‘Show them how it’s done, Henderson.’
A tall boy, taller than Harry, detached himself from the group waiting to ascend the solitary ladder. Carefully, he placed the hod he was carrying down on the ground, making sure he didn’t break any of the precious tiles. After trotting over to see them, he knelt on the red dust and began moving the tiles from the pile beneath the tarpaulin on to an empty hod. ‘See, lay the first one in the corner, and then stack the rest on alternate sides until you reach the top. We’ll come over and give you the empty hods. Got it?’
Both Harry and Little Tom nodded.
‘It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it, but don’t let old Thomas see you slacking. He’s pretty quick with the strap. My name’s Slimo, by the way.’ He put out his hand and smiled, his bright white teeth standing out against the tanned face and freckled nose.
Harry shook the proffered hand. ‘Been here long?’
‘A couple of years. You’ll get used to it. We all do.’
Harry stared at Slimo’s feet, caked in dust and dirt, the soles covered in thick black skin like the hide of the elephants in Ceylon. ‘Don’t we ever wear shoes?’
‘Not for the building. Unless we have visitors, of course. Then we have to put them on. I prefer—’
‘Don’t dawdle, boy,’ shouted Brother Thomas from his place on the barrel beneath the tree.
Instantly, Slimo picked up the hod he had stacked and raced over to join the back of the queue of boys waiting to go up the ladder.
They carried on working until the sun had nearly set, then they were shown the dormitory where they were going to sleep.
‘When you’ve finished, say your rosary, at least one complete round.’
One by one the boys knelt down by the side of their beds and began mumbling to themselves, their fingers working the beads. Brother Thomas walked up and down the central aisle between the beds, his sandals making a strange swishing noise as they scraped along the floor.
‘No talking during prayers.’ There was the sound of a strap flying through the air, followed by the slap as it landed across a boy’s shoulders.
Harry and Little Tom had been given places side by side at the end of the dormitory. They knelt down beside their beds, imitating the others, but neither had a set of rosary beads.
‘You’ll be given the rosary beads tomorrow after Mass, as long as you are good,’ a voice whispered in his ear. It was Brother Thomas.
Harry could feel the man’s breath on his temple; a warm puff of air with a slightly sour smell, like milk that had just curdled. He didn’t turn his head as he heard the swish of the sandals on the wooden floor.
Before they had finished saying their prayers, the lights went out. The place was in complete darkness. A voice, that of Brother Thomas, rang out in the blackness.
‘No talking. No getting out of your beds. And no bed-wetting. You know what happens to boys who wet the bed.’
The door closed and the room remained quiet, just the occasional squeak of the bed springs as a boy turned over in his sleep.
Even in the darkest of nights at St Michael’s, Harry had never felt so alone.
He curled up into a ball, holding his hands together under his chin. He missed the warmth of Trevor, it was the one thing that held him close and protected him during the long hours of the night. The image of the red coat of his soldier burning brightly in the brazier as the brother held his hands over it, warming them, came back to him. Why did he have to burn Trevor?
Harry curled himself even tighter, trying to bury himself into the cold embrace of the thin mattress.
He was small.
He was alone.
He was scared.
A great wave of fear rose in his gullet and he felt himself choking down a sob that was trying to escape from his mouth.
He mustn’t cry.
He mustn’t cry.
From the neighbouring bed, he heard the muffled sounds of sobbing. It was Little Tom.
A whisper from across the gangway. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them hear you cry.’
It was Slimo, whispering to Little Tom.
The door opened and a shaft of yellow light shone into the dormitory. It stayed there for a moment before becoming gradually smaller as the door was closed.
‘You mustn’t cry,’ Slimo whispered again.
‘I want to go home,’ Little Tom answered.
‘We all do, but you mustn’t cry. It’s not allowed.’
Little Tom was quieter from then on. Or perhaps he found a way to stifle his tears beneath the thin army blanket. Harry heard nothing more, except the occasional opening and closing of the door, and once, the swishing of Brother Thomas’s sandals against the floor.
For a minute, they stopped at the end of his bed, before moving away.
Chapter Thirty-FIve
May 29, 1952
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
The following morning, they were awoken by Slimo just as light began to stain the sky.
‘Up, get up, he’ll be here in a minute.’
Harry followed the others slowly waking up, getting out of bed and folding their thin, rough blankets. One boy stayed asleep, his face bright red.
Slimo raced over to shake him awake. ‘Bert, get up, he’ll be here in a minute.’
The sleeping boy’s mouth flapped uselessly for a few moments before he finally croaked. ‘Can’t, Slimo... crook... hot.’
The door opened and Brother Thomas entered.
Slimo raced back to the side of his own bed.
The brother stood there in his brown habit, the rosary and strap swaying at his waist where they hung off his belt. His hair was a bright orange and tousled, like it hadn’t been combed for a thousand years. A slow, smug smile spread across his face, his hands rested on his hips and he stood in the entrance, savouring every moment.
All the boys stared straight ahead, not daring to catch his eye.
He walked slowly down the central aisle to the end of the dormitory, his sandals making that swishing sound that ended with a sharp slap. At the end, he turned and stood there, looking back at all the boys still standing at the end of their beds, before walking slowly down the aisle back to the door.
Swish... slap.
Swish... slap.
Swish... slap.
At the front of the dormitory, the hands went to his hips again and he nodded his head sagely. ‘It looks like we have a lazy one this morning.’
The boys didn’t say a word.
‘But first let’s deal with the bed-wetters, shall we?’
At each bunk, he stared at the boy standing at the end of it, and then leant over, placing his broad, meaty palm down on the frayed sheet.
If it was dry, he simply shook his head and moved on to the next bed. If it was wet, he said quietly, ‘You know what to do, boy.’
The boy would then take off his nightshirt and drape the soiled wet sheet around his shoulders and body, returning to the end of his bed. After finding three boys in this way, he reached Harry.
‘A new boy from England.’
‘From Oldham, sir.’
‘I don’t care. What number were you given yesterday?’
‘Number?’
His eyes rolled up into his head. ‘By Brother Keaney. It’s on your shorts.’
‘Forty-seven, sir.’
‘Well, forty-seven, are you a bed-wetter?’
‘No, sir, never. I’m eight.’
Brother Thomas nodded his head, leant forward, placed all his weight on his palms and leant into the thin mattress, staring all the time at Harry. The bed squeaked and groaned as if feeling its age as well as the weight.
The man checked his palm, touching it with the fingers of the same hand before wiping it on the side of his brown habit.
Without saying a word, he moved on to Little Tom’s bed next door.
Harry could see Little Tom was shaking; his foot tapping continuously on the wooden floor and his hands trembling against the coarse fabric of the nightgown. His eyes were red and wet, his hair damp with sweat.
‘Another fresh arrival from England. What’s your name, boy?’
‘Tom... T-Thomas Livesey, sir,’ he finally blurted out.
‘And your number?’
Little Tom turned towards him.
‘Look straight ahead, boy.’
‘I dunno.’
‘You dunno,’ mimicked Brother Thomas.
Before Harry could move, the strap came up and lashed across Little Tom’s shoulders, knocking him to the floor.
‘You should know your number. Learn it by tomorrow. Or face twelve from me. Get up, you’re dirtying the floor.’
Little Tom struggled to his feet.
‘Are you a bed-wetter, Livesey?’
Little Tom’s lips began to work against each other. He swallowed twice and tried to answer, but nothing came out.
Another smile crossed Brother Thomas’s face. He touched the sheet gently with his right palm and said softly, ‘It seems you are. You know what to do.’
Little Tom’s whole body seemed to shake and tremble as he lifted the nightshirt over his head. Brother Thomas tore the wet sheet from the bed and threw it over the young boy’s head.
‘Come with me.’
He strode off, followed by the boys in two neat lines.
Harry stood next to Slimo.
‘Don’t say anything, it only makes it worse,’ Slimo whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
They marched down the stairs and across to the bath house.
‘The bed-wetters first,’ ordered the brother.
The three others knew what to do. They stood in front of the shower heads, still with the sheets draped over their shoulders.
‘You too.’ He signalled to Little Tom.
Still shaking and trembling, the small boy stood in front of a shower head.
‘Next time, you won’t be so keen to wet the bed.’
He turned on the cold taps to full force. The shower head erupted with water, forcing Little Tom to step back. The sheet was drenched and his body froze under the stream of icy water. Pretty soon all of them had hands and lips beginning to turn blue. Little Tom’s skin took on the quality of the paper the sisters used to write their notes. Across his chest, translucent blue veins stood out against the bones of his ribs.
Brother Thomas finally turned off the taps. ‘Now it’s time for the rest of you.’ He adjusted the water so it was slightly warmer.
All the boys began removing their nightshirts as Brother Thomas looked on.
‘Come on, forty-seven, time for your shower.’ A flick of a damp towel hurried Harry along, catching him on the calf.
Harry quickly took off his nightshirt and joined the rest of them in the shower. Twenty-two boys all washing together.
‘Enough, time for breakfast. I don’t know about you boys but I’m famished. Get dressed and I will see you in the dining room.’ He strode off, out of the bath house, whistling ‘Danny Boy’ as the sun was rising over the surrounding hills.
Harry rushed over to Little Tom. ‘You okay?’
The young boy nodded.
‘I’ll get the bastard. Don’t you worry, one day I’ll get him.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
May 31, 1952
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
Breakfast was the stodgy porridge Harry was used to back in St Michael’s and, somehow, had grown to like. It had the texture and consistency of wallpaper paste but at least it was warm and filled him up.
Little Tom had grown soft on the voyage, missing his orange juice and toast in bed brought by Arthur, the jovial waiter from Goa. He threw his spoon against the metal plate, making a loud clatter.
All the other boys stopped mid-spoonful, their mouths open wide.
A voice from the monks’ table echoed through the refectory. ‘Pick up your spoon and finish your porridge.’
Tom stood up. ‘Please, sir, I can’t.’
The sound of a chair being scraped back.
The ominous slap of leather sandals on wooden floorboards.
The silence of the boys as they kept their heads down and stared into the brown-grey swamp lying on their plates.
A brown habit arrived at the table. ‘Brother Paul has cooked this porridge for you. It is a gift from God. Eat it.’
‘Please, sir, I can’t,’ Tom repeated.
A large hand gripped the back of Little Tom’s head, forcing it down towards the metal plate.
Tom’s hands went out to grip the sides of the table, but the Brother was too strong. His head was forced closer and closer to the porridge. And then Tom’s strength gave in and his head landed in the lumpy mass.
Harry expected Tom to get up. His face would be covered in porridge. They would all laugh and that would be the end of it.
But Tom didn’t get up.
His head was being pressed down into the plate by the thick, white hand.
Tom’s arms went out to the sides, trying to push himself away. But still the hand pressed his head down.
Porridge oozed up the side of his face, covering the bottom of his ears. His legs kicked out straight and then began to struggle.
Still the hand pressed his head down into the claggy wet glue.
Harry looked up. Ernie had picked up a spoon lying on the table and drove the edge down hard into the back of the hand. The brother screamed, letting go of Little Tom’s head.
The boy’s head rose up, his mouth gasping for breath like a drowned man brought back to life, lumps of porridge stuck to his cheeks and nose.
The monk glared at Ernie and then at the bloody gash left by the edge of the spoon. He raised his hand and smashed Ernie across the face with all the force he could muster.
Ernie went flying across the polished floor, slamming into a wall and lying there, unmoving.
The monk removed the strap from around his waist where it sat next to the rosary. He advanced, slowly, deliberately, to where Ernie’s prone body lay. ‘It’s your time, Wattie,’ he snarled.
Only later did Harry realise, after he had tasted its bite a few times, that ‘Wattie’ was the name this monk gave to his strap. A pet name for the thing he loved most.
The monk loomed over Ernie’s prone body. The leather strap rose into the air, paused for a moment as if looking for the perfect place to strike, then snapped down like a snake into Ernie’s bare arm.
Up and down it went. The swishing sound it made was almost musical in its rhythm, across Ernie’s arms, back and legs. And then the kicking started. Ernie curled up into a ball but the brother’s sandals kicked his back again and again, a sickening thud resounding through the dining room each time the sandals struck home.
Finally, a voice from the podium. ‘Enough, Brother Dominic, we will punish him properly in front of all the boys this evening.’
Brother Dominic brought the strap down on to Ernie’s body one last time. Sweat dripped from his head, blood dripped from his hand. There was a madness in his eyes Harry had never seen before and never wanted to see again.
Brother Dominic stared at Harry.
He looked away.
Ern
ie went into hospital that afternoon after complaining of chest pains when carrying the tiles up to the roof.
He came back two weeks later but he was never the same again. The brothers had kicked whatever spirit remained out of Ernie’s body. He was transferred to another home at the end of November.
Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of luck.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
July 15, 2017
Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire, England
The nondescript brown envelope was delivered by the postman at ten o’clock. Jayne signed for it and knew instantly what it was. Vera had been waiting none too patiently for the last three weeks.
Despite being in the middle of a new case – investigating the family background of a very well-known and very blonde TV presenter who had just done a DNA test only to find that one of her recent ancestors came from Africa – Jayne drove straight out to Buxton without opening the package.
She arrived to find the Matron waiting in the lobby.
‘Nice to see you again, Jayne,’ she said, in her broad Glaswegian accent. ‘Vera’s waiting for you in the garden. She’s been on edge, what with Robert and all.’
‘How is Dad?’
‘About the same, no improvement really. We’re still waiting for the test results. But I’ll leave him to tell you himself.’
Jayne wandered through the living room on her way to the garden. As usual, the ‘Golden Girls’, as her dad called them, were watching Cash in the Attic on TV.
‘It’s not worth nowt, should throw it away.’
‘How do you know, Maisie Grimes? It might be worth a fortune.’
‘No Toby jug is worth money, Ethel, they made millions of them.’
‘Ooooh, look at that…’
Jayne hurried through before finding out what Ethel liked. Vera and her dad were waiting in their usual place in the garden. This time her father was looking very pale and, despite it being the height of summer, wore a jacket and had a blanket over his knees.
