The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

The constable’s voice changed as he spoke to his wife. ‘Back in a minute, dear, I’ll just get the car.’

  The boys stood there. Harry stared straight ahead. Tom glanced down at the white tiled floor, his bare feet dirty and stained with orange soil.

  ‘Would you like some lemonade?’

  Neither boy said anything.

  The woman took that as a yes, pouring a cloudy light-yellow liquid into two glasses. ‘Drink some, you look like you need it.’

  Her voice was warm and friendly, and she had a little smile in her eyes.

  Tom reached for the glass and drank it down in one. Harry did the same.

  ‘You’re both thirsty, aren’t you? Never mind, I’ve made plenty.’ She poured two more glasses from the jug and pointed to the seats. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Albert won’t be long.’

  Tom began to cry, softly at first, looking down at his feet. Then the sobs became louder, tears running through the dirt on his face, creating clear rivulets.

  The woman got up from around the desk, and gently pushed Tom and Harry to sit down on the chairs. ‘It’s okay, Albert will take you back soon.’

  Tom cried louder. ‘We don’t want to go back.’

  She put her arms around both of them. Harry could smell her perfume; sweet and rich, the scent of flowers. It reminded him of his mother. He leant into her shoulder, resting his head against the spot next to her neck.

  ‘It’s okay. When you go back, the brothers will look after you.’

  Harry pulled away from her. ‘When we go back, they’ll beat us.’ He stuck out his leg and pulled up his shorts, showing the dark blue and brown bruise on his thigh, the legacy of a beating from Brother Keaney three days ago.

  The woman pushed Tom away, looking at Harry and frowning. ‘The brothers don’t beat anybody. Why do you tell such horrible lies?’ She stood up and smoothed down her dress.

  ‘They do worse,’ said Tom, without looking at her.

  She turned away from them. ‘I don’t know what you mean. They don’t do things like that.’

  Then came the sound of an engine pulling up outside and a handbrake being applied.

  Tom jumped up from the seat and grabbed the woman around the waist, holding on to her voluminous skirt. ‘Please don’t send us back.’

  She pushed him away.

  He clung on, crying even louder.

  ‘Don’t do that. Let me go.’

  Her husband, the police constable, appeared in the doorway. ‘Let go of her.’

  Tom stopped crying and released his grip on the skirt, staring down at the ground.

  ‘Maggie, I’ve told you before, you have to watch these lads.’

  ‘I just gave them some lemonade.’

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You two, in the car.’

  Harry got up and gave the woman his empty glass. ‘Thank you for the lemonade,’ he said.

  They didn’t speak to each other or to the constable during the journey back to Boys Town. Harry stared out the window, seeing the bush race past. The bush where they had walked free just two hours ago. Tom stared down at his feet, his chest occasionally heaving as a sob was strangled in his throat.

  The car turned through the wrought-iron gates and drove past the fourteen stages of the cross they had spent so long building. From Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane, to his body lying in the shroud before his resurrection. The police constable drove slowly, crossing himself as they passed each station, mumbling words under his breath.

  Brother Keaney was waiting to greet them, standing on the steps as he had done when they arrived six months earlier.

  ‘Hello, Albert, I see you’ve found our little spalpeens. Maggie called to let me know you were coming. Sorry to bother you on Christmas Day.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, Brother Keaney. Mick Tanner picked them up.’

  The door opened and the boys slunk out.

  ‘You two go to the dormitory. No dinner for you tonight.’

  Harry and Tom sloped off to the dormitory without looking back at the constable.

  ‘Don’t you thank Albert for bringing you back?’

  Harry turned and said thank you. Tom just walked on.

  ‘Ah, don’t be too hard on them, Brother. It’s Christmas and I think they were just missing home.’

  ‘They’re orphans, Albert, this is their home. Maggie said they’ve been telling lies again about how we beat them. We do give them the strap, but only when they need it.’

  ‘I know, Brother, I remember them walloping me and my cousin at school.’

  ‘And you were none the worse for it, Albert.’

  The constable laughed. ‘You’re right, I was a little terror, but the brothers soon knocked the devilment out of me.’

  Brother Keaney bent down to lift a box at his feet. ‘Now, I’ve put a bit of fruit together for you and Maggie. Picked by the boys, it was. They’ll be happy for you to have it.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Brother.’

  ‘Ah, it’s Christmas, Albert. It’s nothing but a bit of fruit. The boys would love you to take it.’

  The constable placed the box on the front seat. ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  ‘Anything to help the police. And if you see Commissioner Kelly, please send him my regards and ask him to come and see me again.’

  ‘I will, Brother, but he doesn’t come to our neck of the woods often.’

  ‘No matter, I’ll put in a good word for you when I see him.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’ The constable put the car in gear and drove away.

  That evening, even though it was Christmas Day, Brother Keaney had Harry and Little Tom up in front of the whole school during dinner. He pulled down their shorts and gave them twelve strokes from his cane across their bare bottoms. Tom received an extra three for not thanking the constable.

  They spent the next two days in bed, unable to move.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  July 18, 2017

  Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire, England

  Three days later, Jayne was back in Buxton. She had been mulling over what to do to continue the investigation into Vera’s vanished brother. The answer finally came to her, and it was so obvious, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  ‘I have a friend in Australia, he may be able to help us. He’s a genealogist too, working on family history in Perth. It’ll be much quicker than us trying to do it remotely from Manchester.’

  Jayne remembered four years ago in London at one of the massive genealogical exhibitions. She had just started her own business and was actively trying to network with other genealogists. The first person she ran into was Duncan Morgan, who looked – and felt – as lost as she did. For the next two days, they attended every seminar together, walked the halls, picked up countless leaflets and, thanks to Duncan’s natural gregariousness, had met more people than Jayne would ever have done on her own.

  During one of their lunches, he had told her his life history; adopted as a young boy by a family in Sydney, he had been a bit of tearaway before finally going into the Australian Navy and becoming a submariner.

  ‘When you’re stuck with fifty other blokes in a long metal tube for days at an end under the sea, you better be able to get on with people, otherwise you’re stuffed.’

  He came out of the Navy after twelve years and then became a copper working in Western Australia’s maritime police. Perhaps that was why they had got on so well. A shared love of two things; the police and family history.

  Unlike her, he had stayed with the police until they kicked him out with a ‘goodbye, mate’ and a nice retirement package. He had searched around for something to do, wanting to avoid the usual security jobs for coppers, and lucked into genealogy.

  ‘There’s over twenty million Aussies out there, all with a bright future and no past. I help the Irish, Italians, Greeks, Poles, Yugoslavs, Germans, Lebanese, and English discover where they came from and enjoy a few schooners doing it. Who could ask for more?’
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  He was a lovely man. They had stayed in touch over the years, helping each other out when they were stuck and had hit the inevitable brick wall.

  ‘Shall I give him a call? Though we may have to pay him, Vera, this is his job.’

  ‘Money’s no object, Jayne, not any more.’

  Jayne checked the clock. Perth was eight hours ahead of Manchester so it would be nine o’clock at night there. Was it too late? She decided to risk it.

  ‘Hello?’ A sleepy-sounding voice answered the phone.

  ‘Hi, Duncan, it’s Jayne.’

  ‘Jayne who?’

  Jayne frowned at her dad. ‘Jayne Sinclair, we met at the Genealogy Exhibition in Olympia?’

  Silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Which Jayne is that? There were so many Jaynes at the conference, I felt like Tarzan.’

  Jayne laughed. ‘Stop teasing me, Duncan, you know who it is.’

  He joined in with her. ‘Of course I do. But I love pullin’ your leg, Jayne, you Poms are too serious. G’day.’

  ‘And a good day to you too, Duncan. It’s not too late to call?’

  ‘It’s never too late to hear from you. And I’m just sitting here watching Behave Yourself, which is about as funny as a Great White with a toothache.’

  ‘How’s Margery?’

  ‘She’s sitting next to me, scaring the Great White.’

  A voice in the distance said, ‘Hi, Jayne.’

  ‘Hi, Margery. And how’s business, Duncan?’

  ‘Now, Jayne, you didn’t ring me up on a Tuesday night at nine o’clock to ask how business is. But since you have asked, it’s a bit quiet at the moment. The winter lull…’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  He laughed. ‘Not for me it ain’t.’

  ‘I meant, if you’re not busy, you can do a bit of work for me in Australia.’

  Duncan’s voice changed and he suddenly became more businesslike. ‘Tell me what it is, Jayne.’

  ‘I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Listening in is my step mother, Vera, and my dad, Robert.’

  ‘Hi, Duncan, it’s Vera. Are you really in Perth in Australia?’

  A muffled voice was heard down the line. ‘I’ve just asked the wife and she tells me we are. I’m never sure myself. Nice accent you have there.’

  ‘It’s Lancashire, I’m from from Oldham.’

  ‘Hold ’em? Funny name for a place.’

  ‘No, Oldham.’

  Jayne touched her step mother’s arm. ‘He’s just teasing you, Vera.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  Jayne told him the story of Harry, Vera’s mother and St Michael’s. She heard an audible sigh at the end of the phone.

  ‘Over seven thousand of these kids were sent to Australia at the end of the war. How they were treated was a disgrace.’

  ‘I’ve read some of the stories,’ said Jayne.

  ‘You know, their redress money was cut in half by the government, even though it was their lack of oversight causing all the problems in the first place. Cheap bastards…’

  A muffled voice at the end of the line.

  ‘That was Margery telling me not to swear, but it gets me so angry…’ There was another pause and more muffled words before Duncan came back on the line. ‘Sorry, Jayne, go on – how can I help?’

  ‘We need to find out what happened when he went to Australia. He was only eight when he was sent there.’

  ‘Eight, you say? They sent them young. It might not be good news, Jayne. Many of them suffered emotional problems. The places they were sent to – well, let’s put it this way, I would treat a dingo better. Never mind the emotional damage of being separated from your family at such an early age.’

  Jayne stared at Vera. ‘We know. We’d still like to find out, though.’

  ‘You said he was Catholic and sent to Western Australia?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Well, there’s only four places he would have been sent, all homes run by the Christian Brothers: Tardun, Castledare, St Joseph’s Farm in Bindoon, and Clontarf. From what I remember, the Christian Brothers set up a database for all the Child Migrants sent to Western Australia back in 1999. Only they can access it directly, though. Relatives have to go through Tuart Place or the Child Migrants Trust.’

  ‘Tuart Place?’

  ‘A charity run for the child migrants in Fremantle. Funnily enough, it’s not far from the dock where most of them landed.’

  ‘Great. When can you start, Duncan?’

  ‘Right away if you want. I’ll give the Tuart Place people a call tomorrow. You’ll have to send me everything you have plus a letter from Vera appointing me as her representative. Nobody is going to let me have anything unless I have the right credentials.’

  ‘I’ll email you everything we have, Duncan.’

  ‘Make sure you send his birth certificate. It will speed up the whole process immensely. And one more thing…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know you could do this more cheaply by going to the Child Migrants Trust or Tuart Place yourself?’

  ‘We know, Duncan. But we’ve decided we can’t wait any longer. Harry is going to be seventy-three years old soon, we can’t let this drag on.’

  ‘I understand.’ A muffled voice at the other end of the line again. ‘I don’t know if you heard that, but Margery said I should do it for nothing – as a favour, Jayne – and I always agree with the missus. She holds the purse strings.’

  Frantic signals from Vera, saying ‘no, no, we pay’.

  ‘How about this, Duncan. We’ll donate the fee in your name to one of the child migrant charities?’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll get working as soon as I get the documents.’

  ‘They’ll be in your email when you wake up tomorrow.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  May 28, 1953

  St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia

  After the attempt to run away, Harry didn’t see Little Tom very often. He was moved to another dormitory closer to Brother Thomas’s room and became his constant companion. There were a group of them who hung around Brother Thomas. The ‘Pets’, they were called by the other boys, and they were given special treats; the easiest jobs, little tea parties in his room, and they worked less, spending more time in the classroom.

  Harry was told to work on the farm. At first, he was given the jobs in the dairy but he didn’t mind. He liked getting up early at 4.30 to milk the cows. The first time he tried to pull those udders he failed miserably, nothing came out.

  Slimo showed him how to do it.

  ‘Look, you grab hold of the teat, give it a firm tug and a little twist with your wrist.’

  A long stream of slightly milky liquid squirted into the bucket.

  Harry stared at the large animal standing in front of him. The big, brown, baleful eye surrounded by long lashes stared back at him. It was the first time he had been this close to anything so big and it was as if the animal sensed his fear. ‘Never seen a cow this close before. We don’t get many back in Oldham. Will she kick me?’

  Slimo stood up and slapped the hindquarters of the cow, and her tail swished from side to side. ‘Don’t worry about old Molly here. She likes being milked, don’t you, old girl?’

  Slimo hugged the face of the cow. Snot dribbled from two large nostrils. A long, almost prehensile tongue slipped out to try to lick his face. The eyes, with their long lashes, seemed to be staring directly at Harry.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course, she’s a big softy is Old Molly.’ He sat down again on the stool. ‘See, just grab the teats with your hands, tug down and twist.’ This time two streams of milky liquid squirted into the bucket. Followed by two more. ‘It’s important to get into a rhythm. One-two. One-two. One-two.’

  Slimo was working the teats, his arms going up and down like the pistons on the Otranto’s engines. Harry thought of his time on the ship with Friedrich and all the other stokers down i
n the engine room. It seemed so long ago now. A lifetime away.

  ‘Pretty soon you’ll have a bucket full, then you move on to Dolly.’

  ‘How do you know when to stop?’

  ‘When there’s no more milk. Old Molly will let you know. She usually gives a little kick with her hind leg when she’s had enough. There’s one little perk for getting up so early and working the dairy, though.’

  Slimo leant forward and placed his head beneath the teat, squirting the milk directly into his open mouth.

  ‘Mmm, warm milk, fresh from the cow. Can’t beat it. When the bucket is full, pour it into the pail over there.’

  ‘Where does it go?’

  ‘The milk?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘The brothers drink most of it for their breakfast and with their tea. Some of it goes into the porridge, and the rest I haven’t a clue. Don’t care, either, as long as I get my share. Anyway, it’s your turn. Have a go.’

  Harry stared at Molly and the cow stared back at him, still chewing on the hay Slimo had placed in the rack in front of her.

  ‘Are you sure she won’t kick me?’

  ‘Molly wouldn’t hurt a flea.’

  Harry sat down on the three-legged stool, and gingerly reached for the nearest teat hanging from the distended udder. Molly’s hind leg gave a little kick as he touched the teat. He dropped it quickly and jerked away from the cow’s body. ‘Why’d she do that?’

  ‘It helps if you rub your hands together first. How would you like somebody grabbing you with cold hands?’

  Harry rubbed his hands and put them under his armpits for a few seconds to warm up. Once more he reached for the teat, tentatively touching it at first, before holding it more firmly in his fist as Slimo had done.

  Above him, Molly carried on chewing her hay, paying him no attention.

  ‘That’s great, now give it a firm tug.’

  Harry pulled downwards on the teat.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Tug harder, and don’t forget the flick of the wrist at the end.’

  Harry tugged down as hard as he could, twisting his wrist when the teat couldn’t be pulled further.