The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

  Still nothing.

  Molly’s head swung round to stare at him, as if saying, ‘Get a bloody move on.’

  ‘Do it more smoothly. Caress it like you would caress a woman.’

  Harry had never caressed a woman. He vaguely remembered the hugs from his mum and Mrs Beggs. Was that what Slimo meant?

  He tugged down on the teat again. This time a few drops of clear liquid missed the bucket, landing in the red dust of the milking shed’s floor.

  ‘That’s it. Harder now, and smoother. And don’t forget the little twist of the wrist at the end.’

  Harry pulled down, angling his wrist so the teat pointed diagonally at the bucket. A stream of milk squirted out from the end and landed in the bucket.

  ‘You’ve got it.’ Slimo gave a little dance around the milking shed, his arms pumping up and down as if he were milking a giant cow.

  Harry kept on milking Molly, streams of liquid landing in the bucket as it slowly filled up. He even tried using his left hand too, but he wasn’t so successful with that. It didn’t take long for him to get the hang of it, though. All he had to remember was to make his hands move like the pistons of the Otranto’s engines.

  Up and down.

  Up and down.

  Up and down.

  This was Harry’s life for now, and he didn’t mind it too much. Slimo was a good friend and they only saw the brothers occasionally. The mess and smell in the cowsheds and the piggery was too much for them.

  He soon got used to the cows and the pigs and the chooks. Talking to them seemed to help, making them less skittish and more friendly. Perhaps they got used to him too. The way he moved. The way he smelt. The way he treated them.

  Slimo was always on hand to help him if things went wrong. Like one day, when the piglets escaped from their pens and they had to chase them round the yard, their mouths squealing and their little legs scampering away from Harry’s outstretched hands.

  Luckily, Slimo managed to catch them all before the brothers found out otherwise they would have been up for a beating with the strap.

  Working in the farm had other advantages too. They were able to look for scraps in the pig feed; mouldy bread, a half-eaten tomato, even a bit of an apple. If Harry and Slimo checked the bucket before they fed the pigs, there was always something to eat.

  The food in the dining room was still as bad as ever; maggots in the porridge, kangaroo tails floating in hot water as a soup, a mash of stale bread soaked in watered milk for dinner. Hunger seemed to be the one constant companion for the whole time Harry was at Bindoon.

  He was hungry when he woke up in the morning.

  Hungry after lunch.

  Hungry after dinner.

  Hungry when he went to bed.

  An aching, grinding hunger that never left him.

  In his dreams, when he had any, he often imagined a feast laid out in front of him, where he could choose any of the foods, gorging himself until he could eat no more.

  Heaven.

  He often wondered what happened to all the eggs, pork, milk, apricots, grapes, chickens, butter and bread they grew on the farm. He was stupid enough to ask one of the brothers once. Brother Dominic, it was.

  The answer was a backhand across his head, followed by a punch with a closed fist. ‘Don’t be asking stupid questions. What d’ye think pays for all this?’

  He knew who paid for all this.

  He did.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  March 26, 1954

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

  All the boys were standing there in the hot sun, a warm breeze coming off the hills and blowing little eddies of red dust in front of the main building.

  The speaker, one of the local dignitaries, was droning on.

  Harry stood with his hands behind his back, a broad smile on his face. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and clean khaki shorts. On his feet, new sandals were chafing his heels, biting into the hard flesh that was so unused to footwear. Next to him, Slimo was whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I wish the fat arse would hurry up. He’d send a drongo to sleep.’

  ‘I take this moment to welcome up on stage the Right Reverend Charles McClure.’

  The audience sitting in front of the windswept stage politely clapped. A long stare from Brother Thomas encouraged the boys to join in.

  There was a loud squeal, like an escaped piglet, from the microphone as the Right Reverend climbed on the stage.

  ‘Well, that’s a lovely welcome.’

  Another squeal from the microphone.

  ‘We are gathered here today, ladies and gentlemen… and boys,’ he said as an afterthought, ‘to celebrate the life of Brother Francis Paul Keaney, who died suddenly last month in Subiaco.’

  ‘And won’t be missed by a single one of us here,’ whispered Slimo.

  ‘His bloody stick won’t be, anyway.’

  The Right Reverend continued speaking. ‘Brother Paul, as he was known, was born in Roscommon, Ireland, coming to Australia in 1912 to work as a policeman. And, looking at some of the boys in front of me, I’m sure his police training came in very useful.’

  There was laughter from the audience seated in their chairs. Some people were from the local area, but many had driven out from Perth and Fremantle to Bindoon. In amongst them was a large contingent of clergy.

  In front of them was a black casket with a closed lid.

  ‘That’s so the bastard can’t escape,’ said Slimo when he saw it.

  ‘Brother Keaney joined the Christian Brothers in 1915 and dedicated his life to working to improve the life of the children in his care.’

  Slimo snorted.

  The speaker stopped for a moment to look out over the assembled crowd. Brother Thomas stared once more at Slimo, reaching down to the strap that was not hanging at his waist today. His hand fumbled for a moment, looking for the missing strap, before forming into a fist.

  ‘He taught at Clontarf, Tardun and the Christian Brothers’ colleges in Western Australia, coming to St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School for the first time in 1942. He returned in 1948.’ The Right Reverend pointed to the buildings surrounding them. ‘It is not for nothing he was known as “Keaney the Builder”. It is through his efforts and hard work that these buildings stand tall and strong in this rugged country. All of them are a manifestation of his will. They were created by him.’

  ‘By him?’ whispered Slimo. ‘I thought we made them? He sat on his fat arse and pointed his stick.’

  ‘Shush.’

  The loud noise from Brother Thomas stopped the Right Reverend from speaking for a second, but he soon returned to his notes, looking down to find his place.

  ‘St Joseph’s became known to everybody as “Bindoon Boys Town”. And it is fair to say that Brother Keaney embodied all the caring, humility and generosity of spirit so wonderfully portrayed by Spencer Tracy as Father Flanagan in that beautiful film.’

  Slimo snorted again, covering it up this time by coughing and placing his hand over his mouth. He received another long stare from Brother Thomas.

  ‘It is not for nothing that he was known as “The Orphan’s Friend”. We are gathered here today with many of the orphans he looked after with such loving care.’ The Right Reverend made an expansive gesture with his hand, taking in all the boys arrayed in front of him. ‘We are gathered to lay this remarkable man, this remarkable Christian Brother, to rest in a grave close to the buildings and the school he made in his image.’

  Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wished it were all over and he could get out of these sandals and this new shirt, which chafed his neck.

  At least they would eat well tonight. The presence of so many visitors always ensured the food was better than normal.

  ‘Please join me in saying the Lord’s Prayer.’

  The Right Reverend bowed his head and began intoning the words in his deep voice. Slimo, Harry and the rest of the boys follo
wed him, the words etched into every inch of their souls.

  ‘Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors…’

  As the Right Reverend said the words, Harry raised his head to stare across at Little Tom standing opposite him. The boy’s eyes were wet with tears. Brother Thomas put his arm around his shoulders to comfort him.

  ‘…And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  October 4, 1955

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

  Harry and Slimo laid back in one of the rows of the vineyard, hidden from sight by the new growth of leaves on the vines. They had skived off from finishing the concrete on the balustrades of the new classrooms when Brother Thomas wasn’t looking. And now they dozed fitfully in the late evening sun, just doing nothing.

  It had been one of those days that didn’t happen often at the Boys Town. A beautiful day when all had gone well and the world was about as good as it was ever going to be.

  That morning, the spring sun had risen, bringing out the best of Bindoon before the baking heat of summer. The sky was a robin’s-egg blue. The birds were singing in the orchard. A gentle breeze blew over the red soil but wasn’t strong enough to disturb it. Even the flies had signed a pledge not to disturb the peace.

  Harry and Slimo had gone about their usual duties around the farm; milking the cows, feeding the pigs and knocking the chooks off the eggs in the hen house. In the pigs’ feed, they found a whole uneaten apple.

  ‘Must have been thrown in by mistake,’ said Slimo, running it under a cold tap.

  They sat down in the hen house and shared it, each one taking a bite in turn, the juice running down their faces.

  Two of the Spanish nuns found them in the chook house when they came for the eggs for the brothers’ breakfast. The younger of the two, a sprightly fifty-seven-year-old, found it funny that the two boys were sitting on the shelves where the chooks laid their eggs. She said something in Spanish and the elder one laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Slimo.

  ‘I was thinking, if you had laid an apple,’ she answered in halting English.

  Harry and Slimo glanced at each other and laughed.

  ‘That’s pretty funny. Laid an apple…’

  She took the basket of eggs and stopped at the door of the chook house, returning with two small eggs in her wrinkled hands.

  Slimo grabbed them off her. ‘Thanks, Sister.’ He placed one carefully on a nest of hay in the pocket of his shorts and gave the other to Harry.

  ‘What are we going to do with them?’

  ‘I’ll show you later.’

  In the middle of the morning, Slimo skimmed the top of the milk to remove the cream and poured it into an old cracked bowl they found on the tip. He cracked the two eggs into the middle of the cream and whisked it together with his finger, breaking the yolks.

  ‘Drink it, it’s good for you.’

  Harry eyed the yellow mixture, with the strands of egg white floating on top. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Down it in one.’

  Harry raised the cracked bowl to his lips and drank half the mixture. The cream was still warm and the eggs had cooked slightly, turning the egg white into a slimy mess. He swallowed it anyway, feeling it slip down his throat after sticking to his teeth. ‘Ugh, that’s awful, that is.’

  Slimo took the bowl and finished off what was left in three enormous swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, ‘Tastes horrible but does you good. My gran swears by it, and she lived to be seventy-five.’

  They’d finished all their assigned work around the farm before lunchtime, which was unusual. It was as if the egg-and-cream drink had given them a whole new bout of energy.

  Even lunch was better than normal on this day of days – lamb stew, which actually had bits of lamb, carrot and potato in it. Harry saw the reason for the quality of the food; a man in a suit and tie was with Brother Quilligan, going round each table in the dining room and peering into the plates and bowls. Tea cups and saucers had been laid, with a choice of orange juice, tea or milk. Even better, each boy had a large orange from the orchard given to him at the end of the meal.

  Harry saw the visitor watching as he wolfed down his lamb stew. When he’d finished he took his plate and walked up to Brother Murphy, who was doling out the food.

  ‘Please, sir, can I have more?’

  Brother Murphy glanced across at the visitor and ladled a dollop of lamb stew on to Harry’s empty plate.

  Harry decided to push his luck. ‘Could I have that piece of lamb too?’

  A large chunk of lamb lay in the middle of the brown stew. Brother Murphy stared at him. For a moment, Harry thought he had pushed it too far. But slowly, and with reluctance, the ladle scooped up the chunk of lamb and placed it in the centre of the plate.

  ‘That’s enough now, Britton, we must save some for the others,’ Brother Murphy said through gritted teeth.

  On hearing these words, the others on Harry’s table, led by Slimo, strode up to the brother and held out their plates.

  For the first time in a long time, they left the dining room feeling full and happy.

  The afternoon was spent with Brother Thomas, helping to finish the concreting of the balustrades on the new classrooms. When he went for his afternoon tea, they finished the job quickly and found the spot in the vineyard where they could hide.

  Harry lay back in the soft earth and stared up through the leaves into the blue sky. ‘Slimo,’ he said, ‘how’d you get your name?’

  ‘Frogs,’ said Slimo.

  ‘Frogs?’

  ‘When I was a nipper, me and my gran went to a lake, dunno where. Anyway, I found some frog’s eggs in the water and started eating them. Must have been about three years old, I reckon. She called me Slimo and it stuck. I’ve been Slimo Henderson ever since.’

  ‘What did they taste like?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Slimy, I suppose. Like the sago we sometimes get.’

  Harry sat up and pulled out a blade of grass growing close to one of the vines, putting it between his teeth to suck out the juice. ‘Why you here?’

  ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re an Aussie, you don’t have to be here. Not like me and the others.’

  ‘There’s other Aussies here.’

  ‘Yeah, but not so many, most of us are Poms. So why are you here?’

  ‘Dunno really. Me mum brought me here when I was ten. I’d lived with my gran since I was an ankle biter, but she passed away. Found her in bed one morning. Tried to wake her but she didn’t get up.’ He waved a fly away from his eyes. ‘Just lay there, grey and cold.’

  ‘Was she dead?’

  ‘That’s what they said. Buried her soon after. Spent a week or two with me mam and her new feller. Ran away twice.’

  ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘Nowhere. Just on the streets, wandering around.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘After the second time, they brought me here. Said it would make a man of me. What about you?’

  Harry dragged his toes through the red soil, making a furrow leading away from the trunk of the vine. ‘Dunno. Always thought one day I’d go back to live with me mum, but she sent me here. I guess she doesn’t want me any more.’

  ‘You still write to her, though.’

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just want to tell her what I’m doing, in case she ever wants me back. But it’s been three years now…’

  ‘It’s like the brothers say. Nobody wants us, that’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Hey, you two, what you doing in there? Come out now.’

  Brother Thomas knelt at the end of the row o
f vines, peering down beneath the leaves.

  Slimo and Harry sat up straight, looking for somewhere to run.

  ‘I can see you, Henderson and Britton, come out now.’

  They crawled out of their hiding place on their hands and knees. As they stood up, Brother Thomas twisted their ears, giving each one a violent shank.

  Harry felt the skin tear where the top of his ear met his head. The pain shot through his eyes and blood began to pour down his neck. He jammed his hand against the ear, feeling the end flop between his fingers.

  Brother Thomas gave them both a kick up the backside with his boot. ‘See me after dinner this evening, before you say your rosary.’

  He lashed out again as Harry and Slimo dodged the kicks.

  ‘Now get back to work, you lazy bastards.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  July 25, 2017

  Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire, England

  Jayne’s case with the blonde TV presenter was winding down to a satisfactory conclusion. After a lot of digging, she had discovered the celebrity’s great-grandfather had been a former slave who had come to England as the servant of a plantation owner, escaping his servitude and claiming the right to be a free man. In a famous court case in 1780, his claim had been supported and he had lived out his days as the landlord of an inn in Essex.

  The celebrity was delighted with the research, proclaiming her new identity in a series of television interviews, and even mentioning Jayne by name. As a result, she had been inundated with emails in the last few days but had decided to ignore them for now.

  Work could wait, her family was more important than anything else. Her father’s test results had come back and there was a worrying drop in his red cell count. More tests had been ordered and they were waiting to hear. Hopefully they would receive them soon. The wait was making both her father and Vera extremely despondent.

  ‘How you feeling, Dad?’

  They were both sitting in the day room, as they had done for the last week. Her father seemed to be feeling the cold even though it was a bright and sunny summer’s day outside.