The Innocents

by Nette Hilton

  And so did the way Lawrence nudged Max.

  17

  LATE SUMMER

  1954

  Missie was saved by Mr Fellows. He’d dobbed and her mother had threatened her and Max with the strap if they so much as walked out that front door without her permission. It lasted for a couple of days and then Aunt Belle let Max go out with Lawrence to play cricket down on the field.

  ‘There’s a turn-up for the books,’ her mother had said when Max had strolled through the kitchen.

  ‘What?’ Missie kept her face blank as if she didn’t know what her mother meant.

  ‘Him. Going out to play and you not kicking up a fuss.’

  Missie shrugged. She made sure it was posed properly and kept her eyes down. At least she didn’t have to worry about going down to the river. God, she cringed every time she thought of it.

  ‘Wonders will never cease.’ Her mother went back to the sink. ‘But that child–’ she turned back and jabbed her peeling knife into the air for emphasis – ‘that child is being ruined. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

  ‘I agree,’ Missie said solemnly and, if she’d had a cup of tea in front of her, would have picked it up and sipped.

  The thought of going out there with Max and Lawrence and no Zilla was far worse than being stuck in the backyard by herself. In fact, being in the yard had been fine since she’d stacked up the tea-chests to make a stage between the fence and the outside wall of the shed. The chests were hollow and made of smooth, clacky wood that made her steps sound exactly like tap dancing.

  She’d checked first to make sure that no-one could see her. Then she practised all the dances she’d seen the girls doing at school.

  Once she thought she saw Oleks Mykola watching from his window and she stopped. She shielded her eyes for a better look but could see nothing.

  A trick of the light probably. But when she counted along the windows at the back it was in the spot where Oleks’s room was.

  He probably thought she was a great dancer. Like Shirley Temple.

  She waved, in case he was still up there.

  The curtain moved. He probably waved back but she’d begun tapping up a specially hard bit and wanted him to see it.

  She sang all the words to ‘Heart of My Heart’ while she did it. The ones she didn’t know she made up. She made up her mind, too, that she would ask if she would be allowed to go to tap dancing just like the others.

  Zilla’d probably come too. She was always going on about being a dancer like the ones in the film that they’d seen.

  She’d done a couple of steps in the kitchen, just so her mother could see how clever she was. It was hard not to feel stupid. In her head there were a lot of others dancing around at the same time. When you were the only one your feet fell over themselves a bit more often. ‘I’m not very good,’ she said.

  Her mother heaved herself out of the chair that had been set for her. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon that’s pretty clever. Who taught you?’

  ‘Taught myself.’

  Missie did another few steps and waved her arms although she wasn’t too sure that they were exactly right yet. Something to do with her fingers.

  ‘I wanted to be a dancer when I was your age. Ballet dancing, though. With toe shoes.’

  They’d gone to the library and found some ballet books. One of them had a picture of a glorious woman in a white fluffy dress being a dead swan. It was a funny thing to be, but the book took care of the rest of the week.

  She was almost sorry when it was over.

  ‘What’ve you been doing then?’ Zilla wanted to know, when she turned up, Deirdre in tow.

  Missie told them and they spent the next few days working up a whole lot of new dances. Missie’s favourite was still her version of the dying swan, but Deirdre kept yelling that it was boring and tried to push Missie out of the way so she could do wobbly handstands and high kicks across the teachests.

  She was a pain in the neck. Lately she was always with them.

  Especially since Zill’s bike had arrived. Before that she’d only turned up occasionally and usually drifted off home after telling them they were as boring as bat shit.

  There was no point fussing and she’d let it go until one day when they’d made plans to go to the little sandy beach where the river curved around up at the top end of town.

  It was supposed to be just them. Her and Zill. Together in the last few days before school went back.

  ‘Does she always have to come?’ she’d whispered as they dumped their shoes in the sand.

  ‘It’s me uncle,’ Zilla had said as she edged her way along a log. The end of it was out there in the deep water. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Your uncle?’ Missie’s heart was in her mouth. It was hard to balance and talk and listen.

  ‘He’s a bit dodgy with his hands.’

  Not one word of that made sense. It was a marvel, really, that Zill was only the same age. She knew so much more. And had a whole heap of words to tell you about it. At the exact moment there wasn’t one word leaping around in Missie’s brain that was going to help. Her mouth had opened, though, like it was ready.

  ‘He gets Deirdre to sit on his knee all the time,’ Zilla went on. ‘And then he jabs at you. Bit mental if you ask me.’

  ‘What’s he jab?’

  ‘Buggered if I know. It’s just there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In his lap ... his hand ... sort of. I don’t know. It just jabs.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘If you’re sitting on his knee, you’re facing the other way. You can’t see what it is, dumbo, can you?’

  Missie didn’t know. She’d sat on her mother’s knee as there weren’t any men with knees for sitting on in her life. Next time she sat on her mother’s knee she’d check to see what she could, and couldn’t, see.

  ‘And then what’s he do?’

  ‘Goes to have a lie down. Tries to get you to go with him.’

  ‘How come?’

  Zilla shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’ She slammed her stick a bit harder into the hole that she was making at the side of the bank. ‘What’re you asking all this for anyway?’

  ‘I was just asking how come we have to take Deirdre everywhere.’

  ‘Well, you don’t! Okay!’ Zilla stood up and wiped her hands on her skirt. ‘She’s my sister and I like taking her with us.’

  Deirdre, who’d taken the bike for a quick spin along the edge of the road, jumped free as it fell to the ground. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  Deirdre scrambled along behind Zill. ‘You told her about him, didn’t you!’

  ‘Just get on!’ Zilla tried to hold the bike still but it was slipping on the steep slope.

  ‘He said not to tell anyone! I’ll cop it if you dob!’

  Missie stood up. ‘I just asked, that’s all.’

  Deirdre looked at her as best she could while she held tight to the bike. She was trying to stay on the seat. ‘’S none of your business anyway! It’s secret! Stickybeak!’ she said.

  ‘I’m not a stickybeak. And I wasn’t even talking to you!’

  Now she’d had enough. She had no idea what had made Zill go mad or why stupid bloody Deirdre was going on about secrets. All she wanted to know was how come Deirdre was always tagging along.

  She grabbed the front of the bike. ‘I only asked, that’s all!’

  The bike swayed like one of the park drunks before buckling back under itself and dumping Deirdre on the ground.

  It wasn’t funny and they knew they shouldn’t laugh. That was making it worse. Trying to stop and working hard at holding it in only caused a louder explosion and off they’d go again. It took ages to stop. Even then up it would come again. Surprising them all. Snort. Chuckle.

  They let Deirdre take off for another quick ride by herself to cheer her so she wouldn’t dob on them. Dobbing was her most powerful weapon and she didn’t miss a thing. She heard everything she shouldn
’t. Saw everything. And knew all the places they weren’t supposed to go. Like this beach by the river at the top of town.

  The summer’s heat wearily surged on, filling February and the return to school with sagging, desperate heat. Sometimes, just to surprise them, the day suddenly turned cold and sweat chilled in the breeze that whipped itself in from the south.

  Miss Martin was still their teacher, but they’d known that would happen. Everyone got the same teacher for a couple of years. Year Six was special and you got to go with Mr Watson for maths to get ready for high school next year. Year Fivers were special too.

  They were the seniors now.

  School settled into its routine although it still didn’t quite feel right and wouldn’t do so until the steadier, earth-cooled days of autumn really arrived.

  The Queen’s visit was almost on them and their marching practice had lapped over into afternoon play as well as lunchtime. Arms swung, Colonel Bogey blasted out and sweat formed in pop-balls across fatter kids’ lips. Missie would have liked some sweat balls but they never happened for her.

  Morning assembly was taken up with instructions and rules and timetables and routines to be followed.

  ‘And,’ Missie said as she levered herself across the table at home, ‘we’re not to take anything except our lunch and just one jumper in case it gets cold.’

  ‘So?’ Max said. ‘We’re wearing a uniform so we don’t even have to take a jumper. We’ve got our blazers.’

  ‘What’ll we have for our lunch?’ Missie asked. It wasn’t every day she got to take lunch to school. Most days she walked back down the hill and came home to eat.

  ‘Whatever you like.’ Her mother finished stitching the collar of her new school dress. It was waffly blue and white checks. ‘There. This’ll be perfect. And we’ll put some red ribbons in your hair and there you go ... red, white and blue...’

  ‘...cocky wants a poo...’

  ‘Gracious, Max! Wherever did you learn that?’

  Missie giggled. Even Max laughed a little before sucking his lips into their usual straight line.

  ‘Now ... anything else I need to know about the big day? I’ll get it written down so we don’t forget.’

  Lists were made and clothes washed and ironed and blazers dry-cleaned. Aunt Belle gave them each a new shiny sixpence and a lace hanky for Missie and a linen one for Max with M embroidered in the corner. She gave them both neat calico bags, just big enough to hold their lunches, to hang over their shoulders.

  ‘I’m not taking that,’ Max had declared.

  His mother had lifted the bag up to examine it. ‘It looks all right to me. Why ever not?’

  Max folded his arms. ‘Not taking it. That’s all,’ he said.

  The bag that he finally chose was a satchel with a flap over the top that had enough room for at least six lunches.

  Max didn’t care. He wouldn’t change his mind and nor would he let anyone open it. Finally, finally the day arrived. March the third. Six a.m. They stood at the station surrounded by their mothers and all the other children and mothers and fathers who’d come to wave them goodbye. Already Union Jacks were held up and were flapping happily as kids waved them at each other, at the train and at little brothers and sisters who weren’t coming.

  Deirdre wasn’t coming.

  Jimmy still wasn’t coming even though he’d had to go to marching practice every single day for the last six weeks. Finally Miss Martin had taken pity on him and he was allowed to bash the school drum to keep them in time.

  They stood together, her and her mother, waiting for the all-aboard signal. The train looked fierce. Great hisses and surges of steam and smoke erupted every now and then and the wheels edged forward, keen to be gone, like the rodeo horses when they were held still for too long. It was a big step up. You’d want to get it right as well. One slip and those wheels’d have her!

  It wasn’t every day you got to ride on a train. She didn’t even remember the last time. She was only a baby, her mother said.

  ‘Where’s Zilla?’ Her mother was searching around the crowd. ‘It’s nearly time to get on the train and she’s your partner, isn’t she?’

  Missie was getting worried. Zilla was definitely coming. She’d got her bag all ready and they were going to have the same lunch and Missie’s mum had even put in an extra cupcake to share.

  ‘Let’s walk down to the end of the platform.’ Her mother set off, showing no fear whatsoever as she veered out closer to the train and its awful, crunching wheels. ‘We’ll be able to see her coming.’

  They didn’t see her coming. They saw Deirdre.

  ‘She’s got chicken pops!’

  ‘Chickenpox,’ Missie’s mother corrected before she could stop herself. ‘Oh, no. Oh, the poor old thing. She’ll be so disappointed.’

  ‘She’s got ’em all over her!’ Deirdre went on. ‘On her bum even. And her eyes are all covered in ’em. And her mouth.’

  Deirdre straddled the bar on the bike. She handed Missie a mangled looking packet.

  ‘She said you c’n read this ’cause she won’t be there.’

  It was a comic. A great one; the latest Superman. Lois Lane was in his arms on the front cover.

  ‘Has your mum got plenty of calamine?’ her mother was saying. She was telling Deirdre that Zilla mustn’t scratch or she’d have scars.

  And the train was waiting.

  Suddenly the day that was going to be such an adventure just looked like one big scary trip to get through.

  She wouldn’t be home until teatime. The day would be done and it would be getting dark. A whole long, long day.

  Alone.

  18

  3 MARCH 1954

  TRAIN JOURNEY

  They gave her Faith.

  Missie stood beside her and didn’t take her hand. Not even when Mr Watson said they must. Nobody held hands with Faith.

  Nobody even stood near Faith. Not if they could help it.

  As she stood there, as far away as she could from the great, hulking girl who towered over her, Missie could already feel the others melting off, dribbling away as far as possible.

  Nobody sat near Faith, had lunch near Faith or played with Faith because Faith was seriously loony.

  She had a patch on her head that was round and no hair ever, ever grew out of it. She wore her hair in plaits and the patch was right there in the middle of the back part for everyone to see.

  And she touched you. Sometimes she touched you with her finger and other times, for no reason at all, she’d slice you with her ruler or her compass point or the nib of her pen.

  Missie moved to one side.

  Faith moved too. Her big head and open-mouth a hot-breathed shadow beside her.

  ‘Hold hands,’ she said.

  Missie felt her arm taken in one of Faith’s strong hands and her own hand forced to open. Her fingers ached to squeeze shut so she would touch as little of Faith’s flesh as possible.

  ‘I like you.’ Faith leaned down. Her nose was so blocked up each word carried a wet snotty smell. ‘You and me are goin’ to see Queen.’

  Trapped. The same as you trapped a moth in your hands.

  She searched around for someone to save her, all the time trying to look like she didn’t really mind being anchored to a dangerous ratbag. It was better to look like you were okay with it. Nobody was going to rescue you if you were looking as batty as the one holding you. And she didn’t want to alarm Faith. God knows what she’d do if a moth she’d caught tried too hard to get away. Squash it, probably.

  It wasn’t a proper thought. Not enough to get her ready for when Faith grabbed and lifted her off her feet. Kids stood back and watched while she was rattled from side to side like the rat in a terrier’s mouth.

  ‘Put her down!’ Mr Watson appeared. ‘It’s not nice to hug people like that, Faith. Are you all right, Missie?’

  She was not all right. The longer she had to stay with this girl the less all right she was going to be.

&n
bsp; ‘My arm hurts.’ There was going to be a bruise there. Right above her elbow. She was sure of it. She tried to turn the flesh towards her so she could see.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Mr Watson was already moving away to a group of boys who were jeering the arrival of St Pat’s. Missie tried to follow but felt herself held from behind.

  ‘You stay here,’ Faith said.

  She stayed. She really had no choice. First, though, she wrenched her arm free and turned away. Nobody could make her look like she was having a good time.

  She saw Max march by, his arms swinging, his head held high and his satchel firmly anchored to his back.

  ‘You gotta come.’ Faith was up to the jabbing stage. So far it was only a finger.

  ‘I’m coming.’ She was led down the platform to the ladder that they’d need to climb to get up onto the train.

  ‘Right girls?’ Mr Watson smiled.

  Missie didn’t smile back. Nor did she answer. He knew she wasn’t right by the way he was avoiding looking at them. He didn’t meet her eyes when he popped his head in to check that everyone had a seat. He grinned at the others, counted them, told them to put their bags in the racks above their heads and was gone and not once did he look her way.

  She was past caring.

  At least she was sitting on one side and Faith on the other. They could only fit three to a side and the other girls made the mistake of rushing in to claim their seats only to find that one of them got to sit by Faith.

  Missie looked at her. At least being Faith got you lots of room. Jude was sitting so close to Dolly Edwards that she was practically in her lap.

  ‘You wanna play jack?’ Faith had dipped in her bag and produced a perfectly matched set of knucklebones. They were creamy white, the colour of old teeth. Beautiful.

  They were true jacks. It took ages to round them up and dry them off like that.

  Her mother had bought her plastic ones. They were little and shaped like knucklebones but they felt different. True knucklebones were smooth and had edges that nestled snugly into the palm of your hand. Fingertips fitted precisely in the little groove across the top.