Little Exiles. Robert Dinsdale

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      IV

      They are the last of the Crusade to go ashore, gathered around Judah Reed with the sea spraying wild about them.

      On shore, Judah Reed manhandles each boy onto the jetty. They march along the pier, into wooden outhouses where other boys are already lined up. When Jon and George join the procession, there is no sign of Peter or the bigger boys with whom he sailed.

      ‘You remember what he said,’ Jon whispers. ‘You’re ten years old.’

      ‘I’m eight.’

      ‘You’re ten,’ Jon insists, ‘and don’t forget it …’

      There are other men in black here. They greet Judah Reed at the head of the procession and meander up and down the column of boys. To some, they whisper hellos; to others, nothing but an indifferent glance. Behind them, there stands a trio of ladies older still.

      The boy in front of Jon trembles. Jon recognizes the gesture well enough. A little ripple runs through his body, and then he begins to cry.

      The boy is practised at disguising it – a life spent in the dormitories of the Children’s Crusade is good for something – but he will not disguise it forever. Jon wonders what Peter would do, reaches forward and jabs the boy in the ribs.

      ‘You ought to stop that,’ Jon whispers.

      ‘I don’t know where on earth we are.’

      At the front of the outhouse, the boys are being confronted by the women. One by one, they announce their names, and one by one they are led through doors, away from the coast and the disappearing Othello.

      Jon cranes to look out of the outhouse windows. On tip-toes, he can just see the column of boys walking across a red dirt yard to a motorbus sitting beyond. The bus is yellow, like those that once patrolled the fiery streets of Leeds, and its driver lounges against the side. Some of the bigger boys are already on board.

      ‘George,’ he whispers. ‘I think it’s Peter …’

      George bounds up, springing awkwardly to try and see. ‘Where are they taking him?’

      Before Jon can answer, one of the women is looming above them. He looks up, shuffles quickly back into place. The woman has a shrewd eye on him – but she seems willing to let the misdemeanour go. She takes a step back, so that she can consider George.

      ‘What is your name, little one?’ Her voice is throaty, the accent an English one that Jon has only ever heard on the wireless.

      ‘He’s called George,’ Jon interjects.

      She goes on. ‘I would like to hear it from him.’

      George tries to look at the woman, but instead he looks back at Jon. Jon’s eyes flare. It is an unspoken command, the kind Peter might make, but George is silent still.

      ‘I’m Jon!’ Jon announces. ‘Jon Heather …’

      The woman breaks from George and ponders it casually. ‘There was a Jon at the start of this row,’ she begins. ‘Jack is short for Jon, is it not?’ She seems pleased with this deduction. ‘Yes,’ she goes on, ‘I believe Jack would suit. How old are you?’

      Jon answers almost before the question is finished. The word seems to have a magical effect on George, for suddenly he spins around.

      ‘I’m ten too,’ he pipes up.

      ‘Very well,’ the woman replies. ‘Across the yard and bear left. Each boy must follow the boy in front.’

      Jon ushers George forward. In front of them, the hall is already emptying. At the threshold, framed against red dirt, Judah Reed stands watchfully. The sky, once a rolling blue expanse, is paling as evening approaches.

      Side by side, they step out. The boys ahead are banking left, away from the yellow motorbus. There is a sweet smell in the air, and birdsong in the branches of trees Jon has never before seen.

      The engine of the motorbus fires, chokes out exhaust and draws away.

      George freezes, eyes drawn after the bus. ‘Are we going the same way?’

      Jon pushes him on. Along the verge of the dirt track there sits a collection of other vehicles. A ramshackle wagon already has a gang of six boys piled into its open back, with a single dog standing proudly among them. Dark and sandy, with deep drooling jaws, it is not like any of the mongrel street dogs of Leeds. Behind that, another utility truck is being loaded.

      ‘Stop that dallying, you pair of scuttlers!’ a gruff voice bawls out. ‘It’s getting dark already …’

      A burly man shoos them towards the rear wagon like a dog might herd sheep. George is the first to run. Jon holds his ground only momentarily longer, George’s hand suddenly pressed into his own. Settling in the wagon, they are greeted by the snout of the sandy dog and silent hellos from the boys already on board.

      ‘Here,’ one of them finally begins, ‘take this.’ His fist is bunched around a small green apple, which he tosses to Jon. Jon takes a bite; the fruit is sour, СКАЧАТЬ