Little Exiles. Robert Dinsdale

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      VI

      Two days later, Judah Reed leads them in a Sunday service and, afterwards, they are permitted to write letters. In the assembly hall, Jon finds a seat at a long trestle table, and begins to dream of an opening sentence. At the far end, one of the cottage mothers looming on his shoulder, George wriggles onto his stool and stares, puzzled, at his paper.

      Jon throws a look around the room and sees, for the first time, that none of the older boys of the Mission have come. He wonders why they do not care about writing to their mothers – and then he feels George’s sticky hand on his shoulder.

      The little boy is standing beside him, stubby pencil in his fist.

      ‘You’ll have to sit down, George. If one of them sees …’

      ‘What can I write, Jon?’

      Jon shuffles over, offering George half of his stool. Eagerly, George flops down, almost upending Jon.

      ‘Will I write to the Home, do you think?’ he wonders. ‘Or Peter?’ He stops. ‘Where would I write to Peter, do you think?’

      Jon looks into George’s expectant eyes, recalls vividly that morning in the Home when George was crying behind the chantry.

      ‘You can write to my mother, if you like.’

      Jon lifts the pencil out of George’s fingers and pushes it back in, the right way round.

      ‘What will I say?’

      ‘I don’t know, George. It’s your letter.’

      ‘Can I have a look at yours?’

      Quickly, Jon wraps his arm around the page. Isn’t it enough that he’s sharing his stool and his mother, without George having to share every single word?

      Bewildered, George mirrors the action around his own page.

      ‘I might tell her about being a sailor,’ he decides, and promptly breaks the point of his pencil.

      While George is scratching away, Jon ponders every word. This letter has to be perfect. The perfect line could send his sisters scurrying halfway across the world. He sketches sentences lightly, using only the very tip of his pencil, and when it does not sound right he starts again, pressing harder this time to disguise what went before. He wonders if he should tell her he is well. He wants to tell her – but perhaps she might think he is better where he is, and not come for him at all. He wonders if he should tell her how terribly they live, how there is no food but the food they forage and butcher, how Judah Reed might appear at any moment to take boys into his study for a beating – but he does not want to upset her; she does not deserve that.

      At last, Jon decides that he will tell the truth, without any fancy. His mother will surely appreciate that.

      He writes each letter perfectly, just the way she always liked.

       Dear Mother,

       There has been a dreadful mistake, and I am in Australia. I know you did not mean this for me, because you love me, but the men from the Children’s Crusade say we have to be Australian boys. I promise, mother, I am forever your English son.

       I know home is hard and there is not money until my father comes home. I promise I will help. I’ll be eleven soon, and then I can find work, in a shop or on a bike. Or I can come and clean houses with you. I wouldn’t be a nuisance. I don’t need Christmases and I don’t need birthdays and I don’t even need a Sunday dinner. I’ll have bread and gravy.

       I’m sorry I made it so you had to give me away. But anything bad I’ve done or anything bad I’ve said, I haven’t meant a thing. I want to be good for you. I love you and I love my sisters, and I’d love you wherever we lived, even if we never go back to the old house.

       I’ll be your best boy, if only you come and take me back. I’ll get you anything you want – and, mother, if I haven’t got it, why, I’ll go for and get it.

       I am your son who loves you,

       Jon (Heather)

      It fills one side of the paper and, rearing back, Jon is tremendously proud. He suddenly thinks of what Peter might have said if he had seen such a display, and inwardly he cringes. This is nothing of Peter’s business. Peter is gone, and Jon can think whatever he wants.

      He glances at George, who has made a mess of one side of his paper and started again on the reverse. His displays are big and crude, but he has made more words than Jon thought possible.

       You will be ever pleased to know Jonn looks after me like my one brother. Its not the same as peter but he is in deed a very good boy. He promises I can live with you when we are to get back in England

      Jon wants to rip the paper away – and perhaps George senses it, for he shifts his body around and the words are gone from sight. It is better this way. Let him think whatever he wants – but there will not be room for him at the old house.

      Some of the boys have finished their displays and, sealing them diligently, hand them to the cottage mother sitting at the front of the hall. On the other side of the hall, Jon spies Ernest, creasing his page and carefully СКАЧАТЬ