The Song of the Lost Boy

by Maggie Allder

  “I think you have a question, Giorgio,” he says, when our mugs are about half empty.

  “I’m thinking about lots of things,” I tell him. “Journalists, and people going north, and crosses.”

  The Old Man thinks for a bit. He says, “Well, I can see why you are wondering about journalists and going north, but where do the crosses come in?”

  I say, “We saw one in a church, me and Vishna, when we were hiding from social workers. And Vishna says they are everywhere. And I want to know about them.”

  “Ah!” says the Old Man. “And of course, there is that necklace that came from your parents…”

  “Yes,” I am not surprised the Old Man knows. Skye will have told him.

  “Well…” says the Old Man. There is a long pause. “More tea?” he suggests, and tops up our mugs.

  We listen to the autumn leaves rustling overhead. “Soon be winter,” says the Old Man, although today it is a lovely day, full of sunshine and breezes.

  Then he says, “Crosses, religion, the whole business of it … Tricky, you know, Giorgio.”

  “Yes.” I think for a bit. “Everyone is always telling me religion is dangerous,” I say, “but the People Who Must Be Saints are religious, aren’t they? And the Salvation Army is religious.” Then I take a gamble, and I add, “And I think the Music Maker is religious, because he sings the mighty thunder song when he comes up here to sort out his spirit.”

  The Old Man chuckles. “Well done!” he says. Then he says, “You are young to be grappling with these things, Giorgio. Let me try to explain. Religion is like everything in this life – it can be good and it can be bad. On this Hill we decided to keep religion out of things, because it caused so much argument in the early days. The real trouble with religion,” the Old Man sighs, “is that it is in the nature of things, that if you have a religion, you think you’re right. And as often as not, you think you are doing people a favour if you convince them you’re right.”

  I am not sure I understand. I decide I will think about what he has said later. “So, can I research crosses?” I ask the Old Man, getting back to the main point.

  The Old Man looks into the bottom of his mug for a while, and I wait for him to decide. I know I will find it hard if he says no. But in fact, he looks up, and says, “I think it might be just what you need to do. Let’s decide where you will start.”

  * * *

  When I am walking down the Hill, just as I get past the trees and I am close to Walking Tall’s shelter, I hear that they are having an argument.

  I hear Little Bear’s mum first. She is saying, “But it would be such a risk! If they caught us… The children would end up in care.”

  Then Walking Tall says, “My love, that is just as likely to happen if we don’t go. You know the council won’t let us stay here forever. I’m surprised we’ve got away with it for as long as we have.”

  Little Bear’s mum sounds really, really upset. She says, “The problem is, they’re not your kids. When push comes to shove, you’re more concerned to get to Scotland than you are to keep the kids safe!”

  I think Little Bear’s mum is silly. Walking Tall is a real dad to the Bears; I heard Skye say so one night round the fire.

  Walking Tall says, with a sort of tired patience in his voice, “Look, love, if Skye knows someone who can help us, it is probably the best chance we will ever have.” Then he says, “We have given these kids a good life here for several years, but we’re living in the present. We never know what the future will bring. If we go to Scotland we can give the kids a future, too.”

  Little Bear’s mum says, as if she is crying, “But it’s such a risk!”

  I do not realise I have stopped to listen. I know it is rude to pay attention to other people’s conversations. Little Bear’s mum comes bursting out of the shelter. She sees me standing there. She shouts at me, “And what do you think you’re doing, young man?” and rushes away round the Hill.

  Walking Tall comes out after her. He sees me standing there too. I am going red in the face because Little Bear’s mum yelled at me, which she has never done before. Walking Tall says, “Sorry, Giorgio. She’s just upset.” Then he follows her round the Hill.

  I see that their fire is nearly out. They were too busying arguing to pay proper attention to it. I put some more wood on it – green wood, that will burn through slowly, and I go down to our shelter. It feels as if everything is changing.

  * * *

  The next time the Old Man and I talk about my cross research, he suggests I start with the Music Maker. So, after our English lesson (we are writing poems this week) and our snacks, I find him by his fire. He is talking to Big Bear about setting his poem to music. They are using words like chords, harmony and vocals. The Music Maker sees me standing there, and he raises one eyebrow, which means, Well, can I help you?

  I say, “The Old Man suggested I should talk to you.”

  He looks a bit surprised, but not unhappy. He says to Big Bear, “So, have a go at that, and I’ll see how you’ve got on in about an hour. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” says Big Bear. He is holding the Music Maker’s guitar casually, as if he is very at home with it.

  The Music Maker says, “Let’s sit on the earthworks,” and we walk down the Hill and round a bit, to the place where I suppose Walking Tall and Little Bear’s mum finished their argument. Of course, they are not there now. We sit down next to each other.

  The Music Maker says, “So, how can I help?”

  I say, “I’m doing some more research.”

  “Ah-ha!” says the Music Maker. “And what would you like to know this time?”

  I explain about the cross, and about the Old Man agreeing that he, Music Maker, is religious.

  The Music Maker thinks for a bit. “I think we need to make a distinction,” he says, “between religion in general, and the cross in particular.”

  I wait for him to explain. “As you know, I think, there are lots of different religions. George Harrison, who I told you about last time, was a Hindu. The cross is all to do with Christianity.”

  I half knew this. We had learnt about myths and legends, but we had kept away from beliefs because of all the trouble they can cause. The Music Maker says, “For what it’s worth, Christianity is my particular religion.” Then he talks for a while about Christians, and all the different types that there are in the world, and how he was once interested in becoming a priest until his eyes were opened and he felt that there was no need for priests. He says, “The thing is, Giorgio, in the end it’s all between you and God. Nobody else need be involved.”

  It is interesting, but I think he is not helping me in my research about crosses. I say, “So, is the cross a symbol or a thing?” and hope it will bring him back to the questions I want to answer.

  “Oh, both!” says the Music Maker. “There was a real cross, and a real death on the cross. No doubt about it. But it is a symbol too. It is a symbol of love.”

  I am a bit out of my depth. I think a heart is the symbol of love. The Music Maker says, “Jesus was a bit like us – a bit feckless. He travelled around and he mixed with all sorts of people, like we do. And he loved them all. So the cross he died on is a symbol of love.”

  “So, was Jesus the Scum of the Earth?” I want to know.

  “Some people would certainly say so,” says the Music Maker.

  I think to myself that if my mum and dad had a cross in a letter Q because they were feckless, and the Scum of the Earth, then they must be people like Skye, and the Music Maker, and the Old Man. I think that perhaps, one day, they will come to the Hill, like Vishna did, and we will be reunited.

  I say, “Thank you, Music Maker,” and I go back to our shelter.

  Further up the Hill I see that Walking Tall and Little Bear’s mum are sitting by their fire. Walking Tall has his arm round Little Bear’s mum’s shou
lder and their heads are close together. They are not arguing; you can see that even from a distance. I think they are making plans.

  I think that a cross is an odd symbol for love. I think two people with their arms round each other and their heads close would be a better symbol than one man stuck on a cross, but the world is a strange place and I still have a lot to learn.

  * * *

  Researching the cross is not as easy as researching my name. I cannot go around the camp asking everyone if they have any special memories of crosses. In fact, other than the Music Maker and perhaps Vishna and the Professor, I am not sure I feel comfortable about raising the topic with anyone. There is another problem, too. All the grown-ups in the camp seem to be talking about the journalist from Sweden, and about the idea of going north. They are not so interested in research, and they even skip our English lesson and let us play instead, so that they can all talk about these things, round their fires and on the earthworks. Skye is looking worried. Walking Tall and Little Bear’s mum go everywhere holding hands, and I see that they have reached a big conclusion, although they have not said anything to Little Bear yet.

  When the grown-ups have finished talking about the journalist, I go to the Professor’s fire circle, where Vishna is making a hot snack. Autumn is coming and the Professor says she can feel it in her old bones.

  “This might be my last winter,” she says to Vishna.

  Vishna says, “Oh, I hope not,” and makes a ball of dough to toast on a stick on the fire, for me.

  I say, “Professor, can you tell me about crosses, please?”

  “Ah, Giorgio, my boy,” says the Professor. “Always asking such interesting questions! What sort of crosses are we talking about?”

  “Crosses like in religion,” I say. “Crosses round people’s necks and crosses in churches.”

  “My goodness!” says the Professor. “You’re not turning all religious, are you? I never had much time for religion, myself, although I appreciate the current Archbishop of Canterbury. It takes some guts to go to prison for your faith.”

  I am not sure what the Professor is talking about. I see that Vishna is smiling to herself while she prepares our snacks. I am glad she does not interrupt.

  I say, “I am not becoming religious, I am doing some research.”

  The Professor says, “Oh, in that case…”

  Then she says to Vishna, “Can this young man stay to lunch? Do we have enough?”

  Vishna is still smiling. She says, “We always have enough for Giorgio!”

  So the Professor says, “Then you had better sit down, boy. I have quite a lot to tell you.”

  * * *

  It is an interesting snack time. We are eating sardines from a tin the People Who Must Be Saints gave us, with little flour-and-water dough balls and spinach leaves. These are all some of my favourite foods, although it is hard to eat hot dough balls fresh from the fire without burning your fingers or your mouth.

  The Professor tells me a lot of things. Some of it is quite complicated, and I am rather lost with all the history of it and the names she tells me: Martin Luther and John Calvin, the Luddites and Wycliffe, and people called popes, and the King James Bible. I do not have my notebook, and I think that a lot of this stuff is not really about crosses, but about the religion of Christianity, which is very complicated and has a long history.

  When our snacks are finished and Vishna has made tea with something lemony in it, the Professor begins to slow down. I use the opportunity to ask, “And all these different people have crosses as their symbols?”

  “That’s right,” agrees the Professor. “They all do, one way or another.”

  I can’t help sighing. The cross seems to be a very complicated piece of research.

  I make one more attempt to get some sense out of it all. “So why do some crosses have men stuck on them and some do not?” I want to know.

  Vishna laughs, but she still does not say anything except, “More tea, Professor?”

  The Professor says, “A very astute question, if I may say so, young man!”

  I worry that she is going to start talking about more people I have not heard of, and do not particularly need to know about just now, but instead she gives me a really simple answer. “In the West,” she says, “there are two main branches of Christianity: the Roman Catholics and the Protestants. Generally speaking, the Roman Catholics use a crucifix and the Protestants use a cross.”

  Although it is a short answer, I am lost again. “What’s a crucifix?” I ask.

  At last Vishna comes in to the conversation. “A crucifix is a cross with the statue of Jesus on it. A cross is plain.”

  I think of the cross in the letter Q on my necklace.

  “Is it best to be Roman Catholic or Protestant?” I ask.

  “Well now,” says the Professor, “that is the question! But if you two young people would like to go away for a few minutes and do whatever it is young people do after lunch, I need forty winks!”

  Then, without lying down, the Professor closes her eyes and her head drops forward. She is fast asleep, sitting upright on her high log.

  * * *

  I spend the afternoon writing down notes in my George Pearson notebook. I leave a couple of pages blank after the information about Georges and Giorgios, and then I write down everything useful I have found out, so far, about crosses.

  There is not much to help me to find my mum and dad. The cross in the Q does not have a man stuck to it, so perhaps my parents were Protestants. I did not understand, or even listen properly, to all the Professor’s talk about popes and Wycliffe and all that stuff, but I realise that I need to know which branch of the Christian religion is good and which is bad.

  I go back to the Music Maker, who has reclaimed his guitar from Big Bear and is tuning it carefully.

  “That boy is heavy duty!” he says to me. Then, “What’s up, Giorgio?”

  I plunge straight in. “When you were thinking you might be a priest,” I wonder, “were you going to be a Roman Catholic or a Protestant?”

  “My goodness!” says the Music Maker. “That’s the strangest question a child has ever asked me!”

  I think that grown-ups are not as helpful when they talk about religion as they are when they are thinking about names. “Yes, but which was it?” I ask.

  The Music Maker stops tuning his guitar. He says, “Does it matter?”

  I explain, “Roman Catholics have crucifixes and Protestants have crosses.”

  The Music Maker looks perplexed. He says, “Giorgio, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, here. The question isn’t about which church you belong to, it’s about what’s in your heart.”

  He is not helping me at all. I say, “But…”

  He says, looking at me quite thoughtfully, “What’s this all about?”

  So I tell him about the necklace I was wearing when Skye found me.

  “May I see it?” the Music Maker asks gently. “Or is it too private?”

  I run down the slope and go into our shelter. The little leather bag is in one of the pockets of Skye’s backpack, and I pull it out and run back up to the Music Maker’s fire circle.

  Carefully I take it out of the bag. It lies in my hand, a silver-coloured chain with a Q and a cross inside it. I place it in the Music Maker’s cupped hands. I see that it is a bit tarnished, but it still glints in the overcast light of the afternoon.

  The Music Maker looks at it quietly for several minutes. Then he says, “It’s lovely, Giorgio.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Then he says, “Well, I’ll be honest, I don’t remember ever seeing this sign before, and I don’t know what it means. But I’m sure it’s special.”

  He passes it back to me. He says, “I used to know a lot about what was going on in the churches at one time, but this sign…” Then he adds, �
��The only way I would know, of finding out what it means, would be to investigate the logos of all the different churches.”

  “How would I do that?” I ask, looking at the little necklace nestling in my hands.

  “Well, the short way would be to look on the internet,” he says. “But that’s easier said than done for people like us. The long way is to walk all around the city looking at every church building.”

  I think about that. I say, “I would be scared of social workers finding me.”

  “A fear that is not without justification,” agrees the Music Maker.

  I go back to our shelter and carefully replace the necklace where it is safe. Then I go to find Little Bear and we play racing until dinner time.

  * * *

  I am busy for two days. Skye insists that we have extra lessons to make up for the ones we missed, so we have English before our snack time and again afterwards. I am learning a poem which starts King John was not a good man… We are all going to recite our poems, which come from a little book Vishna brought with her, to the whole group.

  Little Bear says, “We might have gone by then.”

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  Little Bear explains. I cannot tell if he is pleased or not. “We are going to go north,” he tells me. “Mum and Walking Tall, and Big Bear and me. Skye is arranging it with a contact. We want to try to live in Scotland.”

  “You’ll have to pay taxes!” I say, which has always made Little Bear laugh before. He does not laugh this time. Instead he says, “If they catch us, they’ll put us in care.”

  I understand that this is a very serious business. I say, “Skye won’t organise something that is dangerous for you.”

  Little Bear says, “Giorgio, everything is dangerous for us.” He sounds sad and worried. Then he says, “Will you come with us?”

  I am surprised. “Me?” I say.

  Little Bear says, “If they catch us, Big Bear and Mum and Walking Tall will all go into labour camps. They’re all grown up. Or even prison. If we were caught, you and me, we would both go into care and we’d be together.” Little Bear fidgets, then he says very quietly, “Giorgio, I’m frightened of going into care on my own.”