Then he looks directly at me, and says, “Your search has come a long way, hasn’t it, since we last had a discussion?”
“It has,” I agree.
“So, tell us where you think you have got to,” he suggests.
I pause for a moment. Then I say, “Well, I know that the People are called Quakers and that the Q and the cross was a Quaker symbol, so I think my parents were Quakers.” I stop and think about that, and correct my statement. “Are Quakers,” I say. “And I think they were… are, good people, and that they were arrested, and perhaps they are doing hard labour, or have been sent to some place abroad, or maybe they are just incarcerated, and that is why I lost them.” I stop and think about that, and then I say, “Perhaps the working hypothesis about my name needs to be changed now. Do you think I might have been called after George Fox, who started the Quakers?”
“Now, that’s a good question,” says the Old Man.
Vishna says, “It’s beginning to seem more likely than you being named after George Harrison.”
Skye says, “It doesn’t really matter, though, Giorgi, does it? Whether you were named after someone who was famous or someone your parents loved, or whether they just liked the name, you can be pretty sure their reasons were good, because they were good people.”
“Yes,” I say, and I feel comfortable, and I realise, too, that the Old Man has stopped Vishna or Skye from telling me off about the journalist and the nature reserve.
Altogether I feel warm and happy when I climb into my sleeping bag, even though Skye will probably be gone when I wake up in the morning, and even though I still have not actually found my parents. For a few minutes, before I go to sleep, I think about the colours I saw in the silence of the Meeting, of how they moved and changed and were beautiful. Just as I am going to sleep I say to the golden light, “Don’t let me grow out of this!”
And then I wake up, and it is morning.
Chapter 4
The Song
For a few days after the Quaker Sunday, Vishna and I spend our time just catching up on routine activities. Our woodpile needs restocking, and we have to go quite a long way, down the Hill towards the river, to find decent sticks that won’t flare up and then burn in two minutes flat. We have to wait until dark to fill up our water bottles from the tap in the garden of the cottage by the school, and we have clothes to wash. Drying them is difficult, because the weather is damp, and we don’t want to hang them by the fire because, as Vishna says, if we walk into the city smelling of smoke it will be a dead giveaway. We need to do some food gleaning too, and with only the two of us we are a bit concerned. The man at the fruit stall gives us parsnips and tangerines, but we need a more varied diet than that.
Fortunately there is some sort of conference at the hotel by the cathedral, and one night in the middle of the week Vishna comes up the Hill with unopened packets of sandwiches and biscuits that have not even reached their sell-by date, and for one night a stranger visits the Old Man. We do not meet the stranger, but the following evening the Old Man invites us to eat our evening meal with him at the big fire circle, and we eat a rich, tasty stew which the Old Man tells us is hare. I cannot go into the city during the day because it is no longer half term, but in the evenings everything is lit up. They have hung the Christmas decorations across the streets, but they haven’t turned the lights on yet. They will do that in time for Thanksgiving, which is an American festival which is big in England too, now that we are in the New Alliance. There are a lot of festivals at this time of year. Big Bear, Little Bear, Limpy and I used to love it, and it is a surprise to me to think that this time last year Vishna had not even joined us yet.
The best of the festivals, from our point of view, is Bonfire Night. The people in the city have a big celebration on the nearest Saturday, with a procession through Winchester with everyone carrying burning torches, and a huge fire in the park where Skye once told me there used to be a camp of homeless people. For days before and after the Saturday celebration, people have little bonfires and small firework displays in their back gardens, but the best fireworks are always on the Saturday. Ever since I can remember we have sat on the earthworks and watched it all. “The best seats in town!” said Skye once.
This year there is just Vishna and me. We sit on the earthworks where our camp used to be, looking out over the city. The river looks black and a little shiny, winding its way through the water meadows a long way below us. We cannot see the procession from here, we are too far round, but once the fireworks start, shooting up into the air with hisses and bangs and exploding in pinks and blues and greens, we can see everything. For a little while we just say to each other the things people always say, like, “Wow! That was a good one!” and, “Hey! Look at that!” Then, while a fountain of sparks flies up into the air like a waterfall, changing from orange to green and back to orange again, Vishna says, “Shall we go to the Quaker Meeting again tomorrow?”
I am glad she has asked. I say, “I would like to.”
Vishna says, “They are your people, in a way, aren’t they?”
I watch a big rocket whistling up into the air, even higher than us, and then exploding into white and gold stars, and I do not say anything for a few minutes. I am thinking about the colours I could see last Sunday as we sat in silence, and I say, “I sort of fit in there.”
“Yes,” says Vishna, “I think you do.”
* * *
The lookouts in the street the next morning are two oldish-looking ladies. They are standing under an umbrella with the stars and stripes on it, because it is pouring with rain, and they just look like two ladies who have met by accident in the street. We do not even realise they are lookouts until one woman glances up and down the street, waits for a boy with a dog to go along the path by the children’s play area, and then gives us the thumbs-up sign.
I recognise some of the faces from the week before. The man with the cloth cap is sitting in the far corner, and next to him is the journalist. There is a young couple I did not see last week, with a sleeping baby. Vishna and I are just settling into our seats when Will, Pixie and Gracie come in, with the people who are looking after them. They see us, and smile. Even Gracie smiles, and I think that after just one week of being looked after by grown-ups she is feeling happier.
I find it much harder to find my way into the Meeting this week. I close my eyes, and I expect to see the colours whirling around, as they did the week before, but it is just ordinary, the way it is when I close my eyes at night and can only hear the wind in the trees, and no talking. I think about the golden light, which is the Goodness which lies behind all the world, and I think I can see it, but I am not sure. Perhaps I just see the memory of it. But I do feel a sort of stillness in my mind, and that is good, a sort of calm, the way it is very early on a summer morning if you wake up just as it starts to get light, before all the birds have started singing.
Singing.
Singing.
The word singing seems to go around in my head. Then the words I half remember from the days before I lost my parents, the words of the song, How can I keep from singing?
I feel a sort of shock going through me, and I open my eyes. Cloth-cap man is looking directly at me, a thoughtful sort of expression on his face. I feel a sort of panic. I think that I must have made a noise, or moved suddenly. But the man just gives me a big smile and closes his eyes again. I look at the candle which is burning steadily on the table, and I listen to the little sucking noises the baby is making on its dummy, and my heart starts to beat slow and steady again. I close my eyes, but my mind is busy. I think, I mustn’t ignore the last clue. I must find out about the songs too. Then at last I can see the golden light of the Goodness, but it is a long way away and not as bright as last week. Never mind, it is there.
Nobody speaks during the Meeting, until just before the end. Then Gracie starts to wriggle and move around in her chair, so th
at I think perhaps she needs the loo. Then she stands up and says in her quiet little voice, “Take heed, dear Friends, to the prompting of love and truth in your hearts…” Then she just stands there for a few minutes, and sits down again. I see Pixie reach over and give her a sort of quick hug.
I think, Is the golden light prompting me to think about those songs? Is that what I need to do next? Did the golden light put that idea into my head? Then I think that I do not want to talk to Vishna or to Skye about this, or even the Old Man. It sounds like an odd thing to say, but I want to do this on my own, just me and the golden light.
* * *
Will does the announcements at the end, again, and thanks the people from Andover and Alton for coming over to join us. He says that there is tea and coffee in the kitchen, and we all troop through. It seems that Will, Pixie and Gracie have been making muffins with Maria, who is looking after them, and we all tuck in happily. They are soft and gooey in the middle, and taste of chocolate.
Vishna is talking to the journalist. She is telling Vishna that she is a Muslim, and that she too tries to listen to the promptings of love and truth. Will says to me, “Do you want to come with us into the children’s room?”
Other than the baby, who does not really count, Will and his sisters and I are the only children here this week. I say, “Okay,” and we run through the pouring rain to the little hut.
It is pretty much the same as when I last saw it. Will says, “I want to get some of my stuff,” and he starts to climb the ladder to get up to the sleeping platform. “Come and see!” he says, so I follow him up.
It is a bit of a mess up here. The three sleeping bags are all muddled up, the way they must have been when Will, Pixie and Gracie last wriggled out of them, and there are items of clothing scattered around. It is cosy, though, and I think perhaps the children had been safer than I had realised. It feels very hidden and secret. I watch Will bundling up this and that and pushing them into a cloth bag, but he does not touch the sleeping bags.
“Don’t you need those?” I ask.
Will says, “No, we sleep in proper beds at Maria’s.”
Then I think, I wonder if I have ever slept in a proper bed? I have seen pictures of them, in books, and there is a shop in St George’s Street that sells them, and I have looked in the window and thought how big they are, and how far off the ground. I want to ask Will if he ever falls out of his proper bed, but I do not want to look ignorant, so I do not say anything else.
When he has gathered up everything he wants, Will says to me, “So, is your name Edward?”
“Not really,” I say, but I don’t tell him what it actually is.
“I’m called Will,” he says, which of course I know now. I think he is inviting me to tell him my real name, but I don’t. Instead I ask, “Are your parents feckless?”
“What?” asks Will, as if I have said something he does not understand.
“Scum of the Earth,” I try to explain.
He just looks blankly at me. I try again, “Does your dad have a job?” I ask. “Do you go to school?”
Now he understands. “Oh,” he says. “Dad is an accountant. Self-employed. And Mum is an illustrator. And we go to school in Harestock. Or we do when we’re not at Maria’s.”
I do not know about people being self-employed. It seems like an odd idea. Does Will’s father pay himself for doing work? And if so, where does the money come from? I think I will ask Skye when she comes back in time for Christmas. Or maybe the Old Man.
Will says, “So, are you and that girl going to come to Meeting every week?”
We are sitting on the rumpled sleeping bags, and I realise we are becoming friends. I say, “Well, perhaps. Probably. I hope so.”
Will says, “You said your parents might have been Quakers.”
“Yes,” I agree. I take my cross in the Q out of my inside pocket and pass it to Will. He looks at it carefully. I explain, “I was wearing it when S…” I stop just in time. “When I was found.”
“It’s our Q, all right,” says Will. “But it’s odd that it has a cross in it. We don’t usually go for crosses.”
Then Will gives me a big, friendly smile. “I think they were Quakers, your mum and dad, so I think you should become a Quaker too. You and that girl. It’s fun. We do all sorts of stuff.” Then he looks serious and adds, “Well, anyway, we do if our parents aren’t being arrested!”
* * *
When we go back into the main house most people have gone. Vishna and the man with the cloth cap, who is called Percy, and the journalist, Liliane, are talking together, and all the muffins have gone. Maria is sitting on a chair in the dark little room which leads off the kitchen, with Gracie on her lap. I do not see Pixie anywhere.
Percy sees us coming in, and says, “Oh, there you are, boys,” and it feels friendly, the way it was when Walking Tall talked to Little Bear and me. Then he says, “Has Will explained anything about our Meetings?”
I think Will looks a little ashamed, so I quickly say, “I have been asking him other things.” Then I add, “Gracie stood up and said those words which are on the wall in the children’s room.”
For a moment Percy looks blank, then he says, “Oh! I see! You mean when she spoke in Meeting. It was brave of her, wasn’t it?”
I think about standing up in front of several adults and saying words from a poster, and I think of how fearful Gracie usually seems to be, and I agree. “It was,” I say. “Very brave.”
“We call it ministry,” says Percy. “It is when the Spirit gives someone words to say.”
“The Spirit is the Goodness?” I ask.
Percy pauses for a moment, then he smiles. “That’s a pretty good way of explaining it, actually. The Spirit is the Goodness.”
So then I know that although I did not see all the colours this time, the way I did the week before, the Goodness has spoken to me, first with an idea and then with Gracie’s words.
I say to Percy, “I think I need to become a Quaker.”
Percy laughs out loud. “Whoa! Whoa!” he says, as if I am a horse. “There’s no hurry.” Then perhaps I look disappointed, because he says, “Of course, the choice is mostly yours in the end. But give it a few more weeks.”
* * *
One thing is bothering me. As we walk up the Hill I say to Vishna, “You never hear the Quakers singing, do you?”
Vishna stops and looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face. “People don’t sing much, do they?” she says. “I mean, not while they’re having coffee or chatting to people.” She giggles. “Wouldn’t it be funny,” she says, “if someone just burst out into song? Like a musical.”
I think she is talking about movies, but I have never seen one. I say, “Yes, but in their Meetings.”
We have got to the place on the Hill where the well-worn track fades away into a patch of mud. From this point onwards we try to use different routes up to our shelters, so that people walking their dogs do not think there is a footpath and follow it, and discover us. I go right, a way which begins to go back down the Hill, then jump over a bare patch of ground into some tall grass that makes my legs wet, then sharp left and along and up. Vishna follows me. As we round the corner of the Hill towards the motorway the wind hits us with a splatter of rain in its breath, and Vishna pulls up her hood.
When we are walking side by side again she says, “They sing in other churches. Hymns and chants. But the Quakers hardly even talk, do they?”
“They talk a lot when they’re not in a Meeting,” I point out. Then I add, “We used to sing a lot before all the others went north. And do you remember the Music Maker? He used to go up the Hill and sing, to sort out his spirit.”
We walk along together, thinking about it all. I am wondering whether perhaps my parents were not Quakers after all, because I can remember those two parts of songs, and then I wonder whether
my memory is reliable. Vishna is obviously thinking about something else, because she says, “I miss them, the others. Do you?”
Then I feel a little guilty, because I would like to play with Little Bear, and talk to him and all the other kids about everything we have seen and done since they left, but as long as Vishna and the Old Man are here and Skye keeps coming back to check on us, I feel fine. I do not feel as if I should say, “No, I don’t miss them!” but I don’t want to tell a lie and say, “Yes,” so instead I say, “I wonder what they are doing right now.”
We can see a thin wisp of smoke now, from our fire, or maybe from the hearth by the Old Man’s shelter, and Vishna changes the subject. She says, “Shall we have hot soup for our snack, with those croissants I picked up yesterday? And I have these.” She pulls two rather squashed muffins out of her pocket, and my tummy rumbles, although Vishna will not be able to hear it over the groaning wind and the creaking trees.
* * *
Some time passes. Time is a mysterious thing, because you cannot stop it. Everything else in this world you can stop if you want to badly enough: we could stop the traffic if we put big pieces of wood on the road; we could stop the river from flowing if we dammed it up; but the things that belong to time you cannot stop. Growing belongs to time. My feet are growing all the time and my new trainers are pinching, and my hair is growing so that Vishna takes her scissors to it and cuts it short like the hair of the boys who hang around the Guildhall. And the days are passing and no one can stop them, even if they wanted to.
Down in the city there is a big Thanksgiving celebration, which all the shops seem to be advertising even though it is an American festival, not ours at all. Vishna and the Old Man decide to have a little Thanksgiving of our own, for giving thanks for our freedom and for the others getting safely into Scotland, and for our health, and for the Hill and for each other. Vishna gleans some pieces of chicken and we cook them over the fire in the big fire circle, on sticks. It is wet and windy again, but not too bad in the shelter of the trees. I remember when there was a big crowd of us on the Hill, and we used to sit round this same fire circle, talking and singing until us kids were almost asleep. I say to the Old Man and Vishna, “Shall we sing a song?” But Vishna says, “It won’t be the same without the others.” I know she is right, so instead we play a game, trying to say the name of a country for each letter of the alphabet. I have become quite good at this since the time Skye brought back the atlas last summer, but I do not know a country which begins with X.
The Song of the Lost Boy Page 18