And I look at her, and I say, my voice coming out all croaky, “That is the song my parents used to sing to me. Before I lost them. They sang me that song.”
And everyone is very quiet. Then the old lady, Madge, says, “Giorgi? Are you Giorgio Green, the son of Filippo and Annie?”
Then everyone is talking, and Vishna is hugging me, and some other people are crying too, and there is a lump the size of an apple in my throat, and I wish Skye were there, or Little Bear, and I think, This is who I am. I am Giorgio Green. I am the son of Filippo and Annie Green. And it does not seem real at all.
Epilogue
The little cottage where I live with Little Bear and all his family is made of stone and painted white on the outside. We are still living on a hill, but this time we look out towards the sea and across at another island. At one time the cottage just had two rooms, but it has been extended now, so that there are three bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. We have no stairs, like there were in Will’s house, but we have heating so that the air feels warm when you come in from outside, after school or if you have been helping Walking Tall on the smallholding.
At first I thought the cottage was very big, but now that I have been to play at the MacDonalds’ house along the road, I realise that it is really just average for this island. The MacDonalds’ house is made of wood and painted dark red, and it has a huge picture window in the living room, which also looks out over the sea. Mr MacDonald made a lot of money out of oil, when it was big, although he moved to renewables a while ago because, he says, he saw the writing on the wall.
Compared with the rooms in the MacDonalds’ house, our rooms are small, and Little Bear and I sleep on bunk beds. We both wanted to sleep on the top bunk, and Little Bear’s mum said we had to settle our differences before we drove her mad, so now we take it turn and turn about, switching over each time the sheets are changed. I found it very difficult, at first, to have a duvet instead of a sleeping bag. Every night it slipped off me, and I would wake up in the morning freezing cold. Little Bear used to say, “I don’t know what your problem is!” and throw his pillow at me. Then quite suddenly, without me doing anything, the duvet stopped slipping off, and now I wake up with it tucked around my shoulders, and I am snug and warm.
Little Bear’s mum has let us put up posters and pictures on the wall. Little Bear supports a football team in Aberdeen, so we have soccer pictures up, and I have put up a copy of the Swedish journalist’s article, and an old photograph of Filippo and Annie Green, who are the parents I lost. The Swedish journalist tried to trace them for me, but the English government denies that they were ever arrested, or that anyone ever disappears, so maybe I have lost them for good. But the Winchester Quakers had this photograph, and I see that Filippo, my dad, was Italian-looking and Annie, my mum, was English. Some of the Quakers still remember them. They told me they were good people.
At school I have two names on the register: Giorgio Green. I am proud of them both. We do not have to carry identity cards, although if I ever want to visit Vishna, who is studying art in Dublin, I will have to have a proper passport, and that will say Giorgio Green too.
There is a little group of Quakers here. They know my story, because the Swedish journalist made a big thing of it. We only meet once a month, and on the other Sundays all our family works on the smallholding and we have a roast dinner in the evening. And I think it is true, those words which my mum and dad used to sing to me. Except very occasionally, like when I have toothache, I really cannot keep from singing.
The Song of the Lost Boy Page 22