Suddenly the chanting stopped, and Marlon was off his back. Jonah dared look up. Mrs Rainer was pulling Marlon away by the scruff of his shirt. Then she was crouching over him. “Are you all right, Jonah?” she asked. “Are you all right?” Above him, there was a crowd of faces looking down at him, breathing hard, all silent now.
“Just making it real, Miss,” Marlon protested. “You said we had to mean it, Miss. Mean it when you act. You said.”
Jonah could feel blood warm on his lip, dripping from his nose. Mrs Rainer helped him up onto his feet. Valeria was offering him her handkerchief, putting it to his face, making him hold it.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves! Sit down immediately, the lot of you!” Mrs Rainer did not hide her anger. “And not a word while I’m gone. I’m taking Jonah to see the nurse. Not a word! You hear me?”
The school nurse sat him in her room and told him to pinch his nose. She kept asking if he was feeling all right. Jonah nodded. He couldn’t speak. He wouldn’t speak. He just wanted to get out of this place and never come back. When the nurse was called away, Jonah grabbed his chance. He ran for it, taking the stairs in twos, and raced along the corridor to the front entrance. He wanted to go home, but knew how upset his mother would be. He had to give himself time to calm down, to stop his nose bleeding, before he could face her. She mustn’t see him like this. It would distress her too much.
“Nice day?” she would ask him. It was always the first thing she said when he got home.
“Fine, Mum,” he would reply, because he always did, because he couldn’t worry her, could never bring his troubles home. She could not cope with him being unhappy – he knew that. He had to be strong for her.
Jonah made for the chapel, the best place – the only place – to be alone, to have time to recover. He hoped it would be empty.
CHAPTER THREE
The Phantom Organist
THE LATCH WAS HEAVY; the door creaked open. No one was inside. How many hundreds of those Foundling Hospital children had come to cry in this place, just like I am now, Jonah wondered. Ever since he had heard about them, he had identified with those children, imagining them to be as lonely as him, and he felt a strong connection with them, so much so that he had wondered more than once if perhaps he had even been one in a former life. Sometimes, alone in the chapel, he would break into one of his mum’s songs, sing it to the foundling children who were there, he felt, listening. They had sung in this place; this was where they had come to sing their hymns and say their prayers twice a day, three times on Sundays.
He made his way to his usual spot, an aisle seat in the pew halfway down, on the boys’ side of the chapel, the right-hand side – he knew they’d sat there from one of those photographs in the corridor. He sat down, closed his eyes, and became one of those children. Here he could cry with them, speak to them, tell them his troubles, as he had done so often before. Now he could let all his pent-up tears flow freely. He kicked out, stamped his feet and shouted out loud, the whole chapel echoing with his anger. When he had finished and there were no more tears left, he sat there, fists clenched, breathing heavily. The children had been listening, had heard him silently. Every one of them knew how he felt, he was quite sure of it. Emptied of all his pain and anger, he was numb now, his cheeks wet with crying, his nose throbbing. The blood was still trickling. He could taste it. It tasted strange, of metal and of silence. He held Valeria’s handkerchief to his nose.
She had been so kind, and brave too. He was looking down at the bloodied handkerchief in his hand, when he noticed something glinting on the floor by his feet. He bent down to pick it up. It was cold and heavy in his palm, a button of some kind, a gold button. He held it up to the light. He looked at it more closely, and saw that it was embossed with a shining star.
At that moment, out of the silence of the chapel an organ began to play, softly, from above and behind him, sweet and gentle at first, then the notes gathering upon one another into great thunderous chords that filled the chapel, filled his ears. Jonah had never in his life heard such an overwhelmingly wonderful sound. He let it flow into him, into his ears, down his neck and his back, felt his whole body basking in the beauty of it. He was warmed through from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.
But something was puzzling him, worrying him. He had never before heard the organ playing in the school chapel. No one had played it for years; he was sure that was what he had been told. He had assumed the organ was defunct. They used the piano at the front of the chapel for assemblies sometimes, but never the organ.
And then he remembered the story Marlon had told him – a silly ghost story, just to frighten him, Jonah had thought – about how some people had heard the organ playing before they came into the chapel, and how it always stopped the moment the door was opened. No one had ever seen this phantom organist. But who else could have been playing the organ? Jonah was sure he could hear it. He was not imagining it. A cold shiver of fear crept up his spine and prickled the hair on the back of his neck.
Then Jonah had another thought. They must have heard every word he had been shouting, must have heard him crying. He certainly did not want to have to explain himself to this organist, whoever he or she was, phantom or not. So, slipping the gold button into his pocket, he stood up and began to make his way as noiselessly as possible towards the door. The organ was still playing; but it was a different melody now, a different rhythm, more melodious, softer altogether, a tune he recognized at once: “American Pie”. There could be no doubt about it. Then the key, the rhythm, the volume, the tune, changed again, and became “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life”. His mum’s songs: his songs!
He had almost reached the door now, but was somehow reluctant to leave, despite the hair standing up on the back of his neck, and the crescendo of fear gathering inside him. Scared out of his wits though he was, he still hesitated, his hand on the latch. How could this person know these were his tunes, his mother’s tunes? Or was it simply a coincidence? No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t dare turn round, or look up to where the organist must be sitting. He longed to know who it was up there. But fear had its grip on him. He had to get out of there. Now.
The very moment he lifted the latch the music stopped.
“Wait! Do not go yet!” It was a commanding voice, a man’s voice. “I shall be down just as quickly as these old legs can carry me, Master Trelawney.”
Whoever it was knew him by name! Footsteps were coming slowly down the staircase now from the organ loft. The organist, still invisible, was talking as he came. Jonah could see no one in the darkness at the back of the chapel.
“I have oftentimes heard you singing those songs when you come in here, and I confess I have heard you crying too, and listened to your tales of sadness. How is your mother today, by the way? In better health, I trust.”
A figure appeared now out of the shadows, a tall man, tottering, leaning heavily on a cane as he approached. He wore a long coat with buttons, buckled shoes on his feet, and a wig – a long, curling, rather grubby-looking wig – down to his shoulders. Jonah wanted to turn and run, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. He could not move. He could not speak.
“Do not gape so, Master Trelawney,” came the voice again. “This is how we all looked in my day. And in my day it was not thought polite for a child to stare at his elders.”
He was walking slowly, very slowly, down the aisle. Every step seemed to be an effort. He sat down heavily in one of the pews, clearly relieved to take the weight off his feet. Jonah was still transfixed with fear.
“You have found my button, I think,” he said. “It is very precious to me. You will see from the star on it that it is a button from the uniform of the Coldstream Guards. Not gold, more’s the pity. Only brass, but precious to me all the same.” He held out his open hand towards Jonah. “I am most grateful you found it, but may I have it back now, please?”
Jonah’s instinct was to open the door and run, fast. But still his leg
s would not move, and his mouth would not speak.
“Come, Master Trelawney, sit yourself down here. I do not bite. I would not harm you. I am a ghost, a phantom, as I think you must have guessed by now, but not at all the kind of spirit you should fear. And I would very much like to have my button back. That button is most important to me, more important than you know.”
Jonah found himself walking back down the aisle towards him, but not because he wanted to. It was as if he had no will of his own. He was moving in a trance, being drawn in closer and closer. His legs were walking, without his ever intending them to, his eyes never once leaving the old man’s face. Then he was sitting down behind him, not too close, open-mouthed, wide-eyed with fear.
“My button, Master Trelawney,” the old man said, still holding out his hand. “You have it in your pocket, I think.”
Jonah could not remember which pocket it was. He pulled out the bloodied handkerchief first, then felt the button inside it.
“You are most kind,” said the old man, as Jonah passed it over. He turned it over in the palm of his hand. “I had looked everywhere for it. It is a part of me, this button, a part of who I am.”
The old man, Jonah could see now, was even older than he had first imagined him to be, his face creased and lined, his eyes deep-set and dark, his cheeks hollow. The eyes, a deep blue, brightened suddenly as he broke into a smile.
“Well, Jonah,” he said, “have you looked your fill? I am not a pretty sight, I know. Age tells its tale, and I am a very great age, Jonah, over two hundred and fifty years old – I long ago stopped counting the years. So yes, I am indeed a ghost. But do not let that concern you. I haunt, but only with good intent, I assure you. I am here because I like hearing children’s voices. I love to hear them sing. And I love to hear you too, Jonah. I wish you no harm, believe me. I am a spirit, most certainly I am, but I seek out only kindred spirits, and I believe I have found one in you. I know you better than you think. Every time you have come in here and sung your songs – and in truth you sing wonderfully well, with a perfect pitch and most exquisite tone – I have been listening. I have heard your sorrows, Jonah, witnessed your tears. I think I know you as well as any man, alive or not – better even, I dare to say, than your own mother.”
From somewhere Jonah found at last the courage and the voice to speak. “Who are you?” he asked in a whisper.
“I shall tell you soon enough,” the old man replied, turning the button over in his hand and then showing it to Jonah. “You see the star? It has shone for me and it will shine for you. It is good to have it back. Thank you again kindly for finding it. I am glad you did, for it has given me the opportunity to speak with you. I have long wanted to do so. You and I, we have more in common than you could possibly imagine. Our lives may be hundreds of years apart, but they meet here today, and all because of this lucky button.”
“Lucky button? Why lucky? I don’t understand.”
“You will soon enough, Master Trelawney,” said the ghost. “Once you know my story, you will.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucky Button
LEANING TOWARDS JONAH, the old man said, “How does this stranger know my name? Is this what you are wondering? Well, I drift around, as ghosts are wont to do. I keep my eyes open, my ears open, my heart open too. I know you well. You come often into my chapel, do you not?” Jonah could only nod. “And what think you of my organ-playing, Jonah?” the old man went on. “Have I lost my touch? How well do I play?”
He did not wait for an answer. “I learnt my music-making from a master, you know, and he was the best friend I ever had. Without him, I would never have found myself – we all have to find ourselves, Jonah, or life is not worth the living – and what is more, without him I would never have found this lucky button. And this lucky button found you, and brought us together at last. Here, hold it again, while I tell you why I have so longed to meet you and talk to you. Now that you have picked up my button, I can speak with you at last.”
On he went with scarcely a pause for breath. “Like you, Jonah, I was often alone as a child, much weighed down by sorrow and care. I have heard you opening your heart in this place. For almost a year now I have listened to your story, to your prayers, your cries for help. I have heard your songs too. And I know why you sing: you sing to bring yourself comfort and joy, do you not? To banish those bitter tears inside you. Singing, music, did the same for me. It still does. I know the taste of those tears. Like you I often felt alone in this world, for I was a foundling, a child given up by my mother. I should have died in a gutter or ditch somewhere had it not been for one man. We can change our world for the better – it is what we are here for – and this man did just that. Thomas Coram was his name, a shipbuilder and mariner who, seeing the misery of the poorest of children begging and thieving and dying in their infancy in the squalor of the streets of London, decided that something must be done to save them.
“It took him nearly twenty years to find the money he needed – he was not a rich man, this Thomas Coram. But he made friends among the great and the good, touched their hearts, pricked their consciences, and wheedled the money out of their pockets. In time he had the wherewithal to build his Foundling Hospital, a refuge from the starvation and poverty and disease of London, and a school for foundlings such as me.
“It was to this place that I was brought in the cold of winter, a seven-week-old infant, and handed over on the doorstep, with a note that gave only my name, my date of birth, and the name and address of my mother. Along with the note came this button, the very button in your hand, Jonah, a token left by my mother to identify that I was indeed her child, should she ever come back to find me and claim me. Of course, I knew none of this as that little seven-week-old child, mewing in misery, blue with cold, and at death’s door itself.”
Jonah was still trying to take it all in, the brass button in his hand, this strange ghostly presence from the past sitting there talking to him. He was trying to understand whether this was all really happening, and not some kind of dream. He clutched the button tight, so hard that it hurt. The button bit into his hand. The button was real. This was all real; this was happening.
The old man reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Are you listening, Jonah?”
Jonah was trying to work it all out. “So you were one of those foundling kids?” he ventured.
“I was indeed, a year or two ago now, of course, or rather a century or two.” The old man chuckled. “It was when the Foundling Hospital was in London, before they moved away and built this place instead. In truth I have no memory of being left there as a babe. Memory, for good or ill, does not reach back to our earliest moments of life. I do know now that they gave me a new name, Nathaniel Hogarth, Nat they called me, and I do know that all foundlings, such as I was, were given into the care of a wet nurse, a foster mother, often living far out in the countryside, away from the stench and decay and disease of London. And so it was with me.
“I grew up in Paradise, Jonah,” he went on. “That was the name of the cottage that became my home – Paradise Cottage, so near the sea that I could hear the murmur of it all the while, smell the salt in the wind. I grew up healthy and strong, far from the foul stench of the city streets. I was looked after by my foster mother – I called her Mrs Ma – who lavished all the love and care upon me that I could ever have wished for, as did her husband, whom I called Mr Pa. I was a much-treasured child who became the heart and soul of a home that rang with laughter. I wanted for nothing. To them I was ‘our dear little Nat’ or, more commonly, ‘our lovely boysie’.
“My memories of my time with Mr Pa and Mrs Ma are full of delights: butterflies and flowers in the garden; digging potatoes; Mrs Ma’s wondrously delicious tattie pie; riding home from harvest fields with Mr Pa on Friend, the big farm horse; paddling in the sea and swimming in the dykes. Unlike most children, Jonah, I became a strong swimmer very young. Mr Pa taught me much: how to swim, how to tickle a trout, how to pick out a horse
’s hoof; and Mrs Ma told me stories and sang me to sleep at night. My love for singing I learnt from her; my love for living from both of them. For a foundling child, for any child, this was a true paradise.”
The door of the chapel opened suddenly. It was Mrs Rainer.
“They told me you might be here,” she said, walking towards him. She seemed to be paying no attention to the old man, which was strange, Jonah thought.
“Are you all right?” she asked, crouching down beside him and putting a hand on his. “I thought I heard voices, a man’s voice.” She was peering over his shoulder. “Are you alone in here?”
That was when Jonah looked around and saw that the old man was gone. He wondered again for a moment whether he had imagined the whole thing. But then he felt the button in his fist. He opened his fingers. It was still there, in the palm of his hand.
“What’s that you have?” she asked.
Jonah thought quickly. “Nothing, Miss,” he told her, closing his fingers around it quickly. “Just a button, that’s all. I always have it. It’s lucky.”
“How is your nose?” she asked, lifting his chin. “Stopped bleeding? Better now?” He nodded. “You want to come back to rehearsal, or stay here for a bit? Do whichever you like. If you want to be alone for a while, I quite understand.” She looked around the chapel. “It’s full of spirits this place, I always think – you know, of those foundling children. Poor souls.” She brushed his hair off his forehead. “What happened back there in rehearsal, Jonah – I’m truly sorry. And they are too, all of them, I promise you. I don’t know what came over them.”
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