The Forgotten Home Child

by Genevieve Graham

“All right. I’ll try again.”

  After a while, the rhythm of milking finally came to her, and she felt a rush of elation as a steady stream of milk shot into the bucket. When the supply petered out, she moved to the next cow, a little less wary of its teeth and hooves. By the time she finished milking all the cows, her fingers were curled into claws. Her body was stiff and ached with hunger. She stood with a groan and stretched to ease the tension in her back, then she lifted the bucket by its thick rope handle and lugged the milk to the house, watching carefully to make sure not even one drop lapped over the side.

  Mistress Adams was waiting by the door. “Finally done?”

  Winny nodded, setting the pail on the table outside the house as she’d been told. The smell of cooked food wafted from inside, and her mouth watered.

  “Mistress, might I have some supper?”

  Mistress Adams turned back into the house and called out her daughter’s name.

  “Yes, Mum?” Helen called from somewhere inside.

  “Where’s the leftover food?”

  “Gave it to the dogs. Didn’t want it drawing flies.”

  “That was for the girl, Helen.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, Mum!”

  Mistress Adams sighed. “You’ll have to be quicker tomorrow so the dogs don’t get your breakfast too.”

  Winny blinked back tears, stunned. She needed to eat. Her mind flew back to the marketplace years ago, to the ladies with their shopping, to Jack and Cecil and their quick, dirty fingers closing around purses—Folks’ll do just about anything for a kid with eyes like that—and she offered her saddest, most pitiful expression to Mistress Adams.

  “Mistress, please. There must be something left.”

  “Don’t beg. I won’t have it.”

  “But—”

  Mistress Adams’s hand shot out, and pain bloomed in Winny’s right cheek. She took two steps back, hand on her face.

  “That’s enough. Now pay attention, Home Girl. You’re here because of my charity, and you’ll eat if you get your work done in time. That is the way it will be, so get used to it. In the morning, you’ll start with the cows again, and you’d better get faster at it or the milk will spoil before I can use it.” She handed Winny a thin blanket. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you will sleep.”

  Afraid to say a word, Winny followed her mistress mutely back to the barn and past the cows’ door, then all the way around to the opposite side, where her trunk still waited. She squinted through the door and into the darkness, smelling dust and wool.

  “The sheep won’t be in here during the summer, so you’ll have more room than you need. The Home Boy sleeps with the cows on the other side of this wall. Don’t you mess with that boy. He has his own work to do and some whore girl has no business around him.”

  Winny didn’t have the strength to tell her that she had never even kissed a boy.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said quietly.

  “Get some sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Hugging the mildewed blanket to her chest, Winny reached for the familiar handle of her trunk. Night had fallen, its chill seeping into her bones, but the moon was bright enough that she could still see endless fields of grass and the long dirt road cutting through it all. A fleeting thought played in her mind, and she imagined following that road and disappearing into the darkness. If she left now, no one would see her go, and she might get a good distance before the sun came up. She could scavenge for food along the way, sleep in other people’s barns, and then maybe she could find Mary. Maybe even Jack.

  Tears blurred her vision as courage left in a rush. She didn’t know which direction they had come from when they’d left the station, and she hadn’t seen many houses on the long drive here. Even if she had, what could she do? No one would help her. She knew that now. No one wanted her. No one ever had. Not her mother. Not the orphanage. And not the Adamses. Here, she was the Home Girl. And she would be nothing more than that for five more years, when she finally turned twenty-one.

  Winny turned from the landscape, the handle of her trunk clutched in her hand. The barn was pitch black inside, so she skimmed her hand along the rough wall to feel her way to the far corner, where she slid down and sat on the straw. She fumbled with the clasps of her trunk; it didn’t matter that it was too dark to see what lay within. She knew everything inside by heart. Her fingers brushed over one of her three cotton nightgowns, and she felt a pang of nostalgia for those comfortable nights at Barkingside with Mary in the next bed. She set the nightgown to the side. No one but her would sleep here, and she would only have to change back into her clothes in the morning. The nightgown might as well stay in the trunk.

  Her fingers continued their exploration, finding her drawers, petticoats, stockings, pinafores, and the two straw hats underneath: one for Sundays, one for travel. In the corner of the trunk was her hairbrush and comb, a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress, and her Bible, along with two cards from Barnardo’s. What would she write on those cards? She couldn’t imagine ever telling anyone that she felt at home here. It was probably better not to send them at all.

  Beneath everything else was her warm, brown Ulster coat, which she had last worn on the ship. She’d felt so ladylike, walking around the deck in its pretty cape and sleeves, the belt snug around her waist. She discarded the smelly blanket Mistress Adams had given her and pulled her coat over herself instead, stopping short when she heard paper crinkling in the outside pocket. Had she tucked something in there and forgotten about it? Curious, she dug inside and pulled out a piece of folded paper, but she couldn’t read what it said in the dark.

  Suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world that she see what was written on that paper, no matter what it was. If it was simply the remnants of a ticket, that would be enough, because it would be proof that somewhere beyond these walls there was another world. No longer bothered by the darkness, she hurried to the door and angled the paper toward the moonlight.

  But it wasn’t a ticket at all. It was a letter, and her throat tightened when she recognized the neat script. Mary.

  My dearest Winny,

  My mother used to say: “We do not know where we might end up, but we know where we have been.” What I know is that whenever I’ve been with you, I’ve had a sister, and she is the truest, most wonderful sister I ever could have wished for.

  You always looked at me like I was the strong one, but I have seen what you can do. You are courageous and honest. Whatever happens to us, I know you will be okay.

  Your sister always,

  Mary

  Winny pressed the letter to her chest as if it might heal the open wound inside her, but nothing could ever do that. She squeezed her teary eyes shut, needing desperately to see Mary’s dear face again, then those of Jack, Edward, and Cecil. She knew how easily they could be lost—the faces of her mother and father were long gone—and she needed to keep her friends safe in her heart.

  “Mary, Jack, Cecil, Edward,” she whispered slowly, imprinting each face in her memory as she said their names. She turned back to her makeshift bed and lay on the Ulster coat, trying in vain to forget where she was. “Mary, Jack, Cecil, Edward,” she repeated over and over, bringing her dear friends close enough that they could carry her to sleep.

  nine JACK

  Jack tilted the bucket of water over his upturned face, his mouth open wide. Never in his life had he tasted anything so exquisite as the musky well water that trickled down his neck and under his shirt like tiny fingers. When it was empty, he set the bucket down by the base of the well and considered the plot of land the boys were clearing of maple trees. The stumps were putting up a fight. Edward had taken a break and was sitting in the dry grass, his head in his hands. Cecil was leaning on a shovel in front of a stubborn tree trunk, his face dripping with exertion. Quinn, a quiet boy who had come to the farm with them, stood a few feet away from Cecil, swinging an axe in a wide arc over his head, chopping a felled tree to pieces. His dark brow
n curls were pasted to his scalp, and sweat cut lines through the grime on his face. Quinn would chop that tree until he fell down himself, Jack thought.

  Sunshine poured over the fields like honey, but there was no sweetness to it. During their first week on the farm, it had left the boys dizzy and sunburned and sick. Now, in their third week, their skin had toughened into a rugged shade of brown, but the sun continued to beam down on them as if it had a point to make. The wall of dark clouds brooding over the horizon were a welcome sight.

  London had been shades of grey, her smells oily and urban, and the noise had been constant, whether from the screech and crack of engines or the yells and cries of the people living there. Here, the fields were a thirsty green, the trees still but many. The warm air was ripe with the fragrant perfume of crops and a hint of the coming storm. Jack found the constant quiet strange. He longed for the soothing familiarity of London’s chaos.

  Where was Mary in all this? he wondered for the thousandth time. Was she anywhere nearby? He’d asked Mr. Keller where she was going when they left Toronto. He hadn’t known, but he’d promised to get word to Jack with any news. That was all Jack had to go on.

  Edward got to his feet and waded through the grass toward Jack. “Never thought I’d wish I was back on that boat,” he said, lowering the bucket with a clunk down the well. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my life.”

  “Maybe we’ll get used to it. We’re getting stronger, anyhow.”

  “What good’s muscle when you can’t stand up any longer?”

  “Shall we ask Warren?” Jack quipped.

  Edward took off his cap and dumped the bucket of water over his head. “I’ll ask Warren.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Cecil said, coming over. “Ask him real nice like. You’ll just get hit again.”

  It had become obvious within the first few minutes of meeting Master Warren that the man’s main objective was to make sure the boys never forgot he was in charge. His beard couldn’t hide his permanent scowl, and the stick he used to punish them at will was always in plain sight. In the first couple of days, Jack had accidentally spilled a bucket of fresh milk, and Warren had descended on him with that stick. He’d borne those bruises for a week.

  Since then, they’d all experienced Warren’s wrath. When his decrepit wheelbarrow cracked and fell apart, he punished Edward. Cecil had made the mistake of disagreeing with Warren about the most efficient way to clear the field, and he’d learned the hard way that Warren was not to be challenged. Quinn had done nothing wrong, but he moved too slowly for Warren’s liking, and his back had bled for it. They all lived in fear of Warren’s temper, and Jack suspected they weren’t the only ones. The boys only saw Mistress Warren at mealtimes, and that was enough to show them what kind of husband he was. The woman would have shied from her own shadow. None of them had seen any sign of children, which partially explained why the Home Boys were there.

  “It ain’t right how he treats us,” Edward said. “We signed a contract, didn’t we? Didn’t he promise to take care of us?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who spent all day reading that paper.”

  “It did say we could petition Barnardo’s if we weren’t treated well. They could send us somewhere else.” Edward combed his fingers through his wet blond hair. “Course we’d have to figure out how to petition first. We can’t even get our hands on paper since he ripped up those cards from Barnardo’s.”

  “Think Warren can even read?” Cecil muttered.

  A deep rumbling shuddered across the fields, and the boys’ attention went to the distant clouds. Jack’s skin cried out for the storm to come closer, to cool him, to clean him.

  “We gotta figure something out,” Edward replied. “Do you want to stay here until you’re eighteen?”

  “Don’t matter what the contract says, I reckon we don’t have much choice if we want to stay together,” Jack cut in. “I don’t think too many other folks are gonna want to take all three of us.”

  The brothers fell silent. Out in the field, Quinn still swung his axe. Quinn was a big lad, and he could work like an ox without stopping, but something always seemed to be missing from his eyes. Edward figured Quinn had been born that way, that it could be his mother was a drinker or something had happened to him as a baby. He barely spoke a word—except in his sleep, and even then they couldn’t understand a thing he said.

  Jack waved him over. “Come on, Quinn. Take a break.”

  Cecil cooled himself down with the water then refilled the bucket. He handed it to Quinn, who poured it over his head then shook the water out of his hair like a dog.

  “You don’t look so good, Quinn,” Jack said. “Where’s your hat?”

  Quinn scratched his head. “Don’t know.”

  “Take mine for now.” He passed his faded cap over. “It’ll keep the sun off your head.”

  Quinn nodded a thank you.

  “What home did you come from, Quinn?” Cecil asked.

  “Weren’t no home. Workhouse, it was.”

  The boys exchanged a glance. “Even Stepney’s better than that,” Cecil said.

  “I reckon we had it pretty good at Stepney,” Jack agreed. “I never used to think so, but… three square meals, a comfortable bed, clean clothes, lessons. The chores were hard, but not like this.”

  Edward grunted. “Never thought I’d miss those days.”

  “I miss football,” Cecil said. “Ever play football, Quinn?”

  He shook his head.

  “Remember how they thought we was gonna run away that first time?” Edward mused. “How they stood around like bobbies, folding their arms all wary-like while they watched us play? Where did they think we’d go?”

  “I would have run,” Cecil admitted.

  Jack wasn’t surprised. Cecil’s first instinct was always to defy, to go head to head with any challenger, while Edward tended to wait things out and strategize the smartest move. Jack figured he fit in somewhere between the two of them.

  “Maybe we should have,” he said.

  The only thing about Warren’s farm that Jack was glad about was that he had the lads with him. On the day their train pulled into the station, they’d laughed at the irony: of all the places to end up in Ontario, they’d landed in a town called London. After they’d disembarked and claimed their trunks, a small, studious-looking man with a leather bag and a thin moustache had come out to meet them. He’d briefly introduced himself as Mr. Brown, Barnardo’s representative in the area, and he’d explained that the farmers would be there soon to choose the boys they wanted.

  “So you’ll want to stand tall and show them you’re strong,” he’d advised.

  When the farmers arrived, Jack stood with Edward and Cecil, his heart thumping as he waited for their futures to unfold. That’s when it hit him that this might be the last time he’d ever see the brothers. The thought made him feel very small, as if bits of him were being chipped off every time someone was taken away. What would be left of him when he’d lost them all?

  On that day, they’d stood together like a battalion. The way they held themselves, he supposed, was why they were chosen. That, and the fact that of all the boys on the platform, they were the biggest and strongest. None of them had known if the stocky, bearded farmer striding toward them would be a good master, but they’d all tried to impress the man by puffing out their chests even as he sneered at them over the broken angle of his nose. He jabbed a thick finger into Cecil’s side as if he were a piece of meat, and Cecil grunted, startled, almost setting the boys off in nervous laughter. It was only natural that they all wanted to win this competition, but none of them had any idea what the prize would be. If he’d known then what he knew now, Jack would have curled up on the platform and whimpered like a child. Anything to stay away from Warren.

  Warren had pointed at the three of them plus Quinn, standing on Jack’s other side. “I’ll take these four. I can send them back if they’re not good enough, right?”

&nbs
p; “Oh, yes, sir. We want you to be completely satisfied,” Mr. Brown replied, holding out a handful of paperwork. “Here are the indenture papers for each boy, which we’ll need you to sign.”

  One by one, Mr. Brown called the boys over to read and sign their papers alongside their new master, who already looked impatient to leave. They’d all been shown the contract—four typed pages—ahead of time, so they knew that Mr. Warren would be their legal guardian until they turned eighteen, and then they would be out on their own. Over the next two years, Mr. Warren would pay “$100 In Trust” to Barnardo’s for each boy, which they would receive when they were twenty-one. Working a farm wouldn’t have been Jack’s first choice of employment, but he reminded himself it was only for a time. And he’d admit it was a better, more respectable line of work than stealing from market stalls and running off with purses.

  When Mr. Brown signalled to them, Edward went first, and as was his way, he took a considerable amount of time checking the pages to make sure nothing had been changed. Satisfied, he nodded at the others, then Cecil, Quinn, and Jack all signed as well.

  Once they’d collected their trunks, they climbed into the back of Warren’s truck. Throughout the train journey from Halifax, Jack had seen farmland pass in a smooth, lulling landscape. Now they were in the very heart of it, riding the dips and jolting over bumps as the truck crested hills. After a while, Warren rolled off the main road onto a rough, two-track trail bordered by a leaning fence that corralled a herd of cows. The big black brutes stood like statues, staring at the truck with what Jack guessed was malevolence, based on their size alone. He had seen lots of horses in the streets back home, but those were small compared to these cows. He figured just one of their massive hooves could stomp him to death.

  At the end of the road was an old grey house, its roof withered by weather. Off to the side stood a barn, and a couple of small sheds huddled under the shadows of maple trees. Warren stopped in front of the barn and got out of the truck. As he walked toward the house, he yelled over his shoulder, “Bring ’em in, get ’em milked.”