The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

  ‘The Irish have moved away now and new waves of migrants followed in their footsteps. Bengalis and Pakistanis in the eighties and nineties, Poles and Eastern Europeans after that. Like all migrants, they will eventually assimilate. When I was growing up, it was still the Irish who were the most plentiful. They kept Catholicism and churches like this going.’

  ‘The church looks lonely and solitary. Nobody to keep it warm.’

  ‘I think the home was over there,’ Vera said, pointing. ‘I remember there was a piece of wasteland, something must have been knocked down in the war. But why the Germans would want to bomb round here is anybody’s guess. Perhaps they were after the train station at the Mumps, or they just weren’t very accurate. Anyway, there was a piece of waste-ground here and the home overlooked it. I remember they used to have marvellous fireworks on bonfire night; rockets, Catherine wheels, bangers. People used to bring all their spare rubbish and dump it on the bonfire.’

  ‘It’s over here?’

  Vera nodded, pointing again back over her shoulder.

  Jayne walked towards where the home used to stand. A three-storey block of flats stood there now, modern in the ugliest sense of the word; grey concrete, rusty iron railings, flaking paintwork. A dull, depressing place to live for anybody.

  And then she saw them.

  Walking along the road in twos, a nun leading the way, her habit billowing in the wind and her rosary flapping at her waist. She was followed by the girls, dressed in their Sunday best, and the boys bringing up the rear, smart in their clean shirts, shorts and newly polished faces. They walked past her and up the steps into the church, the nun turning to guide them through the large oak door, admonishing any who were talking with a vicious stare and a loud shush.

  And then, just as quickly as they had appeared, the column of children and nuns vanished. Jayne shook her head, staring at the modern building.

  It had happened again.

  The past coming alive. She didn’t know how it happened. Maybe it was her imagination or maybe something more. Like an image embedded in the walls of the old church Jayne could somehow access, like playing an old tape machine. She had no problem believing in her scenes, as she called them – for her they were as real as any documentary on television.

  ‘Are you okay, Jayne? You’ve come over all pale.’

  ‘Fine, just a little tired, that’s all.’

  ‘You and your dad. Two peas from the same pod. Well, we’ve seen all we’re going to see here. Shall we head back to sunny Buxton? I’m dying for my tea.’

  ‘Let’s go, Vera.’ Jayne put her arm round her step mother and guided her back to the car, glancing over her shoulder at the place where the home used to stand.

  What was it like to live here?

  And then a shiver went up her back.

  Had somebody just walked over her grave?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  April 20, 1952

  On-board the SS Otranto, somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea

  In many ways, the time he spent on the Otranto was the happiest of Harry’s life.

  He was never scared on the ship, except one time just before they put into Gibraltar, when the wind and the waves made the ship rock from side to side. When he went to the toilet, he had to hold on to both rails in the corridor to prevent himself falling over. Ginger and Little Tom were both sick as dogs, but Harry wasn’t. He had a ‘Mariner’s Tummy’, one of the crew had told him, whatever one of those was.

  He shared a large cabin with Little Tom, Ginger and Ernie. They soon settled down into the rhythm of ship life. In the morning, one of the stewards from Goa – his name was Arthur – brought them tea and orange juice in bed. Then they had breakfast in the lounge. At first, Harry didn’t believe his luck as he sat down at the table covered in a linen tablecloth, where a white-jacketed waiter served them cocoa, fried eggs, bacon, bread and butter, and toast with jam, golden syrup and marmalade.

  The rest of the morning they played on the boat and the promenade decks, running up and down the gangways and getting in the way of all the passengers. The ship was big, with two large metal funnels through which smoke poured at all times of the day and night. Harry had once counted all the steps from the front to the back of the ship: 623. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen.

  At the front and back were two masts, like on the sailing ships he had seen in the pictures, but the crew never hauled up the sails. He asked one of them when they were going to start sailing.

  ‘Never, matey. This ain’t no sailin’ ship.’

  ‘But why do you have masts?’

  ‘Those are for haulin’ up your food when we get to port. Wivout ’em, you wouldn’t have nothing to eat.’

  There were other kids on-board; some Catholic children from other homes and a small group of Protestant kids from the Fairbridge Society. At first there had been a stand-off, with Ernie out in front flexing his muscles and showing them who was boss. But that soon ended and they all became friends, playing together and getting to know each other.

  At noon exactly, the bell would ring and they would all troop back to the lounge for lunch. At first, Harry had been confused. He asked Miss Anstey, ‘Why do we have lunch at dinnertime?’

  She stopped talking with the man, Alfred Grey, who was escorting the Fairbridge kids. ‘I don’t understand, Harry.’

  ‘Well, miss, in Oldham we have our dinner at one o’clock and our tea at six o’clock and that’s it for the day. But on the ship there’s lunch, then tea at four, but dinner doesn’t come till seven thirty. Why don’t they eat dinner at the proper time?’

  ‘They do, Harry. It’s just the different words. On the ship they call dinner “lunch”.'

  ‘But that’s not right, is it, miss? Dinner is dinner and we have it at one o’clock.’

  She put her arm around his shoulders, leading him away. ‘Well, think of it this way. When you have lunch at noon, just call it your dinner.’

  ‘And what about the evening meal? We call it tea where I come from.’

  She glanced back at Mr Grey. ‘Call it what you want, Harry. You like having another meal, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Well, there you are. Just call it supper instead.’

  Harry thought for a moment. ‘Okay.’

  With it all sorted out, Harry could go back to playing with the gang until teatime, which wasn’t a proper tea, just some biscuits, scones and clotted cream and more orange juice. Sometimes the crew organised games in the afternoon. Harry was best at deck quoits, which involved tossing a ring on to a number on the deck. He even beat one of the Fairbridge boys, Tommy Hardy, who was nearly twelve.

  After tea, he always went to the Reading Room to draw in his diary. Miss Anstey had suggested this to all of them on their second day out of England.

  ‘It’s going to be quite a long voyage, children, and we’re going to visit many interesting places. Perhaps you would like to keep a record so that when you’re older, you can remember these times.’

  ‘You mean something to show me mam when I get back to England?’

  ‘Something like that, Tom. Here’s some paper I took from the Reading Room earlier. There’s plenty more on the ship. Now, fold it in half, like so, then turn it on its side and what do you have?’

  One of the Astley sisters put her hand up. ‘It looks like a small book.’

  ‘What are you going to put on yours, Harry?’

  Harry chewed the end of his blue pencil. ‘I’m going to call mine “My Trip to Australia”, because that’s what it is.’

  ‘Very good, Harry, and what are you going to put on the cover?’

  He thought again. ‘Well, I could cut a picture of the ship from one of the menus and stick it on.’

  ‘Brilliant idea, Harry.’

  Ever since then, before supper, Harry dutifully filled in his diary in the wood-panelled Reading Room, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books. In his own small way, he thought he was writing a book like
all those other people; a book of his adventures at sea. It used to take him a long time, as he was slow with his writing and often got the words jumbled up. Miss Anstey used to sit with him sometimes, patiently showing him how to write. She even helped him when he wrote letters home to his mum. These used to take him longer than the diary, but every week he wrote back to her, posting the letters when they reached a port.

  He never received a reply, though. He guessed she didn’t know where to write, and if the ship were moving all the time, how would the postman ever catch up with it?

  In the letters, he told her all the things he did. Like running three times around the boat deck without stopping. Or eating four bowls of ice cream for lunch. Or throwing sugar cubes at the rats on the wharf at Naples, watching as they raced each other to be first to grab the lump of sweetness. Or standing at the front of the boat and seeing a group of big fish – dolphins, Miss Anstey told him – jumping and gliding at the point of the bow as it cut through the blue water.

  He also wrote about the things he’d seen.

  The seagulls stealing food from the waiter. And the monkeys in Gibraltar who thought they were Kings of the Rock. And the men who had tried to sell them real Egyptian antiques when they had docked in Suez, which nobody bought because they were cursed.

  All the things his mother would love to read, even though she had never left England. And when he met her again, he would give her the diary, telling the stories of his travels through the words and the pictures. When she read it, his mum would know he had been all over the world like a proper traveller.

  After he finished his writing, it was time for a shower and then dinner – or as he preferred to call it, supper. It wasn’t like the food in the home at all. Despite being on a ship far from anywhere, they still managed to eat like lords.

  He copied the menu from one night in a red pencil, so his mum could see what he was eating.

  Veloute Benin

  Fillets of Sea Bream, Mornay Sauce

  Braised Haunch of Mutton, soubise

  Roast Ribs of Beef, paysanne

  Baked and Boiled Potatoes

  Cabbage

  Golden Pudding

  Cream Ices

  Dessert

  He copied it as neatly as he could. When he finished, he thought the shape resembled a strawberry. Some of the words he didn’t understand, but he liked the food. Especially when you could go back and have as much ice cream as you wanted.

  Miss Anstey tucked them all up in bed at 9 o’clock on the dot. It was the one thing she was very strict about. They must be in bed and in their pyjamas by then or she would be very angry.

  Harry never saw her angry at any time during the voyage. But he always made sure he was in bed waiting for her to come round and tuck him in, giving him a kiss on the forehead and Trevor, his soldier, a kiss on the top of his busby.

  Despite everything he did during the day, it was still the time he enjoyed most.

  It reminded him of his mum and Mrs Beggs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  June 19, 2017

  Didsbury, Manchester, England

  Jayne was exhausted when she arrived home. She opened the front door and was about to shout, ‘Paul, I’m home,’ when she realised he wasn’t there. In fact, her husband hadn’t been back to the house for two months. He now lived and worked in Brussels.

  The emptiness of the house, the silence as her voice reverberated on the walls, hit her like a punch in the chest. She swallowed, trying to fill the emptiness inside her with something, anything.

  As she closed the door, the cat meandered out of the kitchen and rubbed his body against her legs. She picked him up, feeling him resist her embrace and then finally give in to welcome it, licking the side of her neck. ‘You’ve missed me, have you?’

  A voice in her head, a nasty wheedling voice, answered her. He's the only one who does.

  She put Mr Smith down and he flounced off to check his bowl. She followed him into the kitchen. Why was she feeling this way? She hadn’t missed Paul before, so why was she suddenly aware of his absence?

  She opened a pouch of cat food without looking at the label. What’s the matter with you today? Are you just tired or is there something else? She poured the contents of the pouch into the bowl as the cat waited expectantly.

  This sense of loneliness was new to her. All her life she had been surrounded by people. At school she had been a popular girl, involved in so many clubs and outings it had driven her mother crazy. In the police, she was always with other coppers, either on a case or for the inevitable socialising after the shift had finished. Then Paul had come along, and even through her breakdown after Dave Gilmour’s shooting, he had been by her side, constantly tending to her every need.

  She wondered if he preferred her as she was then; totally dependent on him rather than the independent woman she had become.

  She had always had people in her life. ‘About time you learned to enjoy your own company, Jayne Sinclair,’ she said out loud.

  As she did so, the reason for her unhappiness struck her. It was her father and Vera. She had just spent the day with them, only leaving them an hour ago when she dropped them back at the residential home in Buxton. They were so loving, so conscious of each other, so aware of the other’s moods and feelings. A stroke on the arm. A touch of the hand. A glance to each other when they thought she wasn’t looking.

  And what did she have?

  Nothing.

  An empty house. A cat. And a few investigations to keep her occupied.

  ‘God, you are feeling sorry for yourself today,’ she said out loud, thinking, I’m even talking to myself now.

  There was only one balm for moods like this.

  Chocolate.

  A block of the very best she had. Chocolat Bonnat Chuao. She took it out of the fridge, letting it come to room temperature before she would eat it. For a moment she was tempted by a bottle of Tempranillo softly calling her name, but she wouldn’t drink, not tonight. A nice cup of tea would be much better.

  She put the kettle on, happy with her decision. You should never be jealous of somebody else’s happiness – that route only led to bitterness and envy, and there was enough of that in the world already.

  She booted up her computer. On the way back from Buxton, an idea had struck her just as Liam was in mid-yowl, singing the words, ‘Don’t look back in anger’. There was something she had missed. Perhaps that’s what had started this mood. The knowledge she had missed a clue she should have picked up.

  What was it?

  She poured the hot water on to the tea bags and put the lid back on the pot.

  Vera’s file was on her computer desktop. She clicked on it and began to read through her notes on the case. The paternal side of Vera’s family was pretty easy to find in the 1911 census. They had even found some relatives on the Lost Cousins website. Should she look for the maternal side? And what about going back a little further, checking out the 1901, 1891 and 1881 censuses? Or was the plural censi?

  She could do that later. It wouldn’t help with problem at hand; finding Vera’s long-lost brother. ‘Stay focused, Jayne.’

  She snapped off one of the squares of chocolate and popped it in her mouth, letting the sweet and bitter richness dissolve slowly across her tongue. Finally, she swallowed, enjoying all the tastes of its Venezuelan home; honey, flowers and powerful tropical fruits, clove and allspice as the chocolate slipped down her throat.

  She remembered a survey in the papers. Given the choice between sex and chocolate, 57% of women would choose the latter. Now she understood why.

  She turned the page to the names she had saved for all the Harolds born in Oldham in 1944, and scanned down it as she snapped off another piece of chocolate.

  Births Mar 1944

  Child’s Name Mother’s Name Birthplace Vol Page

  Butler, Harold Quinlan Oldham 8d 985

  Cook, Harold Thomas Oldham 8d 1030

  McNally, Harold McInnes Oldham 8d 104
5

  Mungo, Harold Hampson Oldham 8d 960

  Stone, Harold Arnold Oldham 8d 991

  Births Jun 1944

  Child’s Name Mother’s Name Birthplace Vol Page

  Daly, Harold Davenport Oldham 8d 1088

  Richards, Harold Hinton Oldham 8d 938

  Births Sep 1944

  Child’s Name Mother’s Name Birthplace Vol Page

  Stout, Harold Mooney Oldham 8d 1040

  Britton, Harold Burns Oldham 8d 978

  Davids, Harold Hulley Oldham 8d 957

  Press, Harold Roberts Oldham 8d 1035

  Births Dec 1944

  Child’s name Mother’s Name Birthplace Vol Page

  Brain, Harold Lockett Oldham 8d 1007

  Court, Harold Haughton Oldham 8d 1011

  Massey, Harold Andrew Oldham 8d 956

  ‘Now, we know Harold was born in Oldham in 1944, so he must be one of these Harolds, unless he was given another name at birth. But probably not, because the letters from Mrs Beggs only referred to him by the name “Harry”…’ Jayne mumbled to herself. She was certain this was the Christian name Freda had given him.

  And then it her like a runaway bus.

  ‘You’ve been stupid, Jayne, very stupid,’ she said out loud.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  May 12, 1952

  On-board the SS Otranto, somewhere in the Indian Ocean

  It was during one of these times, before they sailed too far south and the weather became too hot, that Harry had his first real adventure. They were playing Hide and Seek and Ginger was It. At first, Harry had thought to hide in one of the lifeboats hanging from davits along the upper boat deck, but he couldn’t reach up far enough and the boats were covered with tightly fastened ropes.

  Instead, he went down into the bowels of the ship, going further than he had ever gone before. Down past the cabins, down the steps next to the galley, filled with raucous voices shouting in a strange language, and down past the cordoned-off stewards’ area.