The Lost Child

by Caryl Phillips

  “Just take this seat, love. The other boys will soon be coming in from the playground, but meanwhile I’ll go and find your form teacher, Mr. Hedges. I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

  He sat with his arms folded and resting on top of the desk, but he was careful to pull himself upright so he wasn’t slouching. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the other pupils began to drift noisily into the classroom and look at him with curiosity before thumping themselves down behind their desks. Nobody sat beside him, which made him wonder if the desk was always free or if their hesitation was something to do with him.

  “Quiet everybody.” Mr. Hedges is looking directly at him. A round-shouldered, white-haired man with a chiseled face that appeared to have been manufactured in a quarry, he seems out of place in this modern school whose desktops remain unscarred by graffiti. “Well, stand up, young man, and tell us your name and where you’re from.”

  Every head in the classroom turns, and thirty pairs of eyes are suddenly trained upon him. He pushes himself back from the desk and climbs to his feet, aware of how bizarre he must look in his oversize school uniform.

  “My name’s Tommy Wilson.”

  “And where are you from, Thomas?”

  “I’m from England.”

  His fellow pupils release a volley of scornful cackling that threatens to swell into hysteria.

  “Alright, alright, I’m not sure what you all find so amusing.” Mr. Hedges scans the room before once again turning his attention to the new boy. “Well, Thomas, we were hoping for something a little more specific, but for now ‘England’ will suffice.”

  But every one of the thirty boys, who continue to stifle their laughter, feels sure that the queer apparition standing behind the desk has nothing whatsoever to do with their world, where despite the evidence of their brand-new modern school, people continue to live in back-to-back houses and washing is strung out across cobbled streets to dry on the breeze. They all know that the church is at the top of the hill, and the butcher, the baker, and the post office are at the foot of the hill, and the pub is somewhere in between, and it’s blatantly obvious to each of them that this Tommy Wilson is most definitely a stranger.

  “Well, sit down then, Wilson. I assume that everyone will introduce themselves in time, but for now you’ll just have to muck in like the rest.”

  Again he hears sniggering.

  “Are you asleep, Wilson? I said you can sit down, lad. This isn’t the army, you know.”

  Mr. Hedges achieves the anticipated roar of laughter, and a self-satisfied smile creases his lips. He has some sympathy for the stray, but he doesn’t play favourites, and he isn’t about to start now.

  “You had better buck your ideas up, Wilson. You’ll have to be on your toes to survive in these parts.”

  At noon the bell rings out, and as soon as Mr. Hedges picks up his books and papers and leaves the classroom, desk lids are opened and slammed shut, and the mad rush commences. Tommy follows the other boys, feeling the double humiliation of not having anybody to talk to and understanding that he will most likely have to ask somebody where the line is for those who have free school dinners. Once they reach the cafeteria he discovers it to be a raucous cavern of clanging confusion and raised voices, and he anxiously scans the room for his brother, but he can’t see him. Perhaps the older boys eat in a different location? Despite the tight knot of hunger in his belly, he knows that this is neither the time nor the place to make a mistake, and so he turns and gently shoves his way back towards the door.

  The gymnasium is in its own building behind the main school block, but between the two structures is a narrow gap into which neither sunlight nor noise from the playground can penetrate. He slumps down onto the shingles and leans his back against the brick wall of the school block. By pulling his knees up tight under his chin, he can make a ball of himself and therefore consider himself potentially useful. At the far end of the gymnasium building he hears a door smash open, and two boys in football kit, with shirts flapping out of their shorts, rush into view and head towards the playing fields. Intrigued, he stands and tiptoes his way along the loose stones until he reaches the gymnasium door, which remains invitingly ajar. Once inside he discovers himself to be in a changing room with its collection of shirts, jackets, and trousers hanging in seemingly random formation from various pegs, and he sees both white and black plimsolls and duffel bags scattered haphazardly on long benches and across the floor. He looks around and knows that he probably shouldn’t linger, but this is the first time he has felt any sense of familiarity and comfort since his mother dropped him off at Mrs. Swinson’s house on Saturday morning.

  Mr. Hedges stands beneath the archway of the main entrance to the school with a whistle in his hand. The new lad is loafing by himself in the far corner of the playground, carefully watching two hastily assembled teams of boys playing an eleven-a-side match with a dirty tennis ball. The moment he saw the boy he knew it was an impossible situation. Thomas Wilson is not part of the group, nor does it look as if he’ll be invited to join in. In fact, he suspects that timidity has most likely been introduced into the lad’s soul by a neglectful upbringing. He sees it all the time—like whipped puppies, some of them—but there’s nothing to be done, for on top of everything else, they can’t be expected to minister to the welfare of the disadvantaged. They’re teachers, not social workers, and it’s an important distinction that some of his younger colleagues would do well to remember. That said, the curly-haired Wilson boy is clearly a special case. The lad has got his hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets, and occasionally he lurches and kicks out at the same time as somebody shoots, but then young Wilson remembers himself and quickly looks around to make sure that nobody has noticed. Mr. Hedges shakes his head. He blows his whistle and brings dinnertime to an end.

  Tommy surreptitiously lifts himself off the chair and quickly hikes up his trousers so that none of the other boys notice what he is doing. He folds the waistband over and runs his hands to the sides to make sure that everything is even all the way around; then he plonks himself back down and slides forward so he is almost wedged under the desk. Their tired mother had left them with Mrs. Swinson on Saturday morning, but shortly after she went off back home, Mrs. Swinson took one disappointing look at their clothes and announced that she had no choice but to take them shopping that same afternoon.

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time, and during the war I even had evacuees—Cockneys from London—dirty beggars all of them, and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but at least their mothers knew to send them with some proper clothes. I mean, really. I’ll wager she thinks she can use her depression as an excuse, but those plucked eyebrows give her away.”

  Tommy and his brother were each kitted out with a new blazer, a white shirt, and a pair of school trousers, but everything was at least two sizes too big. Mrs. Swinson made a big show of handing over the council vouchers, as though she wanted all and sundry to know that these two boys were in her charge and she was going out of her way to provide them with a roof and bring them up to scratch. But her mood changed when the man failed to produce the two school ties that she was anticipating, informing her that she would have to pay for them. Tommy was relieved, for at least there would be one item of clothing that they would not be required to grow into.

  The four o’clock bell signals the end of the day, and a glassy-eyed Mr. Hedges looks up from his desk. He slowly draws his hunched body to its full height and surveys the room, the weight of his judgmental gaze falling on each boy in turn. Tommy is the new boy in the class, but he already understands that being assigned to this form means that he has probably drawn the short straw.

  The boys push back from their desks, and as they file past Hedges, they hand him their exercise books, which contain the answers to the history questions that are still chalked up on the board.

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Matthews.”

  “Good ni
ght, sir.”

  “Good night, Appleby.”

  He wonders if “Privet”—for Tommy has heard the other boys secretly referring to the teacher by this nickname—will remember who he is.

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Wilson.”

  He worries about his answers, but this being his first day perhaps he will be forgiven for getting most of them wrong.

  “Wilson.” He stops but is afraid to immediately turn around. When he does so, he can see that Hedges has a biro in his hand and is gesturing with it towards his almost totally shrouded shoes. “I recommend a good-quality belt, if you get my drift?”

  He hears some boys chuckling, but a quick swivel of Hedges’s owl-like head restores order.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He moves now with his eyes down, sure that everybody is laughing at him, and wishing that just one person—that would have been enough—could have made the effort to be his friend. He feels sure that when they see him play football, they will want to know him, but as he threads his way through the jostling crowds in the narrow corridor, he can’t remember whether the games period is tomorrow or the next day. He does, however, remember where the toilets are. Once he has finished, he looks around and is surprised to see that the pristine walls are unblemished by either hastily scribbled girls’ names or rumours and, increasingly implausible, counterrumours. He holds his hands under the cold water tap and quickly rubs them together, pretending that they’re lathered in soap, and he begins now to focus his mind on the task of meeting up with his brother.

  Tommy stands by the school gates and waits until the deluge of excited boys reclaiming their freedom becomes a dribble. He screws up his eyes, hoping to see Ben emerging out of the glow of the fading sun, but the rush of pumping arms and legs appears to have dried up entirely. And then he sees Ben standing nonchalantly at the bus stop across the street with a group of twelve-year-old boys all of whom are greatly amused by whatever it is his brother is saying. Tommy looks both ways and begins to cross towards him, but when he sees the embarrassment on Ben’s face, he decides to keep walking. Behind him he hears his brother’s raised voice (“See you tomorrow”), the chorus of voices that confirm the appointment (“Yeah, tomorrow”), and then the pitterpatter of a short, unenthusiastic jog that concludes when Ben reaches level with him.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with your trousers?”

  Tommy stops now and turns and looks at Ben’s grinning face.

  “Pull ’em up, our kid. Simon Longbottom says you look like a dick.”

  “Who’s Simon Longbottom? And what does he know about it?”

  “He’s my new best mate.”

  Ben pauses and points to a thin pipe cleaner of a boy who lingers by the bus stop as though waiting for Ben to disappear from view. Simon Longbottom’s circular wire-frame glasses are recognizable as health service handouts.

  “Him and some of the others have invited me to a boys’ club on Thursday night.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know, do I? Nesting in the woods. Maybe some footie.”

  Ben walks on, and it’s now Tommy’s turn to chase after his brother, who seems to have found a way to make Mrs. Swinson’s baggy clothes fit his gawky body. He’s noticed that whenever Ben walks in a group, even if he’s lagging behind, it always looks as though everybody’s following him.

  “You know she’ll not let you go.”

  “Well, I won’t know that till I’ve asked, will I?” His brother loosens his school tie as he walks. “Our teacher, Mr. Rothstein, he sometimes calls us by our first names. And you know what else, it turns out that Simon Longbottom’s dad is in the army, and he’s got a skull and crossbones tattooed on his forearm. Apparently he’s based in Germany, and before that he was in Gibraltar.”

  “Has he been?”

  “Has who been where?”

  “Simon Longbottom. To Gibraltar. And Germany.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  They continue to walk, but Tommy feels hopelessly inadequate given the evidence of his brother’s second day at school. He puts his hand in his blazer pocket and gently cups his fist around the watch.

  “You’ll never guess what I found at dinnertime.”

  “Where did you get that? It’s a beaut.”

  “I found it on the floor of the changing rooms. It was lying under a bench, and there was no teacher to ask or anything. It’s one of those that you can wear underwater. Do you like it?”

  “What were you doing in the changing rooms?”

  “It was just somewhere to go, and the door was open. Do you like it?”

  His brother shakes his head.

  “You’re mental, you know that, don’t you? You’re not supposed to just go into the changing rooms.”

  Ben begins to walk faster, and Tommy scurries after him and catches up with his openly frustrated brother as they turn into Mrs. Swinson’s street.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Look, Tommy all you ever do is think about football.”

  “You’re just copying what Mam says.”

  “Well, it’s true. And I’ll tell you what, when Simon Longbottom asked me if I had any brothers or sisters, I said no.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Why do you reckon?”

  Tommy pushes the watch back into his blazer pocket and tugs at Ben’s arm.

  “You’re not going to squeal on me, are you? About the watch.”

  “Why should I care? You got yourself into this mess.”

  Tommy had hoped that the watch might be something that the two of them could share and take turns wearing, something that might make them forget Mrs. Swinson and her house. As he’d picked it up off the changing room floor, he was thinking only of his brother and trying to imagine the look on Ben’s face when he showed him the watch. His brother has now stopped by Mrs. Swinson’s front gate and is gesturing at him.

  “Well, are you coming in, or what?”

  Mrs. Swinson opens the door and looks down at them. She has unclipped her bun so that two strands of plaited grey hair now frame either side of her face, making her look like an old lady version of a doll.

  “You’re late. I was expecting you both ten minutes ago, so I called the vicar to see what I ought to do.” They remain poised on the doorstep and look up at her. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s be having you into the kitchen so I can take a good look.”

  They stand before her as she perches now on a stool by the Aga and pats Simla, the youngest of her three husky dogs. It occurs to both boys that they will most likely be inspected like this at the end of each day. Tommy looks over at the dogs, but he keeps his distance, for he doesn’t much care for Simla and the other two. Mrs. Swinson blinks furiously as she speaks, but not in time to the words so everything appears to be frantic and out of control.

  “Well, I explained to the vicar that you weren’t quite ready this week, but he’s looking forward to meeting the pair of you on Sunday. You have been baptized, haven’t you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know why I bother.” She points at Ben. “And I don’t want to see you with your tie like that.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Swinson.”

  “And look at the state of the both of you. What am I supposed to do with this hair of yours? Can you run a comb through it?” Ben opens his mouth to speak, but she continues. “Well?” She points now at Tommy. “How was your first day at school? And you”—she jabs her finger in Ben’s direction—“how was your second day?”

  “It was grand.” Ben immediately senses that he’s said the wrong thing, but it’s too late.

  “Grand, was it? Well, be off with you upstairs and get changed; then I’ll see you back down here for your tea, and for heaven’s sake, no noise, for my head’s splitting as it is, and Simla’s feeling a bit under the weather.”

  Tommy puts on the clothes that he is used to wearing, and even though he’s now back in short trousers, he feels
a little better about everything. Ben has on long trousers as he’s been allowed to stop wearing short ones, but Tommy can see that his brother seems disheartened to be taking off his school uniform. He watches Ben fold everything carefully and then open up the wardrobe and place his neat pile of clothes on the top shelf. The watch is lying on the bed, and Tommy picks it up and begins to strap it to his wrist.

  “What are you doing?” Ben makes a grab for the watch. “Take it off, you prat. You don’t want her to catch you with that, do you?”

  Mrs. Swinson hasn’t moved from the stool near the Aga, but she is now smoking a cigarette and making a big show of knocking off the ash into a saucer that she cradles in her lap. In the corner, the three dogs are curled up in their respective baskets and appear to be dropping off to sleep, but Tommy is never sure if they’re just pretending.

  “Well, the thing is, Ben, we’ll need to know more about who these boys are and what it is they get up to at this club before we can allow you to go off with them just like that.”

  They eat their beans on toast and sip at their glasses of fizzy pop, but they keep glancing at Mrs. Swinson so she understands they are paying full attention. Ben has told her about Simon Longbottom, and how he usually comes in the top three in the class, and all about his dad’s being stationed in Germany, and Mrs. Swinson has nodded sagely, interrupting Ben only to remind him that he shouldn’t gobble his food.

  Tommy’s baked beans keep falling off the back of his fork, but he knows that this is the proper way to eat them, for their mother has drummed it into their heads that turning the fork the other way and shovelling them up is common. Tommy likes to think that she’s looking at them both all the time, even though he knows that in reality she can’t see them. However, whenever he tries to talk about her with his brother, Ben changes the subject or just gets annoyed and snaps at him, for it’s clear that his brother is angry that their mother has sent them away like this.

  Mrs. Swinson stubs out her cigarette and immediately fumbles around in the box and takes out another one. She pokes it in his direction, so there can be no doubt whom she’s talking about.