Beck

by Mal Peet

  Silence. The skylight threw a pale-blue rhomboid onto the younger boy’s bed.

  “Lads?”

  Without lifting his head, Victor said, “I’m outta here tomorrer.”

  “Yeah? Where’ yer goin’?”

  “Don’ know, don’ care. Fuck’m.”

  “Wha’s that serposed to mean?”

  Beck was startled when Victor sat suddenly upright.

  “Wos yer name? Beck, ennit? Right. Aw right. Lissen. All yer need to know is this. Do wharever they want yer to do. ’Cause if yer don’, they take yer down to the cellar. An’ yer don’ wanna go down there. Tha’s right, ennit, Stevie?”

  The boy in the moon-splashed bed silently pulled his blanket over his face.

  “Yeah,” Victor said and dumped his improbable head back onto his pillow.

  “No one’s takin’ me nowheres I don’ wanna go,” Beck said.

  Victor’s laugh was short and without mirth.

  OVER THE FOLLOWING days a kind of bafflement took hold of Beck. The mornings were not unlike those back in the orphanage. After a breakfast of porridge and tea, chores: washing up, sweeping, peeling potatoes for the midday meal; scrubbing the lavatories behind the scullery; pounding soiled sheets and clothes in tubs of scummy water with a heavy wooden paddle. The afternoons, though, were a departure from what he’d previously known.

  After lunch on days of good weather, the boys would be divided into two cohorts and would go outdoors. One clutch of boys would be taken by Brother Duncan to the grounds fronting the house. Using unfamiliar implements, they would cut grass, trim shrubbery, rake gravel. When these tasks were completed, there would be games. Brother Duncan would initiate giggly sessions of hide-and-seek, or ball games with puzzling rules. At such times, passersby — ladies, mostly — would pause beyond the railings to watch and smile. Beck was often the focus of their pleasant attention.

  Meanwhile, Brother Michaelis would take the other boys into the garden at the rear of Braemar: half an acre of ground devoted to the cultivation of fruit and vegetables. The two groups of children were alternated between these different activities, and Beck was hard put to decide which he preferred. He was dominant in the games on the lawn and, although separated from it by high iron railings, delighted in being close to the world of the street — the horse-drawn cabs with ribbed canvas roofs, the motor vehicles, the admiration of strangers with real and unimaginable lives. But the garden was magical. It was enclosed by stone walls too high to see over. The shorter wall at the far end had a low door at its center, heavily padlocked. One of the long walls was webbed with carefully crucified fruit trees nubbled with tiny buds. The other supported the lean-to greenhouse in which Brother Michaelis lovingly nurtured seedlings.

  He led the boys along the benches, picking up seed trays. “Carrots, my scallywags. Like teeny green feathers, are they not? Loves a light soil, your carrot. Later we’ll dig more sand into their bed. Now, these are beets. Beautiful purple veins they’ll have in their leaves when they’re bigger. And these little fellows are beans.”

  Beck liked the moist warmth in the greenhouse and, although to his eye one tray of seedlings looked the same as the next, he was intrigued by the notion that they would turn into things you could eat. Until now, the provenance of food had never greatly interested him; what mattered was getting enough of it. When Brother Michaelis’s back was turned, he plucked out a plantlet, nipped off its mucky root, and ate the leaves. A flicker of bitterness on his tongue, then nothing.

  Ineptly — not one of them had previously held a spade or fork or hoe — the boys worked the plots. Making faces, pretending to gag, they spread rotted horse dung and compost onto newly tilled soil.

  On his fifth afternoon in the garden, Beck paused in his work. Spring had arrived, provoking birds into exchanging reckless invitations and challenges. The warmth spilling into the garden ripened the scents of greenery and turned earth. Like several of the other boys, Beck had stripped to his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Ticklish sweat was gathering on his scalp beneath his regrowing tufts. He watched, smiling, a half-wit boy called Malcolm gently interrogating the large worm that writhed on the palm of his hand.

  He moved his eyes over the even rows of pale-green shoots, each one forcing its way out of the darkness toward the sun. And cautiously, suspicious of what was swelling around his heart, he acknowledged that he might be happy. It felt like a special kind of tiredness, a waking sleep. He closed his eyes. Then felt the soft weight of a hand on his shoulder.

  “Paradise, eh, Chocolat? You’ll know the word?”

  “Yeah, Father. It’s where we go when we die, so they say.”

  “So it is, indeed. Good boy. But the word paradise means, literally, ‘a walled garden.’ Did you know that? No, of course not. But what we have tried to create here is a humble version of the paradise that surely awaits us. A practice run for heaven, in a manner of speaking.” Brother Michaelis turned Beck around to face him. “And, as in the paradise that awaits us, there is no sin here. Unless, of course, you’re bringing it with you.” The Brother smiled and tapped Beck’s stubbled head with a forefinger. “In here. Do you have sin on your mind, Chocolat? Do your thoughts dwell upon wickedness at all?”

  “I don’ think so, Father.”

  “Good. Because surely a sinful mind will find sin where none exists. Or as the great Shakespeare observes, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ Hmm? Now, shall we get this bed weeded before the Lord gathers us home? Or before teatime at the very least?”

  So the days were strange but good. Yet at the waning of each one, when Braemar gathered its shadows in, the mood within the house changed like subtle weather. The other boys, who had whooped and laughed on the lawn or chaffed each other in the garden, fell silent as they soaped their hands in the scullery. During the prolonged ritual that preceded tea, they sat with their eyes lowered as if the food in front of them were a kind of penitence. Later, after the chores of clearing away and washing up, a boy or two would be summoned to the bathroom. A boy or two would be taken to Brother Robert’s study where, sometimes, they would have their futures revealed to them and leave Braemar the following day. Inevitably they returned late, red-eyed and silent.

  The others gathered in the big front room and sat on the floor, shiftily cross-legged, for bedtime stories. These varied according to which of the Brothers was reading. Brother Duncan favored seagoing adventures in which male companions triumphed over dastardly villainy. He was good at voices: Scottish one minute, French the next. Brother John read tales of ancient wars or weird stories in which mad gods turned into eagles and carried boys skyward in their claws.

  Beck was averse to books. They were full of wasps called words that swarmed at your head for no good reason. Gradually, however, and despite the fact that there were as many words he did not know as words he did, he became entranced by these stories. He would gaze up, agape, at the reader, and when Brother Duncan took a class of the young ones to teach letters, Beck lingered at the doorway so uncomfortably and for so long that at last he was invited in to join the lesson. Thus did he learn to read — not well, for the education of boys destined for lives of work and hardship was not a priority — but enough so that week by week, familiar words began to appear in his Sunday hymnal, and then sentences, until, to his shock and delight, he could find the meanings hidden on the page.

  In the nights, there were cries and weeping. These did not trouble Beck unduly; they had been the nocturnal music in his Liverpool orphanage and on his voyage across the Atlantic. He knew that everything in life came at a price, and that there was bound to be one here.

  Boys went away, new boys arrived, but Beck stayed on. One evening he realized that little Pat Rice had disappeared.

  “He’s gone to the Rancurlie Receiving Home,” Brother Duncan said. “Where his brother is. We couldn’t stand his sniveling a moment longer.”

  Three nights later, Billy Brownlow and another boy were taken to Bro
ther Robert’s study in their nightshirts.

  When Billy came up to the bedroom, Beck said, “What’s on, Billy?”

  “I’m away tomorrer.”

  “What d’yer mean, away? Away where?”

  “Dunno. Some farm somewhere.”

  “Some farm somewhere? They must’ve fookin’ tole yer where it is.”

  “Carn remember. Onterrier, somethin’ like that.” Billy sat on his bed, looking ghostly and sick.

  “It’ll be aw right, Billy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Brother Duncan came into the room and clapped his hands together softly. “Time for prayers, boys. On your knees, now. Good. That’s lovely.”

  When the lights were out, Billy whispered, “Beck?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He had me sittin’ on his lap. Like he was me da.”

  “I never knew yer had a da, Billy.”

  “I didn’.”

  The following morning, Beck came from the scullery into the hall and saw Billy standing by the front door bundled up in a coat and wearing a cap. A cardboard label hung from the buttonhole of his collar. A kit bag sat slumped at his feet.

  “Yer all set, then?”

  Billy nodded, looking at the floor.

  “Yer’ll be fine, Billy. Yer will now.” Beck put his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. It was all he could think of to do as a gesture of encouragement.

  Billy sniffed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve then looked up at Beck and held his hand out. Surprised, Beck took it and the boys shook hands like men.

  Brother John, humming jauntily but tunelessly, appeared and, with his hand on the nape of the boy’s neck, ushered Billy out into the day’s raw sunlight. Beck never saw him again.

  BECK WAS IN his nightshirt when Brother Michaelis appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  “Bath, Chocolat.”

  The regular ritual was the source of mixed feelings for Beck. He loved the sensual feel of the hot water; he loved the fact that once or twice a month even his bones felt warm. What he didn’t love was the audience of Brothers drinking whiskey and murmuring to each other as the boys bathed. Beck didn’t know why it worried him exactly, but he had something of an idea. He wasn’t a fool.

  In the darkening passageway leading to the bathroom, Brother Michaelis came to a halt and clasped Beck’s shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Chocolat. We had our doubts when you arrived. But you have behaved yourself. You work hard. We are pleased with you. Brother Robert is very pleased with you.”

  Beck, unfamiliar with the flavor of praise, could think of nothing to say. Brother Michaelis opened the last door. Beck entered. It closed and clicked behind him. The lamplight was dimmer than last time, the steam scented with something sickly sweet.

  For the first time ever, Brother Robert was in the bath. Without spectacles, his big pink eyes made him look even more like a rabbit. His hair was wet and sleek. He was washing his neck and shoulders with a sponge. Foam dribbled down the Brother’s narrow chest. Between spread legs his penis drifted above the dark mat of his pubic hair like the thick rufous tendril of an aquatic plant.

  Beck jerked his gaze away from it. In his head, a voice not unlike his own blurted, Jaysus, yer lookin’ at a priest in the nip! He turned to look for help from Brother Michaelis, who was not there. He tried to open the door but it was locked.

  “What’s the matter?” Brother Robert asked mildly.

  Beck kept his face to the door. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’ know yer was in here.”

  “Well, I am. So take that nightshirt off and get yourself in. There’s plenty of room.”

  “I’m fine as I am, thanks, Father. I’m not too bad.”

  “I’m not asking you, Chocolat. I’m telling you.” The chill in the voice cut through the room’s heat.

  Beck was paralyzed. No, not paralyzed. His mind raced and there was a shake running up his legs all the way to his bladder. He knew the reckoning had come and prayed that the form it took would be somehow tolerable.

  He peeled the reeking socks from his feet, hoisted the nightshirt over his head, and got into the bath, steadying himself with one hand on its rim and the other shielding his private parts. The priest drew his knees up to make room but Beck sat as far away as possible, below the taps, with his hands clasping his knees together and his eyes going everywhere except in the direction of Brother Robert’s crotch. The sponge hung in the water between them like a drowned brain.

  “Dear God,” the Brother said softly. “You’re not afraid of me, surely?”

  “I ain’t,” Beck lied.

  “Good. You have no reason to be.”

  Brother Robert took a bar of soap from a dish and inhaled its aroma. “This is not the terrible old carbolic Brother John scoured you with. This is the good stuff. French. Savon de muguet, they call it. Lily of the valley. Here, have a sniff.”

  Beck gripped hold of the side and leaned forward without moving from his position by the taps. “It’s nice, Father.”

  “I like to think of it as the scent of innocence, Chocolat. Which is appropriate, for here we are, like two Adams before the Fall.” He relathered the sponge. “Come forward so I can reach you. More. That’s it. Close your eyes. Even the lily of the valley has a sting.”

  Beck felt the priest’s left hand take the back of his neck and then the soft rough texture of the sponge slither over his head and face. Anxiety mixed with warmth and the intoxicating smell of the soap. He panicked, pulled away, spluttering, cupping up water onto his face.

  “Shh, I’m sorry, Chocolat. It’s all right. But we must be clean, eh? Truly clean. Now, let’s have a go at those feet of yours, because they are a disgrace.”

  Brother Robert took Beck’s right ankle and lifted the whole leg free of the water. His grip was surprisingly strong: Beck could see the muscles working in the pale arm. The priest’s soaped fingers worked the boy’s foot in detail.

  “You’ll know,” he said, “the story of how Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. The Gospel of Saint John, Chapter Thirteen. Christ knew that his crucifixion was imminent.” Brother Robert’s fingers probed between Beck’s toes, causing spasms of feeling in Beck’s midsection. He tried to pull away but could not free himself from the iron grip. “Before the Last Supper, Our Lord removed his outer garments — as we have done, Chocolat — and washed his disciples’ feet. Just as I am washing yours. Saint Peter was not happy with the arrangement. He said, ‘Thou shalt never wash my feet.’ And Jesus said, ‘If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me.’ Are you listening, Chocolat?”

  “Yes, Father. I’m clean now and the water’s getting cold.” He started to hoist himself out of the bath, but Brother Robert levered him back down.

  “Wait. Then Peter said, ‘Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head.’ And then Jesus told him, ‘He that is washed needeth not save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit.’ Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “No, Father.”

  “You will. Get up and turn the hot tap. No, the other one. That’s it. Good. Let it run.”

  Kneeling, Beck felt the rubbery caress of the sponge move across his shoulders and down his back. He tried to move away but the scald of the falling water meant he could not. He clenched himself, holding on to the capstan of the tap, panic rising in his gut. Here we go, he thought.

  “Good boy. That’s enough. Sit back down. Give me the other foot.”

  There was a transparent coating of dispersed soap on the water now. It seemed to Beck that beneath it the priest’s thing was bigger than before. A trick of the way of looking at it, he thought, or hoped. Best to close the eyes. His left leg was lifted clear of the water. The sponge oozing over his foot, up his calf, teasing the back of the knee, the inside of his thigh.

  Jesus, but his own thing was thickening. Little finger turned thumb.

  He opened his eyes and tried to sit up. He could not because Brother Robert was gripping his ankle. Smiling and leaning closer. The rabbit e
yes moist and pinkish.

  “I would guess, my child, that it has been a long time since you were treated gently. Since you were touched with tenderness. Hmm? Believe me, I have no illusions about the kindness of orphanage nuns. And that is why, if you remember, I spoke to you when you first arrived about love. And you thought, no doubt, that it was the same old flannel priests are always giving out. But it wasn’t, Chocolat. I meant every word of it. Your past has been harsh, and your future will be hard. For reasons known only to himself, God has set you a rocky road to travel. But he is merciful. He has given you this interlude of gentleness and love here in this house. This gift to carry with you in the secrecy of your heart. Do you understand?” The priest’s soapy hand massaged the boy’s knee. “Don’t refuse this offering, my son. Trust me.”

  Beck was unable any longer to ignore Brother Robert’s swollen penis, because the priest had taken it in his other hand and lifted it clear of the water, its purplish glans protruding from his grasp.

  “Like all God’s wonders, Chocolat, the male organ is most ingeniously designed for its primary purpose, which is, as you may or may not know, the impregnation of the human female. But there are those of us, like myself and my fellow brethren, who have denied ourselves the so-called pleasures of fornication in order to serve his greater purpose. Although we do not complain of it, self-denial is hard. Even the saints struggled with carnal desire. Knowing this, as he knows all things, God in his merciful wisdom has decreed that this unruly prong of flesh also fits perfectly into the human hand. Like this. Do you see?”

  Beck saw, indeed. And knew that seeing was not going to be enough.

  “Take me in your hand, Chocolat, and wash me. As I washed you, dear child. Tenderly.”

  Beck hesitated.

  “Do it,” Brother Robert said, urgently, swimming his own hand between Beck’s legs.

  Silently, with a sudden lunge, Beck seized the soap dish.