by Duff, Alan
A kid came in the other day, Tuesday. We thought he was from out of a circus, you know, a freak. Cos he’s got short arms. Like he’s got forearms that stick straight out of his shoulders with hands. Toby said he looked like a penguin. So everyone was calling him penguin, the poor little bugger. I didn’t. Though must admit I’ve laughed at some of the things said about him. Like when he gets wild, which is pretty often with all the teasing, Maihi Aputu told him, “Hey, don’t get in a flap.”
Next there was about six boys surrounding him and they were saying, “Please don’t hit me with your wings, Penguin!” And, “Hey, Penguin, how do you play with yourself? Bet you get a sore neck!” Things like that. Cruel, eh.
Penguin’s just another example of what we got in here. We’ve got an epileptic, Brian Jones. He was sitting at my table a week ago and had a fit. His hand shot out and grabbed the stainless-steel jug, and his eyes were bulging and his tongue was hanging out. It was awful. Then he was on the floor jerking away, and the housemaster had to use a spoon to get his tongue out or he’d have choked to death. His face went all blue, it was a terrible sight. For a moment, when I looked at him in that state, I got the thought that he wasn’t one of us then. Not a human even. Just this … this thing, lying on our hard, polished lino floor, messing it up with spit. As well scaring the shit out of us. And I mean shit. Cos that’s the first thing all three of us at the table wanted to do, was shit.
At nights here you can sometimes hear a kid screaming out in his sleep. Or he might even be awake and everything’s got too much for him. The staff call it “break-down”. They aren’t too bad when a boy has one of those cos they know he’s not fooling it as they can do at times. A boy’ll scream, he’ll moan and groan, call out names: and usually it’s mum or dad, that’s what turns everyone here inside out — hahahah — ya get it? Inside out? Humour, Mum and Dad. That’s the other thing there seems to be lots of around here. And I think I know why. One, it’s the Maoris because they dominate in here in numbers and toughness, too. And two, because even they, the tough Maoris, secretly wanna be something else but don’t know how. Or can’t, even if they knew where to aim for.
They can’t, Mum, and you, too, I s’pose, Dad, as if you’d be listening, they can’t because I think they’re cursed. Have I told you about George’s curse? No, don’t think I have. Well, George is cursed, it’s a makutu, a Maori curse, because his guardian uncle and aunty pinched some timber and used it to build their house when it was s’posed to be for a new meeting house. So the tohunga, that’s the Maori priest, put a curse on the heads of all those who slept under the roof of the stolen timber. Which was George. Poor George. His curse is a Maori warrior ghost coming to him in his dreams and telling him to run away from here. So he does. Though not since I’ve been here he hasn’t. I’d like to think it’s because he’s got a real friend. A true best mate.
But, it’s not just George, it’s everyone. Can you imagine it? A place of thirty-six boys and all cursed? Why ya hear them, and everyone has a turn, at night, even during the day, breaking down. Calling out to mummys and daddys who aren’t there, ain’t gonna ever be there. Like you two, Mum and Dad. Eerie groans and callings at night that echo down the passageway and make your hair stand up and skin burst out with the goosies, really does.
State wards. That’s what we are. Wards of the state.
They lie and cheat and scrap and steal and trick and betray each other one day. The next, they laugh and sing and hug and comfort and take punishment to save you. They even shed a few tears if they think no one’s looking. State wards, Mum and Dad. State wards meant to he the toughest of the tough, meanest of the mean. And they are. Yet they aren’t.
And they talk. They talk and talk, once they trust you, and mostly it’s to do with their life, growing up, how bad it was. Or how good it was, even though they know and you know they’re talking bullshit, it’s only a fantasy of how they’d liked their life to have been. Like Rusty Bradley who claims they’ve got a fireplace with a solid gold cross on one side and his mum and dad read stories to the Bradley kids by the fire most nights. Bullshit. Mr Wakefield, he’s a Maori housemaster here, told us Rusty lives in a dreamland. He’s never had a proper home, he’s gone from foster home to foster home, and now here because he blew up one day and nearly killed his foster father cos he got sick of being hit.
Childhoods, Mum and Dad. It’s to do with childhood and it being messed up. (But what to do, what to do?)
Charlie turning inwards to the wall and squeezing his eyes hard shut to try and prevent the tears that’d suddenly welled.
Sunday morning and every second Wednesday evening, at seven-thirty, they give us religious instruction. Sunday’s a church service. Second Wednesday’s a film, a Christian film. A different preacher comes in on Sunday to preach to us. One week it might he a father, next a minister. I can’t tell the difference, except the father smokes, and the cunning kids beg him for “just one smoke, father?” Which he sometimes sneakily gives.
They tell us of how Jesus loves us. And we laugh between ourselves in the wing rec rooms afterwards and say, “That right? Wish me mum and dad did, too.” Or, “I didn’t know Jesus was a homo!”
“God is everywhere, He’s in the room, He’s even in your hair, He’s in the air around you, you only have to open your eyes to Him,” that’s what they say each and every Sunday morn.
And we go, “Well, He better not be in my room when church is over or I’ll tell Him to get the hell out!” Oh, laugh all right.
“Go in peace with God,” they’ll say. Then we’ll go outside round the back of the gym and go to war with every boy who gave you a smart look.
“God is all around you,” every Sunday they say the same.
“Feel His love.”
And Tommy, the cheekiest kid in the Home, will whisper quite loud, “Only thing I can feel is the bloody draft coming in under the door!” And everyone sniggers.
The films, well, they’re pretty interesting, I’ll say that. Like they had a three-part series on rocks, plain old rocks, except their amazing colours got revealed, somehow, and us boys just could not believe they were ordinary old rocks. Only thing, though, the films always end in saying this is proof God exists. Well maybe it is, who are we to say? But it’s not as if we even talk about God existing or not. Hell, as Toby says, I wish I could wind back the film of my life so most things didn’t happen. But he doesn’t look to God to winding it back.
Oh, Mum, sometimes, you know, my heart aches for you. Yes you. That’ll surprise you, I know. But it does. Cos you’re my mum even if we both know you ain’t exactly the best mum ever got born. But there’s times, Mum, when I wish I was back home — long as you were sober — sitting down with you and talking. And, like you and I snuggled up beside each other, you’d like that wouldn’t ya? Even though you say your kids, except Lilla your favourite, drive you mad. You’d like to know me, wouldn’t you?”
Charlie having a little weep. Then knocking on the wall to George next room, “Hey, George? Goodnight, mate.” Smiling teary-eyed at the three thumps of goodnight in return. “Boy, I’d die for George, I really would.”
The staff here are as mixed up as we are. Honest. I’ve figured that out. Mr Dekka, well, he’s the worst. He says he’s a Christian; every time after the film evening, (the religious film not the Friday night movies, which are good), he has that look as if he and God are best pals and us kids aren’t even in the running. He’s studying religion, in his spare time, and he carries a bible in his back pocket, a tiny little job. Yet I’d say he’s got as much hate in him as you, Dad. And least you’ve got half an excuse that you’ve never made a secret of hating the world. But Mr Dekka? He claims he loves the world. Loves, he says. Is that why he hits the boys — because he loves them? That why he looks at you like you’re worse than shit? Love. And he seems to have something over George, though George won’t tell even me. Just changes the subject or tells me to shut up.
Then there’s the bossman, Mr Davis.
He’s OK, but no one can get close to him. He says he has to keep his distance because of what he is. But you’d think it’ d be his job to even sometimes talk to the boys. Yet he doesn’t. Oh, he’ll encourage you if you can sing. I can sing, and I bet you never knew that. Like you, Mum. Must’ve got it from you. He’s taking three of us more musical kids to a play, can you believe? On the outside. Can’t wait. Sweeny Todd I think it’s called. But the same man won’t talk to you even when you try and get him talking. I — oh, I’ve suddenly got tired.
Charlie rolling over to end the letter in his head.
Oh Just one more thing. You don’t know how it hurts to see boys get a visit, with their parents, or a brother or sister, or someone, bringing them nice things which they’re allowed to bring back to their rooms. It hurts, Mum and Dad. It hurts more not really knowing why you couldn’t love me enough to stop drinking for a few days so to visit me. It hurts. Then I hate.
So no goodnights from Charlie boy. Ya don’t deserve it.
7
BACK TO DARKNESS
Two weeks he lasted. Two lousy weeks of being one of the Boys’ Home privileged chosen to attend Riverton Boys’ High School, and it was over. Two weeks.
It began the first day really; kids asking where Charlie was from, what Riverton intermediate had he attended before here, and why start so late in the year, the August holidays would be coming up soon? Telling them he was from Two Lakes, that his family had moved to Riverton — oh, yeah? Whereabouts? What’s the name of the street? As if they already knew what he was, that they wanted to trap him. For anyone could see Charlie arrived with Paul Kyle, and surely they’d know Paul was a state ward. So maybe, Charlie later thinking, it was all so inevitable.
Every lunchtime he got more and more kids hanging around him, firing questions at him of where he was from, what did his father do, he’s a labourer, I bet. And what did you say the street was you live at? You mean you come all the way over from there to come to this school? What do you have in your lunch — poo-ha? Laughing at Charlie’s Maori half. Getting all of him madder and madder until one day he snapped.
A persistent every-day teaser put the question to Charlie, did he know Paul Kyle or not? Yes, he knew Paul Kyle.
“So you’ve been lying, you’re a convict aren’t you?”
“No. Not a convict. Just a state ward.”
“Same thing isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is, you are a criminal, that’s why you live in a Boys’ Home. You’re a Maori, too, and can’t you see we don’t have hardly any Maoris here, you don’t belong. This is a good school. How did you trick your way in? Are you an inmate? I hear they’ve got cells there, you been in one? I bet you have. You stink, too. Do you know that, Wilson: you pong. Do all Maoris have B.O? Or don’t you know what B.O. is?”
“No, I don’t actually.”
“Oh, he doesn’t know what his own body is producing, you hear him boys? Means you stink, Wilson. Means you’re a disgusting black Maori who we don’t want at our —” Charlie didn’t let the guy finish it. He hit him.
And hit him and hit until he had to be hauled off by a teacher who promptly marched Charlie to the headmaster’s office. Charlie offered his explanation, but was told it was a ridiculous excuse for unwarranted violence, that he’d wait for the medical report on the boy Charlie had assaulted before deciding on the next step of action. But, rest assured, this matter will be reported to the Home authorities. When it came back from the medical room that the boy had to have seven stitches inserted inside his mouth, the headmaster went colder than Mr Davis can: as if a wall had suddenly come down between them.
The headmaster himself drove Charlie back to the Home. In total silence. He was made to wait outside Mr Davis’s office whilst the two conferred.
Maybe half an hour later Mr Davis emerged with Mr Lay, they shook hands, Mr Davis said he was terribly sorry about this most regrettable incident, and Mr Lay walked out of Charlie Wilson’s life as if Charlie had ceased to exist.
Never had a boy felt so alone. It was worse than when neither of his parents turned up at court when he was sentenced to here. For he had something — the hope of eventual freedom — to cling to. Now, he felt he had nothing. The world seemed to have opened up as a large hole and swallowed him.
In Mr Davis’s office the boss was coldly furious. Cold. Everyone in this nightmare of the same cold quality — when it suited them. Charlie trying to focus on the other Mr Davis he knew, and with it some hope. He took his mind back to when Mr Davis took him and two other boys to a musical play, Sweeny Todd. How Mr Davis had seemed to spend half his night glancing at the boys to see the pleasure on their faces at this first-time experience. But the man droning on to him was not the same of that night. This was the distant Mr Davis, the one who had his “image” to maintain. This was a worse Mr Davis than that, for this one was even more removed. This wasn’t the same Mr Davis who first entered Charlie’s life when he was in the cell, come in to say hello, and mention that Mr Dekka had told him of overhearing Charlie’s good singing voice. The same man who then put Charlie on the list of those boys he deemed to have musical potential, or were just good boys he saw some future in, the same man who gave a trio of boys an experience that would have them sleepless that same night with excitement, even astonishment at a world revealed to them they never knew existed. Mr Davis gave them this; and out of the goodness of his own heart. The same who was staring at Charlie and telling he had disgraced the Home, let everyone down who’d had faith in him, put his programme back to worse than square one.
“So Charlie Wilson you’d better have one hell of an explanation to dissuade me from punishing you to the limits of my authority.”
“But sir, I only had a fight. And it was because —”
“Only a fight? What is only about any fight, Wilson?”
Charlie puzzled at this. “Sir, it happens round here every day. No big deal —”
“No big what?” Mr Davis came up off his chair, making him the giant he really was. “Did my ears hear me right?”
“Sir, I only said a fight wasn’t, you know …” Charlie dropping to the most conciliatory voice he could find.
Bang! Mr Davis’s fist came down on the desk. “Violence! That’s what’s wrong with you boys, violence.”
And immediately Charlie thinking: but it isn’t. Even I know that. I’ve watched every boy in this place as closely as I’ve observed anyone or anything, and it’s not violence.
Mr Davis bellowed on, “… your background. You understand? You are violent like your backgrounds, and it is background we here at the Home wish to change.”
Background? How’s that gonna be done? It’s already happened. “Sir, could I just say something — please?” Charlie daring to cut in.
Mr Davis looking — though it just could not be — confused for the moment, as if Charlie interrupting him to ask if he could have his say was outside Mr Davis’s understanding.
So Charlie shot in on the gap of Mr Davis momentarily stunned into silence.
“Sir, I honestly think the boys here need, like …” hearing his own voice, as almost adult-like, suddenly frightened Charlie. He’d been sure what he was going to say and now he wasn’t. (Love. It’s love they — we — need more’n anything. And after that it’s life being cleared up, getting the haze, the muck wiped off it, like a dirty window, that’s what we need.) “I — I, uhh —. Well, you see, sir, I think some of the kids — I mean the ones I know —. Well, I think —.” No good. It’d gone. But then he heard a little voice in his head telling him he must speak up.
So Charlie drew himself to full height, still surprised that Mr Davis was yet giving him speaking space. “Sir, I’m not saying this place is bad cos it isn’t. Not really. And the staff, some of them are really neat. Miss Eccles, well she’s — she’s — she’s really really nice. And I think she understands what the boys need — oh, not sa
ying you don’t, sir. But she’s a, you know, she’s sorta like a mother. Some of the boys, hahaha, call her Grannie behind her back,” hearing himself talking, giggling nervously, unable to control himself even when he wanted nothing more than an ability to control.
“But Mr Dekka, sir, well I think you’d know —”
“Mr Dekka? What have you to say about Mr Dekka?”
“I, uh — well, sir, he’s — sir, you must kind of know what he’s like. Not just me saying it, you ask any boy, he’ll tell you the same thi—”
“What, are my staff supposed to be here so you boys will like them? Do you think it’s a popularity contest? And don’t give me that confused look, Wilson, you know damn well what I’m saying. You would not have been chosen for Riverton Boys’ High if you were as thick as you’re now trying to make out. And, might I remind you, there have only been a handful of boys in the history of this place who have gained places at Riverton Boys’. But you have to mess up. Background, you see now, Wilson? It’s your bloody backgrounds that we are up against at every turn. We —”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr Davis. I do know it’s background, like you say it is. And I’m not trying to be clever. I — it’s — you know I’m scared of you. Every boy here is. You know we’re not happy, though. None of us. Why we’re here — sir. No disrespect, sir. Because we’re, you know, because we’re not, like, happy, sir. But we didn’t make ourselves like that sir …” Hearing himself run off at the mouth, this surge of verbal recklessness that yet felt so right it couldn’t stop itself. And more, because he’d seen in this moment of having his eyes opened that Mr Davis didn’t know, not really, much and any more than the kids he was in charge of. Or why weren’t they all, or just some, turning out for the better?
Even when Mr Davis stepped swiftly around from behind his desk and backhanded Charlie across the face, Charlie didn’t feel so much fear, as it was, somehow, a confirmation of the truth of what he was saying.