He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (17 page)

Paul Downston’s bedroom had blue striped wallpaper, on which were pinned pictures of blokes with funny hair, wearing strange clothes and playing guitars.
 
Beneath one of the posters were the words,
Rock’n Roll
, which I supposed must have something to do with music, although Joe said it sounded religious to him.
 
It was probably something to do with The Salvation Army he said, though they didn’t look much like blokes from the Sallies.
 
I couldn’t imagine Paul Downston wanting pictures of the Salvation Army on his bedroom wall.

The Missus entered the room without knocking.
 
Immediately, she padded to a wardrobe.
 
‘Clothes!
 
Away!’ She said, and pointing to a chest of drawers, ‘Fold!
 
Tidy!’
 
She looked at the posters and made a clicking sound, before pulling the blue bed cover straight.
 
She left as quietly and quickly as she had come.

I shuddered at being so close to the Downstons.
 
‘I wish we were back in the men’s quarters.’
 
I blew on my new shoes in case a speck of dust had managed to settle on them, since I had last looked.
 
‘This place is like an undertaker’s.
 
I don’t give a tinkers if it does have an inside lav.
 
The long drop gets more air.’
 

‘If you don’t mind your privates getting chilblains.’
 
Joe bounced up and down on the bed.
 
‘Make the most of it.
 
It won’t last.’

I climbed on to the bed and lay on my back staring at the ceiling.
 
The room was twice the size of the one I shared with Angela in our flat in Blountmere Street.
 
It had a yellow rug with blue circles on it, and a bedside lamp.
 
They were things our bedroom never had.

The encroaching twilight transformed the apples on the tree outside into black orbs.
 
Beyond the homestead, I could hear Murray whistling the dogs.
 
Murray and Fergus would have lit the lamps.
 
After Murray had fed the dogs and shut them up for the night, the two men would hang up their hats and settle in their chairs to read or doze in front of the stove.
 
I felt as far from the men’s quarters as I did from Blountmere Street.

Sometime in the night, I heard Eleod stagger along the hallway to the small room at the back of the house that I knew was Elsie’s.
 
I heard the door being opened, then closed again.
 
There was a scuffle, and the rasping of bedsprings.
 
Although they sounded muffled, I could hear Elsie’s cries, followed by Eleod’s grunts.
 
Later, the door opened and closed again.
 
I expelled a breath as I heard Eleod pass our bedroom. I lay awake for a long time wishing Elsie would stop weeping.

‘My word, but it’s a hot one for this time of the year.’
 
The Man from the whatever-department, unwound himself from behind the wheel of his Austin.
 
He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief before stuffing it back in his pocket and extending his hand to Downston.

‘Harrington.’
 
He introduced himself.

Downston stretched his neck and jutted out his chin, clearly uncomfortable in his yellow cravat.
 
‘G’day.
 
Eleod Downston.’

‘Been meaning to get to you before this, but pressure of work, Mr Downston, pressure of work.’
 

The Man turned to Joe and me.
 
‘And these must be your boys.’

‘Yes, these are the … our two … lads.’
 
Downston rammed a hand into the small of our backs and thrust us forward.

‘Smart young men.’
 
The Man took in the creases in the sleeves of our shirts, our polished shoes and smarmed hair that had been slicked down by Downston with axle grease.

‘You must be proud of them.’

‘Um, very proud.’

‘You’ve certainly got a beautiful place here.
 
A fair bit of land.
 
Do you have any help?’

‘That’s why he has …’Joe began.

‘What the lad’s trying to say is, we have a shepherd and a rouseabout who help run things round the place.’

‘So you two boys don’t have to do too much, eh?’
 
The Man chuckled.

‘Actually, we have to work …’

‘They have so much school work, they don’t get any time to help.’

‘You’re very lucky boys.
 
Not all our orphans are in such ideal situations, although we try to make sure everyone’s happy,’ the Man added.

In the parlour, our exercise books were displayed on our desks, our pens laid on top.
 
The Missus, in a dress that rolled tightly over her stomach and hips, stood like a guardian beside them.
 

‘So how’s their tuition progressing?’ the Man asked her.

‘Going.
 
Well,’ the Missus pronounced.
 

At an attempt at mateyness, the Man ruffled my hair.
 
‘Not all orphans get the chance to have this kind of education, and certainly not in such a luxurious classroom.’
 
The Man rubbed his hands together in order to try and rid them of the grease.

‘We don’t … ’
 
I tried again.

‘They … um … don’t know how to thank us for what we’re doing for them, but … um … charity begins at home.’
 
Downston cleared his throat in an attempt at modesty.
 
With a warning glance at me, he marshalled us out of the parlour.

‘It certainly does make everything worthwhile when one observes children so well looked after, so privileged.’
 
The Man followed the Missus to our bedroom for his inspection.

‘Treat ‘em just like our own.’
 
Downston had a touch of pathos in his voice as he patted the bed.

‘Own,’ the Missus repeated.

‘Laudable,’ the Man exclaimed, glancing around the room.
 
‘Like rock and roll, do you?’ he asked Joe, eyeing the poster and looking as if he was about to ruffle Joe’s hair, then thinking better of it.

‘Never been much of a one for religion,’ Joe replied.

The Man grinned at Downston.
 
‘Got a sense of humour, these lads of yours.’

After walking the Man around the homestead garden, Downston led the way back into the house and into the dining room.
 

‘I’m sure you won’t say no to some afternoon refreshment,’ Downston said in his most smarmy voice.

‘Being on the road most of the time, afternoon tea’s a rare treat for me.
 
With a bit of a journey ahead of me I certainly won’t say no,’ the Man replied.
 
‘Are the boys going to join us?’

‘Always eat with us.
 
We share our table and our home with them.’
 
It looked as if Downston might cry at the thought of his own generosity.

‘And your own children?’ The Man took four triangular sandwiches from the bone china plate the Missus held in front of him.
 
I had glimpsed Elsie making them earlier.
 
She had fresh bruises on her face.
 
Now she was nowhere to be seen.
 
I wondered what the Boss had done with her.

‘Our own kids are on the Coast with my brother, so we can concentrate on these two.’

‘All good friends together, are you?’
 
he asked me.

‘We don’t … ’

‘Real good mates,’ Downston butted in.

‘And you teach your own children at home too, Mrs Downston?’

‘They’re at boarding school,’ Downston answered for her.
 
‘They’re happy enough there and ... ’ Downston took a noisy swig of tea, ‘it gives us a chance to give these two a bit more attention.’

‘They certainly seem to get that.
 
Plenty of good food, eh?’
 
The Man’s gaze lingered on the ginger gems and pikelets on another of the plates that were usually kept in the glass cabinet in the parlour.

Joe stuffed a sandwich into his mouth whole and said, ‘We only ever get boil-up.’

‘He means if they had their way, that’s what they’d like to have every night.’

‘My kids are the same.’
 
The Man put another three sandwiches on his plate. ‘They’d eat fish and chips all the time, if we let them.’
 
It sounded as if he’d said fush and chups.

‘Tell Mr Harrington what you had for dinner last night.’
 
Downston was determined the silverside wasn’t going to be forgotten.
 
He inclined his head towards me, his neck pushed forward, causing his veins to protrude.

‘Meat and …’

‘A nice bit of silverside and mustard sauce, it was.
 
And what else?
 
Tell Mr Harrington what you had after that.’

‘Apple pie and custard,’ I muttered.

‘My, my, and yet you haven’t got an ounce of fat on you.’ The Man patted his own ample stomach.
 
‘Just look at the two of you.’

‘We can’t look at ourselves ‘cos we’ve never had a mirror.’
          

Downston pulled at his cravat.
 
‘We don’t encourage vanity.
 
Humility’s what we’re aiming for.’

‘Laudable,’ the Man exclaimed again.

‘More?
 
Tea?’ Maggie enquired.

‘I don’t mind if I do.’

‘I’ll fill up the teapot again.’ Joe jumped to his feet and took the silver teapot in to the kitchen.

‘No, I …’ Maggie began

‘Let him, Mrs Downston.’
 
The Man beamed his approval.
 
‘It’s seldom one sees a young man, and certainly not one who’s an orphan, so willing to help.’

‘Aren’t you two boys going to have another cup?’ the Man asked when Joe returned.

’I’d like …’ I ventured, suddenly thinking of Lori and what she’d said about the good old British cuppa.

‘No thanks, me and Tony have had enough,’ Joe cut across me.

‘Good to know when you’ve had enough,’ the Man spluttered, washing down his fourth ginger gem.

When the Man had finished his third pikelet, he belched and rose from the table and opened his brief case that had been resting next to his knee.
 
He took some papers from it and flicked through them until he came to the one he wanted.
 
He placed it on the table, fished in his inside jacket pocket and produced a fountain pen, unscrewed the top and placed some ticks on the form.
 
‘Everything seems to be perfect.
 
And the boys have had no illness?’

‘Never - crook!’
 
The Missus drained the last of the tea from her cup.

‘I need you to sign here, then, Mr Downston.’

Downston placed his empty cup on the table and took the pen.
 
His finger-nails had been cleaned for the occasion.
 
They looked like brown insects rather than black ones.

‘And remember, if you have any problems you can always contact me.’

‘What if we have any?’
 
I faced him square on.

‘What problems could you possibly have, young man?
 
You’re as close to living in paradise as you’re likely to be.’

‘But that’s not …’

‘You’d better get back to your lessons.
 
Now!’
 
Downston managed a weak smile.
 
‘Don’t like them to get behind.’

‘I thought I told you only to speak when you were spoken to.
 
You had far too much to say.’
 
Eleod ground out the words as the Austin laboured up the hill and away from the farm.
 
‘Get your stuff and clear off back to the men’s quarters where you belong.’
 
Downston raised his boot and aimed a punishing kick to my shin.
 
‘And don’t forget to bring your clothes and shoes back to the Missus.’