"Mmmm, yeah-"
"We could, I suppose, if we merely wanted to make him conform to our standards, be brutal to him. Take away all his small treasures,
insist he does as he's told, and order things in such a manner that he's obliged to. Starve him, or beat him, or something disgusting like that," says Brother Keenan wearily. "But we are here to help him. He simply doesn't want to be helped by us. He ignores the psychologist. I understand he actually goes to sleep during school classes. He will not participate in any game or recreation. He has cold-shouldered all attempts by boys and staff to make friends with him. He has no interest in church activities. He has no interest in anything whatsoever, except returning to his home."
"I don't want to seem rude, Brother, but if he's as uncooperative as all that, why not let him?"
"For one thing, he is now a ward of the State. For another, there is no home for him to return to. His former foster parent has vanished, and has sold the house where he and the child used to live. I have told him this, several times. He does not believe me, and like everything else, you can not make him do anything, even believe the truth."
"Why not show him it?"
"Pardon?"
"Let him go all the way home to… where is it? Whangaroa? and find out for himself. That'd probably bring him back to his senses."
Brother Keenan, saying it quite gently, admonishes, "It would probably drive him out of them entirely."
The big man opposite coughs.
"Oh. Well. Ah, I see it's a bit more complicated than I thought."
"Yes," says Brother Keenan, and thinks that maybe this time hasn't been wasted after all.
"Well, d'you want me to take him home, and show him a bit of real family life?"
"Brother Antony says you have an enviable record in dealing with children from this home, and a particular understanding when it comes to disturbed children." He thinks, I still have my doubts, but who else is there, Lord?
''Yeah, well," Pat O'Donaghue is saying, "there was Felix, and Julian, Mata, I suppose you could call them all a bit round the twist. Bedwetters, destructive, rowdy, liars, that sort of thing. But they're all great kids now. Me and Ann can handle that sort of thing. We're used to kids, disturbed ones and all, and we love them."
"Well, Mr O'Donaghue, this child is certainly in dire need of genuine love and care. You know I am a newcomer to this parish and this home. I think in this instance, I will rely on Brother Antony's Judgement, and ask you formally whether you are willing to look after the boy for a trial period, with a view to placing him with you permanently as a foster-son."
'Yeah Brother, that'll be great… there's always room for someone who needs it at us O'Donaghues, and this kid, like you say, sounds 'like he needs it. We'll take good care and I'll bet in a few months,
you won't recognise him, he'll be so much changed for the better." "I hope so," says Brother Keenan.
Indeed, I pray so… dear Father, I commend the child especially to Your care,
pressing the button on his desk,
it is time he was looked after as he deserves.
"O, Brother Michael, would you find Simon Gillayley and ask him to come to my office? On second thoughts, would you bring him yourself?"
"Of course, Brother."
They wait for quite a long time.
Hi
One step, two step, three step, four, walking down the sandy track,
transistor turned up full bore and pressed against his ear.
Keep on goin Clare, you nearly home.
It has been a long two days, and a very long walk, and he is so tired he can't see or walk straight any more.
But I'm nearly there. So what if no-one came for me, I have come home by myself. Shrugging off the pain again, no-one came.
He had a vague feeling you got ill-treated in some fashion in jail. He's thought that Joe might've gone to Moerangi afterward, to get over it. That Kerewin might've gone with him, and they'd had to stay for a while. Which is why they never came.
It had been a considerable shock to find other people in his home at Pacific Street. Warily wise now, he had checked the station platform before getting off the train. No police standing ready. This time.
He had slipped off the train and gone home the back way, by the wharves. It was early evening, fine and mild, which was just as well. His shirt was cotton, and the denim jacket Sinclair had given him wasn't all that warm.
There was nobody in the street except some children, stranger children, playing outside his gate. He walked up the path, his tiredness dropping from him with each step.
Shall I go straight in? Or knock and wait?
Knock and wait would be the better surprise… e, imagine his face!
The door opened.
"Yeah? Waddya want?"
The woman stood looking down at him angrily. "You been playin with my kids?" he's backing off the front door step, eyes staring, his heart almost stopped, "You tell 'em their father's coming home any minute now and they'd better get inside and quick about it."
He's back down the path, faltering. He said, he said-
The brother's soft voice, and his worried eyes, and his tightened lips above the choke of his collar.
What do I do? What do I do now?
The night was growing darker, colder. He watched the house from the other side of the road, and the man who went in the door wasn't Joe.
What the hell can I do now? Where is he, why'd he leave me behind?
And suddenly he had enough anger to walk away, not knowing where to go, but needing to leave the house with its children and baleful woman and sad-looking man behind.
He said he'd gone away, he said… but he can't have, he wouldn't go and not take me, he wouldn't,
and it comes as sudden and fiery as lightning, Of course! He's gone to live with Kerewin! Hugging himself and weak with the relief of it all,
Jesus you stupid Clare, I knew it was lies all the time… why didn't you think before? You could've been home now, instead of stuck in the dark. I can't get there tonight.
His legs are shaking, and his head has begun to hurt again. He makes it as far as the park, just past the wharves. It is quiet and peopleless, only a weka scrabbling near the garden-shed. He used the shed as a hideout once before: the brass padlock on the door looks impressive, but nobody seems to realise the side window is always open, and big enough for him to get in by.
He climbs through the windows with difficulty, the hinges grating, and the weka squawks and scuttles into the night.
His last conscious thought, curled up on papersacks watching two moons loom glowing outside the window, was, Talk about me saying where I'm going, you gonna hear about this, e pa, for bloody weeks-He wakes very early, stiff and aching and as thirsty as he's ever been in his life. Looking blearily round the shed for something to ease him… nothing much here… there's a dufflebag hanging on the wall, and he climbs the bench to get it. And when he reaches it, sweating and unsteady, wonder of wonders it holds two oranges, a Parka, and a small transistor radio.
Hey loot galore Gillayley! slinging it over his shoulder, and clambering back down.
It takes him three goes to get out the window, but there's no one around outside.
He walks away as quickly as he can.
There's a mist about, sea fetch, breath of the sea, says Kerewin. It makes him feel safe, all the houses cloudy, the sky-height hidden, the lamp-posts obscure, a car going past with dim yellow headlights, as he goes walking through the town. He sees two people but neither take any notice of him.