Shadows of the Lost Child (extract)

Chapter Six

Then – Thomas

Mister Pike was the same as always, bored and boring. I didn’t know why he turned up at all, I thought it was kids who were meant to hate school. I did, often. But I also liked the porridge they gave us.

I shifted my bum on the hard wooden seat and played around with a couple of words. The work we did was far too easy, my ma had taught me to read already. I was proud of being able to read and write, most of the lads I knew couldn’t count, let alone read. I wanted a better paid job than my da, he worked at the mill, or that’s what he did when he was sober. A lot of the time he just didn’t turn up.

The mill was everything in our street. We were right at the bottom on Haversham Road, our house backed onto the factory walls, you could the hear the generator’s constant hum. Because our house backed onto the factory, it was dark at the back, there weren’t any windows. There wasn’t much light at the front either, the factory’s silos towered above us and blocked off most of the sky and sun. Not far away was the factory chimney, belching out horrible smells all day. I hated our street.

I felt the sting as a huge piece of chalk bounced off my arm and onto the floor and under my chair. I seriously thought about throwing it back.

‘Time to quit dreaming and starting working, Thomas Islip, unless you’d like to be out on your ear.’ Pike was yelling as loud as ever but somehow it never made any difference.

‘Plenty of lads would like to be you, sitting in the warm and dry all day. Lads who act a little bit grateful, not as if they can’t be bothered.’

Warm? In here? He’d got to be joking. I glanced at my feet, which were bare as usual. Ma wouldn’t let me wear shoes in summer, or even in spring, the money for shoes just didn’t exist. Despite all three of us having a job.

I felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Because I’d been late to the pub last night, I’d be docked some pay and Ma would be short, she was always short. My father drank it all away. She wouldn’t be pleased that I’d turned up late, she’d no doubt give me some stick for that. But at least I had a ma to go home to, unlike Louise, whose mother was dead. I tried not to think of Louise anymore. Even more guilt.

It wasn’t because Louise was missing. I’d done my best, I'd tried to find her. Louise was a mate, she loved to climb trees and beat me at conkers, and when it was hot we swam in the Blue. Both our house and the factory were by the river, which wasn’t as good as you might expect. Not when the days were really warm, when the dung had been dumped by the corporation.

No, I felt guilty for something else. I hadn’t gone looking for Louise at all, despite what I’d said to Miranda later. Looking for her was what I’d done after, after I’d given up looking for Alice. Alice was totally different to Louise; she was a girl, all flowers and hair, and pretty to boot. Strangely enough, that’s why I liked her.

***

I was walking home from school one day, just pottering really, kicking stones and picking up wood we’d use for the fire, and then in the distance, I saw Alice.

She was right by the gate that led to the church on Scriveners Road, Curdizan Church, and holding something in her hand. It was big and square and flashed in the light. She saw me looking, and put it away in her bag, quickly. Posh, I thought, and couldn’t resist walking closer. Her bag was blue and it looked so clean, as if it was new, and her blonde hair shone and wasn’t tied back, and she wore shoes, all glossy and smart. None of the kids I knew wore shoes. Slumming it, I thought and scowled, jealous, and strangely angry, bitter and resentful. I wanted to live like them, I did, nobody wants to live in a dump. Sorry Ma.

I thought the girl would run away, she was far too smart, and I looked a scruff, with my shirt hanging out and my trousers baggy, and me being the third person to wear them, but she didn’t run away, she just stood there, staring, so I walked closer.

‘I'm called Thomas. Who are you?’

The girl didn’t answer, just shook her head, so I tried again, a different tack.

‘Do you live around here? That’s my school, across the graveyard.’ I pointed behind us. ‘That door there leads to a joinery workshop, some of the lads are training in woodwork.’

I thought she’d ask if I was one of the lads in training, but she still didn’t speak, so I prattled on.

‘There are also lads who are going to be stonemasons, working on the church.’

I saw her glance behind at the church and I laughed out loud and shook my head. ‘Not Curdizan Church, the proper church, the abbey up there.’ The abbey twinkled in the light. She still didn’t answer. I felt uneasy.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ I said impatient.

She shook her head and pointed to herself and clamped her teeth shut. Then I got it.

‘You’re dumb,’ I said. ‘You can’t speak.’

She hesitated slightly, then she nodded.

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I can write, can you?’ She laughed at that and her blue eyes sparkled, rather like the abbey. Of course she can write, you stupid prat. She’s posh, and rich.

‘I don’t have anything to write on,’ I said. I felt helpless, useless somehow. Her smile widened.

But I do, she said, and although she hadn’t opened her mouth, I could hear her voice as clear as a bell. It was light and fine and sounded like summer. And then she brought the thing from her bag.

***

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