Beyond the Crushing Waves, page 5
“Yes, Mr Wilson?”
Mr Wilson half-sat on the edge of the desk, a smile on his thin lips. “Are you enjoying the book?”
“Yes, sir. It’s wonderful.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it. Keep up with your reading and you’ll go far in life, Harry.”
Harry dipped his head. He knew it wasn’t true. Boys from his neighbourhood didn’t go further than the local bottling factory or flour mill. If he was lucky, he’d get a job working in one of them for forty years. If he was unlucky, he’d end up collecting and selling rags on a street corner to make ends meet.
It was how life was for the people he knew, and for him as well whenever he managed to escape the confining walls of the Home and make his own way in the world. His cheeks warmed as shame washed over him.
“You’re a smart boy,” continued Mr Wilson. “Don’t give up on yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“These visitors tomorrow— give them a chance. Listen to what they have to say. It’s an opportunity that might be just the thing you’re looking for, my boy.”
Harry raised his head, his gaze finding Mr Wilson’s clear blue eyes. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“But I’ve gotta stay here and wait for Mam. She could be back any day now as soon as she lands a job. She told me so. I don’t want to stray too far in case I miss her. Even for an adventure.”
Mr Wilson’s features clouded and his brow furrowed. “I understand, Harry. But before you make any decisions, Mr Holston has asked to see you in his office after class.”
Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. Mr Holston was the headmaster at the Home. He never asked a boy to his office for good news. Usually, whatever he had to say was accompanied with several licks of the cane to the hearer’s bare rear end.
He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Mr Wilson reached into his desk and pulled out a plump red apple. He rested it on his palm and pushed his hand out to Harry. “Would you like an apple?”
Harry’s stomach clenched with hunger at the sight of the fruit. He took it and pushed it deep into his pants pocket. “Ta, sir.”
The headmaster’s office was dark and closeted. The boys were all afraid of Mr Holston. He’d as soon use a calm, kind tone to address a boy as he would to whip him. His face would shift with his mood — at once open and jovial, the next moment dark and cruel. The boys never knew which face they’d get. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered with narrow brown eyes that couldn’t seem to settle on one boy for long, always moving, shifting, blinking.
Harry drew a deep breath, his heart pounding with his book beneath his arm. He raised one fist and knocked on the door. It barely made a sound. His knuckles were cold, and the hard timber sent a whisper of pain through his bruised hand. There was no response, so he tried again, this time rapping louder.
“Enter!” called Mr Holston in a brusque tone.
Harry bit down on his lower lip, pulled the heavy door open, and stepped through into the office. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting — he scanned the room, taking in the shelves of dusty leather-bound books, the table with a blue and white china wash bowl and jug, the sturdy dark-timber desk that looked as though it had sat in its place for a hundred years without moving.
Mr Holston held a pen in one hand poised above a stack of papers. “Ah, Harry, you’re here.”
Harry swallowed. “Mr Wilson sent me.”
Mr Holston set his pen on the desk and stood to his feet, coming around the desk to rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s pulse thudded in his throat as his mind raced to understand what he was doing in Mr Holston’s office — had he broken something, crossed someone, or said the wrong thing and didn’t remember it?
“Take a seat, lad.” Mr Holston’s tone was cordial. Warm, even, if Harry calmed his anxiety long enough to think about it.
He relaxed a little and sat in the proffered high-backed chair. Mr Holston leaned on the desk with one leg hitched to sit on the edge closest to Harry.
“Mr Wilson tells me you’ve been doing well in class.”
“Yes, sir. I think I have.”
“That’s good to hear. You know, one of the things we look for in you boys is a mindset that might lift you out of the misery of your parents’ world. I think perhaps you have that.”
Harry wasn’t sure what he should say in response. He was accustomed to the men who ran the Home talking about his family, friends and neighbours from back home as though they were criminals, vagrants, and less than worthless. It was a constant refrain. Everything they did in the Home was an attempt to help children like Harry out of the swamp of their birth. But Harry couldn’t reconcile that with the fact that he longed to be back there with Mother.
He’d swap the Home for his real home in a heartbeat. Even though Mother had dropped him at the gates all those years ago, he spent every day looking forward to the time when they could be together again. They’d tried once, a few years earlier. She’d come for him unexpectedly. The headmaster had objected, but in the end couldn’t do anything to stand in her way. Excitement, joy, and a wellspring of emotion had flooded over him as he’d walked away from the tall, imposing building with his small hand squeezed tight into hers. But within a few months, she’d lost her job, they’d been evicted from their flat, and she’d bundled him up and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the Home to try again.
Mr Holston waited, but Harry remained mute. He cleared his throat.
“Well, the reason I raise the subject is that there’s a chance for you to change direction.”
“Mr Wilson said we were to have visitors tomorrow,” he piped up.
Mr Holston smiled, his moustache twitching. “Yes, quite.”
“But I told him, if it means going away somewhere, I can’t do it. You see, I’m waiting for Mother…”
Mr Holston drew a slow breath. “I wanted to talk to you about your mother, Harry.”
Perhaps this was the moment he’d been waiting for. She was coming for him. He should pack his bag, be ready to leave.
“I’m afraid she recently came down with pneumonia.”
“Is she okay?” He forgot his policy of saying as little as possible to the headmaster. If Mother was sick, he should go to her. She needed him.
Mr Holston’s face took on a hangdog expression. He linked his fingers together in front of his belt. “Unfortunately not. She fell quite ill very quickly, it seems. Didn’t have a strong enough constitution to deal with the disease and fight it off. She died last week. I’m sorry to be the one to have to break the news to you, lad. But she won’t be coming back for you, and you should learn to shoulder that burden now since you must. It’s time to face a future of your own making, my boy.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He stood to his feet slowly, the world spinning around him. Books seemed larger, then faded into the distance. He wobbled, reached for the wall, and set his hand against it to steady himself.
“Mother’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so, lad.” Mr Holston hovered. “Are you well? Can I get you some water, Harry?”
Harry shuffled towards the door. “I’ll be all right, Mr Holston. Thank you, sir.”
It couldn’t be true. He didn’t want to believe it. Mother was gone? All this time he’d been waiting for her, holding out hope they’d be a family again, and now she wouldn’t come. He had nothing to hold onto any longer. No one to call his own. He’d never met his father. Mother hadn’t told him who the man was, no matter how he’d begged her. She’d simply said he wasn’t worth the mention. It’d always been him and Mother. They were a team. There was no one else. No aunts, uncles, cousins, or grandparents. Just Harry and Mother — and when they were together, the world was right and good and pure. When they were apart, everything seemed bleak. Even a bowl of blackberry pudding soured in his mouth when he missed her.
He made his way up the staircase, avoiding the rooms where chattering boys were congregated doing their chores or washing up for supper. He couldn’t face anyone, not yet. They’d know from his countenance something was wrong—he couldn’t hide it. And they’d ask until he told them. This was something he didn’t want to share with anyone. It was too painful, too raw. It was his burden to carry alone and all he wanted was to curl into a ball in some dark, shadowy place and let it burn within him.
The clatter of boots in the hallway made him duck beside a small timber closet. He pried open the door and slipped inside. Two dozen threadbare coats brushed against his cheeks as he pushed his way into the closet and then settled on the timber floor, legs crossed. He plucked the book from beneath his arm, found the apple in his pocket, and settled back against the hard slats to read. He longed to let his mind wander, to travel to a distant tropical island, so he could forget the pain of knowing.
After a while he heard boys clamour down the stairs for supper. Then back up again. His stomach growled with hunger, but he had no intention of leaving his hideaway for a bowl of gruel or a thin soup with stale bread on the side. His back ached and he’d lost feeling in his feet from the confinement of the tight space, but still he didn’t move. He read, letting himself be drawn into the battles, the conflict, the drama of survival.
When a few of the boys huddled close to the closet, he shifted in place, annoyed by the interruption that’d pulled him from the pages of the book. It’d be bedtime soon and he’d have to emerge or the ward boy would know it and report him missing. He peered out through the closet’s keyhole and saw three small boys sharing an orange. Oranges were hard to come by in the Home. He wondered where they’d found it, and the sight of it made his mouth water.
Davey was there with the group, peering over the balustrade to make sure no one stumbled upon them and their bounty while the others ate their share. Then he took the piece offered to him and shoved it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging.
The sound of footsteps on the staircase came hard and fast. The boys seemed to melt against the closet, unable to find anywhere to run to at such short notice, and with mouths packed full of orange slices.
“What have you got there?” asked the handyman, Bill Swan, his voice rasping as he puffed his way up the final steps.
No one could answer. Their cheeks bulged but they didn’t chew, no doubt in an attempt to hide the evidence.
Davey swallowed, red-faced. “Getting ready for bed, sir.”
Bill glowered at him with gnarled hands pressed to his thin hips. His eyes were like pieces of coal and his cap slanted forward over them, throwing shadows on his face that set his haggard features to stone. “Getting ready for bed, is ya? Likely story. I see you eating. Hand it over before I call the headmaster.”
Two of the boys shuffled in place. Davey crossed his arms over his chest. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s gone,” he replied.
Bill scowled. “You cheeky little so-and-so. Come on — it’s a hiding for you, lad.” He grabbed Davey’s arm and pulled him hard towards the stairs.
Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t stand by and let Bill take Davey. He’d seen what Bill’s hidings did to little boys many times over the years. They always came back and collapsed on their beds exhausted, with tears wetting their pillows in silence for hours after lights out. Bill didn’t know when to stop, is what they told him after. His hidings were legendary.
Harry pushed through the closet doors with a grunt, shoving the book down the back of his pants as he did. “It was me. I took the orange. I found it in the kitchen and shared it around. They didn’t know where I got it.”
The other boys gasped. Davey’s face was pale, his eyes blinking as Bill shoved him aside and lunged for Harry.
“Fine, if that’s how you want it. Come with me, you little scoundrel.”
Harry stumbled after him, glancing over his shoulder to see Davey shaking his head in disbelief. Harry’s stomach clenched with fear. He knew what was coming, but there was no backing out of it now. He lifted his chin and wrenched his arm free of Bill’s grasp. Bill spun to face him, spittle wetting the corners of his mouth as he raised a hand to take aim. But Harry simply stepped forward to walk behind him, his head high. Bill blinked, then led the way downstairs to the basement where he kept his tools and supplies with Harry on his heels.
4
Current Day
Mia
I’m a walrus. A whale. What’s bigger than a whale? A whale shark. Maybe, I’m not sure, and I don’t have the energy to reach for my phone to search random questions like what’s bigger than a whale? Besides that, I’m sure it’s me — my photograph will show up beside the first search result as being the only creature on this wide green earth that’s bigger than a whale.
I can’t sit up. I’m lying on my back on the couch, and if I try to sit, I simply flounder in place like a prone turtle, legs flailing. This is ridiculous. Only a few months ago, I had abs. I had nice, strong, flat abdominal muscles and I could sit up whenever I liked with very little effort. Now, no dice.
Why do I live in Brisbane? It’s far too hot here. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I decided to set up my life in this subtropical oven. And buying a Queenslander home, which is all timber slats and high ceilings, with no insulation, was also a terrible idea, since now there’s not even a whisper of breeze. All the windows are open, allowing flies to roam freely through the house, and I’m wallowing on a leather couch baking in my own sweat because my husband and I wanted to be green and didn’t install air-conditioning.
I flop about a little longer, finally adjusting my position so I’m lying on my side now, which takes some of the pressure off my bladder.
“Honey, I’m home!” Ben does this cute little entrance every night when he gets home ever since I finished work for maternity leave. He likes to tease me that I’m barefoot and pregnant and that we’re the perfect family from one of those old-fashioned television shows. He teases me about it only because he knows that I’ve secretly always wanted to be in one of those families — you know the type, where the mother stays home and bakes biscuits and pikelets for her children, listens to them talk all about their day, and helps them with their homework while Dad’s out working for a living. Then they all come together to eat dinner around the table every night and tell jokes, laugh, and then kiss each other goodnight. The kids wander off to bed while Mum and Dad cuddle and kiss in the kitchen and bicker over who will wash the dirty dishes and who will dry.
The reason I spent my childhood longing to jump into the television screen and join a cute, clichéd, happy family was because that was the furthest thing from what I had.
Don’t get me wrong—Mum and Dad did the best they knew how to do. I know they loved me and they love me still. Only, they aren’t the best at showing it. And quality time is definitely not their default love language. The constant stream of nannies who cared for me spent much more quality time by my side and helping me through the never-ending stream of homework my private schools piled on my shoulders than either of my parents ever did. They were far too busy — Dad with his work as a consul-general for the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, and Mum with her charitable events and active social life.
Ben walks into the living room, bends low to kiss my forehead then disappears into the kitchen. His hair is mussed and there are tired shadows around his eyes. He’s had a long day. I can tell by the slump of his shoulders how work has treated him, but he won’t talk about it unless I draw it out of him. He has a habit of keeping it all to himself, which I try to tell him isn’t healthy. But it’s just how he is, and I love every bit of him anyway. Seeing him brings a warmth to my heart even after two years of marriage and four years together. That tingling feeling of excitement in my gut is still there. I can’t believe I get to spend my life with him.
“Long day?” I call in the direction of the kitchen.
He grunts in response, then reappears with two tall glasses of iced tea filled with cubes of ice. He sets them on the coffee table beside me, then takes my hands to help me sit up. Finally. I moan with the relief of it.
“Thank you. I’ve been lying there without the energy to get up for about half an hour since I woke from my nap.”
He chuckles, sits opposite me on the edge of the coffee table and hands me my glass of iced tea.
“Glad I could rescue you.”
“You’re my hero,” I croon, fluttering my eyelashes at him. I wonder for a moment if he still thinks I’m cute, or if he sees a whale fluttering its eyelashes and it hits me right in the gut. I push the feeling aside, blaming hormones, and offer him a smile.
“How was work?”
His black hair stands spiked on end and his dark brown eyes crinkle at the edges as he forces a smile. “Fine.”
I take his hand with one of mine and squeeze it. “Honey…”
His smile evaporates. “I lost a patient in emergency surgery. But I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I reply.
“How was your day?”
I take a sip of tea, then sigh. “I thought I’d get so much done on maternity leave. I mean, I’ve had every single day for the past six weeks, but it’s frustrating how little I’ve achieved.”
He drains half of his glass, then sets it on the table. “Sweetie, you can’t put so much pressure on yourself. Your only job right now is to take care of yourself and little Peanut.”
We call the baby Peanut because that’s what he looked like in the first ultrasound — a tiny little peanut that moved and had a heartbeat.
“I know… anyway, I cooked a casserole for dinner and made an extra one to take to Gammy’s. I thought I’d run it over there while you have a shower. Then I can be back in time to eat together.”
“Sounds good to me. There’s a game on tonight, so I’m happy to stay in and relax.”
“I think staying home’s about all I can manage at the moment anyway. I’m asleep by eight o’clock.”
