CHAPTER TWO - The second step.

Bewildered Jon turned to Maisie. She looked out of the window, twisting her apron in her hands, her once lovely face haggard and drawn. Grandma, rocking so hard that the chair nearly tipped up, had a brown paper parcel on her knee.

"Come on, give us a kiss.. Be a big boy now. Mams very tired.. Shes fixed a place for you with other boys." Jon did not understand the implications of Grandmas words so he let out a loud bellow, a ploy he used when he needed attention. "tll be alright, luv. ere, now. Dont cry, laddie. Dont cry," Grandma was the family spokesman. Maisie was speechless. Jon tried to reach his mother, his emblem of re-assurance, but the new man grabbed his arm.

"Stop that. Think yourself lucky you're not costing anyone any money.. Coming to us for nothing, your are.. Minister fixed it, e did. Stop that noise, young man, or I'll belt you."

"Mam, Mam, dont wanna ..."

Maisie still stared out of the window, as Jon was led kicking and screaming out of the house. Grandma let out a wail. Amy whimpered. Holding the parcel that Grandma had been resting on her knee the man pulled Jon into the back of the car, and told the driver to move off. Jon looked at his home through smudged eyes for the last time. He beat his bare feet on the floor boards and sobbed and sobbed till the car stopped. Jon had known hardship and poverty in his home but that he was attuned to. He loved his independence, his Mrs Gummer, and in a strange accepting way all of his family. That he had been hungry and cold never mattered. He was familiar with every nook and cranny in the house, and with every street and shop in the neighbourhood.

When the car swept up a large gravelled drive, interest in his situation stopped the flow of tears. They had driven through Whitby and climbed the steep hill behind the little port. The car stopped before the front door of a grey stoned building with two stories. The roof was castellated, and a strong green vine wound its way passed the windows to disappear near the chimneys. The house had a lovely view across the valley, which lay beyond great lawns cut smooth with posts and nets stuck here and there. Jon was to discover it was the sports field. The man in the back of the car with him took him firmly by the arm.

"Now, this is the orphanage. ere you do what you're told to do. You call every man sir and all the women sister. If you're disobedient then God 'elp you. Your beind'll be sore."

The large wooden door swung open slowly, the brass knocker glinting in the sun as it moved. A woman, one of the sisters, appeared, and in a kindly way she said, "Youre the new boy? Youre Inglis ? Well now, thats nice. Come with me and meet our Superintendent." Her long blue dress reached the ground and rustled softly as she walked, and a cross, like the one Jon had seen in the old stone church, waved across the ample bosom. She too, like the people Jon had seen but dressed in black, had a white coal scuttle on her head, but it was a smaller one and held into place with heavy pins. Her rosy cheeks and bright blue friendly eyes belied the abrupt manner.

"Please, Miss,..." Jon began.

"Please, Sister. Not Miss." He was corrected.

"Want to pee," Jon crossed and uncrossed his legs.

"Stupid child," the Sister mumbled, but she pulled him down a stone floored passage which smelt of warm leather and soap suds. She waited outside the short swing doors and Jon experienced his first visit to a communal urinal, which was at a level suitable for small boys. There was no one about.

"Now, I'm Sister Helen, and the Superintendent is called Mr Johnson, but you call him Sir, and stand still when you speak to him. Well straighten you out and clean you up in no time. And change that awful voice of yours " A loud bell clanged at the end of the long high ceilinged corridor. A door on the right burst open and a stream of boys poured through, pushing, shoving, laughing, shouting. Most of them were bigger than Jon. When they saw Jon they stopped and stared.

"Move on, hurry up," shouted Sister Helen. "And dont stare so, young Mitchell. Inglis here is a new boy. Dont push, Simpson. Watson, lift your feet - dont scrape them on the floor. Youll wear out your boots." When the rush of young humanity died away, Jon was led through another large brown door. Funny being called 'Inglis'. My names Jon. Gosh, its all so big, so smelly. Dont like being dragged about. I dont know what to do. Annoyance swept his small frame.

"Come in," called a deep voice as Sister Helen tapped hesitantly.

"So you're Inglis?" Jon saw his Superintendent for the first time, a red-faced man with a paunch. He had sandy hair, but such pale eyebrows and eyelashes that they did not show and he looked like a surprised egg. "Been a bit of a nuisance to your mother, have you? he continued, "you're coming here for nothing, remember that. Got to toe the line here. You must do what the Sisters tell you, and mighty quick too. Well, young man, have you anything to say for yourself.?"

"Want to go 'ome. Wan my Mam. My Mam loves me, and I'm not a nuisance."

"Thats not the story I heard, young man. And when you talk to me you call me Sir."

"Want to go 'ome." Tears again rolled down Jons eyes.

"SIR," bellowed the Superintendent.

"Come, child. I'll take you to your bed." Sister Helen took Jons hand again, and led him away. "That interview wasnt a great success, was it? Best you keep out of trouble and keep away from the Super. Thats what we call him."

Bed proved to be an single iron frame, numbered 76 with a stiff mattress, nothing like the large much used double bed he had known. It was at the end of a long room with other similar beds head on to both walls, neatly spaced, clinically cold. On his bed was a flat pillow, a winceyette sheet, originally white but now a dirty grey, and a grey wool blanket. Also tidily folded at the bottom of the bed was a pair of grey stiff flannel shorts, a grey long sleeved jumper, a pair of underpants and a pair of long socks, all clean and new with the number 76 inked on each garment. Under the bed was a pair of black boots with studs.

"Get into your new clothes, Inglis, and I'll be back in five minutes. Leave your others on the floor."

Ouch, they're prickly. And what long shorts, thought Jon as he struggled into the new garments. The boots were big and hard, but with the thick socks they seemed comfortable.

"You ready? Thats better," said Sister Helen when she came back. "Same as everyone else now. Well burn your old stuff, and that rubbish you bought in the brown bag. Never know where its all been. Now, Here's your flannel and tooth brush. You must always put it back in the right place above the basin. Every morning we see if you're clean. Teeth, ears, nails, the lot. Waters cold, but it serves just as well. Now, well go in for supper. Boys have just started." Jon said not a word, he was bewildered and frightened by the bustle.

A great blanket of noise swept over him as they opened the dining room door. He winced at the spectre of eighty small boys sitting in rows on benches in front of scrubbed wooden tables waiting for their food.

"You sit just here," Sister Helen squeezed him into a gap in the row of small behinds. "This is Slater, and here is Bowness. Slater will look after you. You do as they do and it will be alright." Sister Helen left him, and went to sit at a table at the end of the room, slightly elevated where several others dressed in the same way were waiting.

There was a grating of boots on the floor as eighty small boys stood up when the Superintendent arrived. He muttered something into the folds of his chin, the boys round him muttered a reply, then they promptly sat down again.

"That was Grace, that was. Giving thanks for the food. Giving thanks for muck. Thats what Id say." Slater spoke in well modulated tones, Jon was to discover all the boys spoke well.

"Lost your voice have you?" Bowness chided. "Youre a bit of a squit, arent you? Five are you? Were mostly six at this table. Sevens and eights over there, nines and tens up under high table. Seems you've five years in this dump. Mama tipped you out? Did she? Or are you here for stealing?"

"Lay off it, Bowness," said Slater. "Cant you see hes terrified. Come on, Inglis, eat up. Its all youll get till tomorrow."

"I'm not frightened. Want to go 'ome." Jon push his plate away.

"Youll learn, youll learn," Slater turned away, and Bowness, too busy eating the so-called cottage pie, said nothing else.

After the cottage pie, there was a chunk of bread for each child, with a scraping of something yellow across it. There was cold water to drink. Jon nibbled at the bread dejectedly. Soon there was a scraping of chairs, and the eighty boys stood while Mr Johnson and all the blue clad Sisters filed out of the room. The older children cleared the tables while the younger children stacked the benches along one wall. A few tables were left in the middle of the room.

"Nows playtime," explained Slater. "No going outside cos its autumn. One hour till the bell goes for bed. Do you want a game of marbles?" Slater tried to be kind.

"Dont know ow. Want to go ome." Miserable, Jon curled up at end of a bench and watched.

"Leave him. Hes a wimp." Bowness turned his back. "Come on, Slater, beat you to the King." Jon watched mesmerised as the two boys sat down, laid their marbles in a pattern and started the game. He had never seen marbles, or the paper darts. He saw some of the boys drawing in books, some just wrestling together. Everything happened in this big room. The noise rebounded from wall to wall, the bareness of the wooden floor extenuated the volume.

Im hungry. Want Mam. Dont like this noise. Too many boys. Wonder what Mrs Gummers doin. Wonder if she misses me. Inspite of the discomfort of his situation his curiosity was touched and the hour went quickly before the next bell clanged. Bedtime was a ritual, there was a queue for the urinal, a queue for teeth cleaning and the wash basin. All clothes had to be folded, and boots put neatly under the end of the bed. At seven p.m sharp all the boys lay down under the covers ramrod straight and another Sister, smaller and fatter, by the name of Sister Jane, walked round the ward.

"Youre Inglis? No 76? Remember no talking or getting out of bed till the bell at 7 in the morning. If you have to use the toilet go straight there and back. No talking. Understand, Inglis?"

"Yes," replied Jon in a whisper.

"Yes, SISTER," snapped Sister Jane. "Youll learn, youll learn. Twill be the worse for you if you dont." Jon missed the warmth of other people in the same bed. He was tired, hungry, and very lonely. He longed for the smell of the black range, longed to feel Grandmas gnarled hand, longed for a tug of Maisies skirt. Why, oh why.? He turned on his side, his tiny form barely showing as a shape under the bedclothes. Events had proved too much to battle against sleep, and soon he was dead to his new and dreadful world.

This was the first night of many years for Jon in an atmosphere devoid of love, and where survival was harsh and competitive. The exercise in common cruelty was laced within a regimented discipline. The orphanage was high on a hill on the outskirts of a small sea-port, two miles away from the centre of the town and their school. It took half an hour to get to the school, he either slid, walked or ran down the steep hill, and at least three-quarters of an hour to return. Twice this journey was made each day, the time allowed for the mid-day lunch was only half an hour. This was plenty of time to consume the two slices of stale brown bread and bowl of mucky soup that they were given, at least the soup was hot. Jons skinny legs were already accustomed to long walks, and he enjoyed making the sparks fly when he slid down the road in his studded boots.

In 1925 after his first Christmas and four months after his arrival in his new surroundings Jons mood was heavy. Despondently he sat on a window sill warming his legs above some hot pipes.

Sister Helen passed by. "Come now, Inglis. Why arent you in the Common room with the others?"

"I miss Mam, and Mrs Gummer." Jons voice had already changed and he spoke fluently. "I got no presents. Everybody got presents at Christmas xept me."

"But you had a parcel from us all," Sister Helen interjected, for indeed Jon was given something wrapped in paper off the tree.

"Its not same. Everybody got parcel from Orphanage. Everybody got parcel from some one else. I got no parcel from some one else."

"You must call me Sister when you talk to me. Inglis, when WILL you learn." Sister Helen tried to steer the conversation away from parcels.

"Parcel from Orphanage was alright, I sppose. Sister..." he nearly forgot. "But I got no sweets, and nuffink nice. My Mam didnt send me anythink."

"Your Mams got plenty to think about. Youre at the Orphanage now, warm, well fed with lots of boys. Should think yourself lucky." Sister Helen flounced off with her head held high, coal scuttle flapping precariously. "Mucky soup, an bread for the pigs" Jon muttered after her.

In the first spring Jon wandered over the playing fields. This was the time he liked the best, peeping into the hedgerows, and watching the train that shuttled past at the bottom of the fields. He had a special secret that he kept to himself. He found a thrushs nest in a prickly tree by the fence above the railway line. Under the pretext of watching the trains he saw the small birds hatching out, and the mother thrush busying herself with food for the open beaks. One cold windy day when he went to see how they were managing he found the nest destroyed and the birds dead amongst the undergrowth. As he stared in dismay two older and bigger boys rushed upon him shouting, "You did it, you did it. You've gotta say you did it."

"I never did," Jon stoutly denied.

"You come with us. Come arn, titch." The biggest boy gripped Jons ear and hauled him to the large Common room. Still holding his ear the boy summoned four smaller boys, though bigger than Jon.

He said to them, "Every time this ere titch says e didnt muck up birds nest you pummell him one."

"I never did, I never did," Jon was adamant. Each time one of the boys clouted him, head, ears, shoulders all became bruised.

"Never, never," Jons nose bled.

"Stop now," said the biggest bully. "Sisters ll see bruises and ask where they È1/D  - came from. Stupid little bugger. I'll larn yer."

"Ill pay you all out for this," muttered Jon through his thickening lips. "You jest watch out."

True to his word, Jon took each larger boy on individually when the occasion arose and punched them hard. He had not known about punching before, but the weight behind his small fists must have been hard for no one bullied or teased him again. Word had got around that he was not to be taunted.

In spite of this small victory, the spring air made Jon feel more and more homesick. His heart ached for his home surroundings.

I know, he thought, if I follow them cliffs and walk and walk I'll come to Newcastle. Me Mam kept on talking about walking on the cliffs. I'll walk along em cliffs till I see me Mam. The thought lifted his spirits, he had no idea that the journey was over fifty miles as the crow flies, let alone the extra distance that the bends and twists a cliff path takes.

After the usual lunch of mucky soup and stale bread Jon ran to school as fast as his legs could go, his large but comfortable boots echoing with every step. He ran on passed the school. He ran across a bridge in the centre of the town, and then hunted for the cliff path. There was a lot of bustle because it was market day, and no one noticed a small red-headed boy in the recognisable uniform. Rising up the ragged path and on the top of the sheer white cliffs Jon felt like a king, a king of fresh air, endless blue sky, a king who was friends with the gulls and the guillemots. He walked on and on, up and down the paths that led across the small bays, the twisted pulling at his legs, the smell of damp down trodden earth new to his nostrils. There was no one else about. The sun was low in the sky behind him, and the chill air seemed to have a pink glow. Newcastle and his Mam seemed far away. Hunger nibbled at his stomach, his legs ached with every step. A large flat beach beckoned.. The yellow sand clung to his boots as he made scuff patterns with his toes. The evening light crept slowly across the dome of the sky as he dawdled across the beach., his thoughts wandering. One star peeped out. Even the gulls were finding their resting places. Jon was rudely awakened from his daydream.

"ello, ello, ello," said a deep voice. Coming to his senses with a jerk Jon first saw a large pair of black boots, then as he lifted his head higher and higher he saw a pair of long dark blue trousers appeared. Above the trousers was a tight coat with black buttons, and to top it all was the jovial face of a policeman. He held his helmet in his large hand.

"What are you doin ere, young un?" The policemans voice was gruff, but not frightening.

"I'm going ome. I've come from Whitby. Going to find me Mam, me Grandma, and Mrs Gummer." Quite unconcerned Jon prattled on. "Must be nearly there by now. Walked miles. Can you give me a lift to Newcastle, Mister? Policeman in Newcastle was my friend. Want to see me Mam."

"Well, young sir, tis all of 14 miles you've done. Got nother 40 to go. Best cum with me. Well ave a cuppa.. ere, put that on your 'ead. My! You looks fine." Talking away, the kind policeman, towering over the small child, took his hand and led him to the van, Jon proudly sporting the much too big helmet. Tucked away in the back seat with a blanket over his legs, Jon was asleep before they arrived at the police station. A police sergeant laid him on a bench and did some telephoning. The same dark-suited man who had collected Jon from Newcastle soon appeared and he took the sleeping body carefully and laid him in the Orphanage car. At the Orphanage Jon woke to a scolding from the Superintendent, and sent straight to bed without any supper.

"Poor kid," muttered Sister Helen. "He sure has some guts. I rather like that child."

"Cant afford to like them," chided Sister Jane, her face creased into an ill-natured frown. Nothing further was said about the incident.

With a strict regimen of all form of sports, and with the rigid factual teaching at his primary school the days passed quickly. Tough as nuts, but always hungry, Jon made the best of his situation. The highlights of his early years was the annual speech day, when on two consecutive years his essay was chosen to be read before the whole school.

"Fancy a lad like that writing stuff like this," Sister Jane commented. Sister Helen just smiled.

"Rather be chosen for the athletics," Jon said, when he overheard the conversation. "Bet Watson gets there instead of me. Hes bigger and been here longer. I'm too hungry to run my best. My Mam gave me hot soup and porridge. Never hungry at home. And Watson gets sweets in parcels. I never do get sweets."

"Stop grumbling, child," chided Sister Jane. "Be thankful for what you've got."

On the way to the toilet one Friday night Jon smelt the most delicious smell of baked cakes. Everyone was in bed, there were no lights under any doors. He crept down to the kitchen following his nose like a spaniel. He saw rows and rows of sponge cakes, round ones and square ones.

Gosh, my mouths watering. Xpect they're for the Staff on Sunday. We never È1/D  - get cake. If I could have cake I may run even faster to-morrow. I've got no one coming to watch Sports day, but Id like to win. Know I can do it. Ah! I've got an idea.

Quiet as a mouse he found a knife. With his heart thumping in his chest, far worse than at anytime he had nicked things in Newcastle, he cut the round cakes square and ate all the edges.

Goodness me, there are no round cakes now. I'll have to cut the square cakes round. Jon proceeded to do just that and with either consummate skill or good luck all the cakes looked untouched but all were differently shaped from their oven appearance. With his stomach full for the first time for years Jon gathered up any stray crumbs and tottered silently back to bed. No one had heard him. I'll do this as often as I can, he vowed to himself.

There was a big attendance on Sports day, and all the visitors sat comfortably near the winning line. Excitedly Jon prepared for his two races, the hundred yards and low hurdles. Both times he was in the same heat as Watson. Although they were both in the seven to nine age group, Watson was much stronger and bigger. The handsome man, in a blue suit with gold buttons, stood up and clapped loudly as Watson streaked to the winning post, first both times.

"Its those extra chocolates," Jon moaned as Watson went to receive his prize. His friend Slater, who had looked after him the first night replied encouragingly, "Never mind, Inglis. Bet youll win next year. Youre a better runner than Watson. Look, thats his father. Hes a Sea Captain, you know. No wonder Watson gets parcels."

"Look how proud the Sea Captain is," Jon said enviously. "I've no one to be proud of me. Have you, Slater? Do you get parcels?"

"One or two. Not often." Slaters eyes clouded over. "Mums dead. Old Pas O.K when he remembers. My old homes gone. Dont think I want to go with Pas new mum. Bit flashy she is. Never comes here."

"Neither does my Mam," Jon volunteered. "Havent got a Pa. Gotta Grandma, but she just sits. Seems were here for yonks."

"Youre right on that one, Inglis. Xpect Watson will brag away tonight. See you. Am off to the nets." Jon look after Slaters retreating form. Youre O.K Slater. I like you. A small smile played across his face as he realised that perhaps he was not all alone.

The staff of the Orphanage were very pleased with themselves for they thought they always remembered a boys birthday. The treat was a boiled egg for breakfast, presented with great ceremony. á "My birthdays to-morrow," Jon told Watson, who was in the queue for the urinal. "Ill be eight. Think I'll get an egg?"

"A little squit like you? Eight already?" Watson chided. "You dont look more than six." At the sight of Jons raised fists and remembering the pummelling that Jon had given his assailants over the birds nest interlude Watson changed his tune. "O.K, Inglis, you should get an egg. How do I know? Only two more birthdays for me. Then I'll go to Leeds. You've got at least three more, maybe four. Leeds is tough, but at least you're doing something. Not like here, learning baby stuff and starving."

"Youre alright," goaded Jon. "You get parcels. Someone looks after you. I heard you were a Sea-Captains son. If you had a Daddy, why are you in this crummy place? Why arent you with your Daddy?"

It was Watsons turn to tighten up his fists. "My Pops busy. Rich man, he is. Away at sea. Loves me, he says he does, but his wife doesnt want to know. S'ppose shes not me mum. Nobodys ever said. But you lay off my Pop. He gives me plenty. Just lay off. O.K?" It was the first and last time Jon mentioned Watsons father.

On his birthday morning, Jon went down to breakfast his eyes sparkling with anticipation. He watched for his boiled egg. He watched and watched, crying inside when it did not appear. Why no egg for me. Its the only one in the whole year. Feeling hurt and deprived Jon left the table. One day the following week the boiled egg appeared. The Orphanage staff had the date of his birthday wrong. The egg was soft and runny and nearly cold, and not having the chance to anticipate it made the whole episode a farce. He pushed the egg away and left the table hungrier than ever. The future stretched out before him, endless, grey and featureless.

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