A Strange Boy

By Jayeljay

This is the story of Leslie Johns' journey from a small boy to his mid-teens; It reveals tragedies, cruelties and the losses he suffers. But as he grows, the boy acquires special gifts in addition to skills he was born with. He uses all these skills to fight his many demons. The skills lead him to important discoveries, some dreadful and ot

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Media Reviews
• Release date: Jun 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958091241

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Copyright © 2022 by Jayeljay.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-958091-25-8 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958091-26-5 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958091-24-1 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to the real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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The Media Reviews

99 Wall Street #2870

New York, NY, 10005 USA

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Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Howard House

It was early September 1957, when the car conveying two small children from Felixstowe early that morning, turned from the road into a double gateway ahead of a long tarmac avenue. A plaque on the right-hand pillar of the entrance proudly announced, The Sir Giles Woodford Village for Children. And just inside the gateway they passed the lodge on the left. The car swept gracefully along a tree lined avenue, eventually giving way to a shingle forecourt. The golden pebbles crunched beneath the tyres as the car came to a halt in front of a large imposing mansion.

Jackson, in his black livery and cap emblazoned with the Woodford coat of arms, got out of the car and went around to the passenger side. He looked up towards the entrance of the mansion before opening the rear door, indicating to the occupants to alight.

From the front door of the building, a neatly dressed maid nimbly descended the steps to the parked car. Her uniform was also black, but with white trim on the collar and cuffs. The maid wore a white starched apron pinched in at the waist, which rustled as she moved. She wore black stockings and shiny black, patent leather shoes. Some wisps of blonde hair struggled to escape beneath a white mobcap. Possibly in her early twenties, her pale complexion a testament to long hours spent working indoors. ‘My name is Susan, and you are to come with me, the dean will see you shortly.

Jackson, the master wishes you to remain with the car for now.’ ‘Very well, Miss Susan,’ Jackson replied.

Susan took the children in each hand and guided them up the steps to the front door standing slightly ajar. The polished brass plaque beside the doorway read HOWARD HOUSE.

Inside, Susan urged the children to wipe their shoes on the coir mat inside the entrance. She helped them remove their summer jackets which she hung on a hallstand and ushered them across the hall towards a pair of panelled doors with brass doorknobs. Beyond the oak doors, they entered a high-ceilinged room and directly in front of them were two large windows facing onto a courtyard. To the right, two more windows looked out onto the front drive, through which Jackson could be seen buffing the rear bumper of the black Wolseley. To the left of the room was a single door. A large fireplace cut across the corner angle of the room, with a white marble surround and mantelpiece, above which was a coat of arms (the same one that Jackson had on his cap). There was a dark grey slate hearth with a coal scuttle, a large basket of logs and a brass firedog with accoutrements, a folding fireguard and a brass hearth surround. All the wall spaces were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, and every shelf contained books, thousands of them, A reader’s paradise, Leslie thought, and there could not be a subject ever written of that would not be encompassed by this myriad of books.

Set between two windows facing them, stood a polished oak writing desk, and neatly arranged on the top were what one would expect. Behind the desk was a large green leather, button backed swivel chair with brass studs around the edges of the leather. And facing the desk stood two hard wooden unpadded chairs.

In front of each window to the right stood oak tables, one with four chairs and one with only two. In each corner of the room were pairs of sumptuous armchairs, places to indulge oneself in the pleasures of reading and absorbing knowledge.

Susan led the children across the expanse of parquet floor towards the two unwelcoming chairs in front of the desk. ‘You must sit here and wait. When the Master enters you are to stand and not sit until told,’ Susan raised her right index finger to her lips, ‘—You are not to speak unless invited to do so. Do you understand?’ both children nodded as Susan left the room.

***

The two children sat in silence for what seemed an eternity with the girl biting her fingernails and fidgeting uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair. Leslie sat with his hands tucked under his thighs, his head bowed watching his legs kicking slowly back and forth in opposite directions.

Mary gave her brother Leslie a sharp slap on the knee making him wince. ‘Don’t do that, you’re making me nervous!’ she said, inspecting her fingers, deciding which nail needed chewing next.

Leslie’s face was sullen as he contemplated the red weal developing on his left knee.

He was about to say, ‘That hurt!’ when the children heard a man’s voice from beyond the single door as it was opening.

‘—I shall be discussing that with him later!’ the man said to someone in the adjoining room. The sound of another door being opened and a woman’s reply, ‘As you wish Sir.’ The door closed.

***

The tall man entering the room was in his late 40’s. An imposing well-dressed man, with short neatly trimmed black hair greying slightly at the temples. Clean shaven with a scent of cologne that followed him across the room. His stature was athletic without being muscular, his movements graceful without being effete. He bore a presence that brooked no nonsense, a man of confidence in all things, a commander of men, a man to be obeyed and respected. He had no need to be loved nor adored, these things mattered little to him because reputation, education, wisdom, finesse, the pursuit of perfection were the essential ingredients required to make a success of one’s life and one’s work, not self-exaltation! He shunned the limelight and the press, imposing, intruding, assuming, No, he had no time for them.

His mission in life was to impart his qualities to others, and who better than children?

To rejoice in the culmination of years of sculpting and shaping are the rewards, the satisfaction of creating masterpieces from so little, and all to his advantage!

***

The man’s heels clicked as he strode across the floor to the chair behind the desk. The children raised to their feet the instant the door had opened looking neither right nor left. The girl fixed her gaze on a leg of the desk, and the boy stared at his shoes as the man lowered himself into the ample chair. He flicked through the stack of papers which he separated into two neat piles. He removed two manila folders from a drawer of the desk and wrote a few words on the cover of each one, then screwed the top onto the pen and replaced it on the stand.

‘You may sit,’ the man said in a soft but firm tone. ‘Do you know how you come to be here, at the village?’ he asked, looking in the direction of the girl.

‘Well… Um…Er… um no Sir,’ she replied, nervously twisting her fingers whilst maintaining her gaze on the desk leg.

‘Firstly, I should introduce myself, I am Sir Alastair Woodford, Dean and Patron of this village. My grandfather Sir Giles Woodford founded this institution in 1850. My father Sir Howard succeeded him in 1891 and I, in the family tradition, assumed the role upon the death of my father in 1933. My father had this house built to replace the original which burnt to the ground in 1916. This library,’ he said, indicating with an expansive wave of his arm, ‘my father built to bring together the family’s book collections, to which I have contributed recent publications.’ A proud smile lit his face as he continued, ‘it is accessible to any child within our care who may wish to improve their knowledge and depth of understanding. We have a librarian with whom you may make arrangements should you wish to avail yourselves of this facility.’

He glanced down at the desk and opened one of the folders, ‘Now to business,’ he said looking directly at the girl. ‘I must check that the information I have about you is correct,’ he flicked the pages back and forth. Again, looking at the girl, he continued. ‘I see that you are Mary Johns, born 5th October 1948, your brother here is Leslie Johns, born 26th October 1950. Both born on the Isle of Sheppey. Your father Will Johns is currently serving in the armed forces and posted abroad. Your mother Nerys, current whereabouts are unknown. In August 1953 your parents divorced, and your father awarded custody of you both. Due to his military duties, he was unable to fulfil his parental responsibilities. Therefore, in November of that year, you were placed in the care of St Vincent’s children’s home, to which he paid a regular financial contribution. You remained there until June of this year when his payments ceased. You have been in foster care with the Morton family in Felixstowe until this morning. Am I correct?’

Mary, still looking at the desk leg, replied, ‘Yes Sir,’ with a glum expression on her face. All the while Leslie said nothing but took in every word. He had not known his mother’s name, because nobody ever spoke of her. He had noticed that one of his shoelaces was unevenly tied and wondered if he should get down from the chair and re-tie it, but decided not to, although it seriously concerned him.

Sir Alastair looked again in the folder, and after a brief pause said to Mary, ‘Tell me something of your education and about yourself.’

The girl looked decidedly uncomfortable and continued to fidget as she looked up at him, ‘Well, Sir, we… um… we was at the town school in St Vincent’s but not in the same class Sir I didn’t like it there cos the teachers were horrible an’ the other kids used to bully us because we was from the home they called us names an’ that an’ wouldn’t let us play with them…’

She babbled on about the nasty kids barely pausing for breath, until Sir Alastair held up a hand. ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘Tell me what you are good at, what do you enjoy doing out of school?’

The girl fidgeted as she spoke. ‘Well I like skipping an’ hula hoops an’ colouring books an’ making quilts an’ stuff.’

Sir Alastair looked bemused. ‘Your recent stay with the Morton family in Felixstowe, how did you find that?’

‘We had a lot of good times there Sir cos we was next to a farm with pigs an cows an big fields of corn as tall as me an Leslie an we played in the woods an the stream an Mrs. Morton was nice an good at cooking and stuff—’

Sir Alastair stopped her again with the raised hand because he thought she might expire from lack of breath! ‘On the subject of Mrs. Morton, I believe you have a letter for me,’

‘Yessir it’s in my jacket pocket in the hall—’

‘You may give it to me later.’ His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Mary, ‘we must do some work on your diction and vocabulary.

‘Sir?’ the girl looked at him quizzically.

‘Did you share your schooling with goats? You referred several times to kids. One could suppose that your education took place in that farmyard in Felixstowe!’

The girl’s face reddened; the glum expression became a sulk.

‘I see also that you have the disgusting habit of biting your nails.That we can deal with promptly.’

Mary swiftly hid her hands behind her back.

‘Now to you, Master Leslie, tell me your earliest memories,’ the dean enquired as he perused the papers in front of him.

For the first time, Leslie raised his head and looked Sir Alastair full in the face. An icy cold finger ran down his spine. He tightly gripped the edges of the hard chair with both hands. This man had the darkest, blackest eyes the boy had ever seen, sharp, piercing eyes. They seemed to glint menacingly in the light from the windows…

‘I remember the flood in Sheerness Sir, that is the earliest I can remember,’ Leslie said, quietly waiting for the man’s response.

‘That would have been about 1953?’ The boy noticed how Sir Alastair turned a statement into a question. ‘You would have been very young at that time.’

January 31st, 1953. I was two years, three months and five days of age, the boy quickly calculated in his head.

‘Do you have any pastimes? What do you enjoy doing?’ Sir Alastair asked.

The boy sat silently for a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. ‘I like reading Sir, drawing, looking at the stars in the night, and puzzles.’

‘Do you know what groups of stars are called?’ the man asked.

‘Yes Sir, they are called constillations,’ Leslie said proudly.

The man’s usually impassive face broke into a smile. ‘Constellations! my boy, Con-Stell-Ations!’

The boy appeared abashed, Of course, he knew! But how could he answer correctly without revealing secrets?

‘Can you name any constellations?’ the dean asked.

The boy thought for a moment… ‘The Plough, Orion the Hunter, and Gemini,’ he said. In his mind he said, Ursa Major, Orion, Cygnus, Taurus, Pegasus, Draco, Polaris. I could identify them and many more and draw them.

‘That is good for one so young, who taught you?’

‘I learnt them from books,’ he replied when a sudden realisation hit him; I may have given too much away!

The man stroked his chin pensively, rose from his chair and reached towards a bookshelf. And searching the book spines, he selected a tome and opened it placing the volume on the desk in front of the young boy. ‘Read me a passage from this page,’ he said.

The boy placed a hand on the open page and with the other he flipped the cover over. It was a heavy hardback volume from a collection of similar books. The cover of the book read, THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ENGLISH VERSE VOL. II. It was bound in brown leather and tooled in gold lettering. He turned back to the open page and glanced at the writing as another cold finger shivered down his back. Dismayed, he read the title of the verse: ‘My mind to me a kingdom is… Did the dean open at this page intentionally or was it just chance? How could he know of the secret?

‘Well?’ The dean said, ‘may we hear you read?’

Leslie began in a faltering stutter and then composed himself:

‘My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such perfect joy therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss.

That world affords or grows by kind.

Though much I want which most would have,

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,

No force to win a victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a loving eye;

To none of these I yield as thrall,

For why? My mind despise them all—’

‘You may stop there Master Leslie. Do you understand the meaning of the verse?’

Leslie thought for a moment and replied, ‘Not really Sir.’ He understood perfectly the meaning of the verse. He felt it pertinent to him and to his secret place.

‘Perhaps when you are a little older you may be able to understand and appreciate the verse. However, you read it well.’

Leslie felt somewhat pleased with himself. He had managed to impress this man of importance without exposing his secret. But that shoelace still worried him.

‘You may retrieve your jacket from the hall young lady,’ the dean said to Mary, raising himself from behind the desk. ‘Oh! and the letter please.’ He ushered the girl toward the double doors they had entered.

Leslie remained seated reciting the poem in its entirety in his head. Such a powerful and beautiful verse, he felt he must read more from this poet. He made a mental note of the volume and the author.

Meanwhile, Mary returned to the room, jacket clutched in one hand, and letter offered with the other, ‘For you Sir!’

‘Thank you,’ the dean replied, taking the envelope from her grasp.

As he unsealed the envelope he walked back toward the desk and stood facing the window, absorbing the contents of the letter. A moment later he turned toward Leslie, a frown furrowed his otherwise smooth features, ‘I am sorely disappointed! It seems that you are considered a boy not to be trusted nor believed—’

A look of horror spread across the boy’s face and a wave of heat flushed his cheeks. ‘—tell me of this business with the coins!’ the dean demanded sternly.

Leslie sunk deeper onto his chair, shoulders drooping, and involuntarily swinging his legs back and forth.

‘Don’t slouch boy!’ the dean commanded. ‘Sit up straight! I wish to hear what you have to say for yourself!’

‘Leslie said he had swallowed three one penny coins—’ piped up Mary. ‘—Mrs. Morton said he was a liar because them coins is too big and—’

‘I was talking to your brother, and I wish to hear it from him, thank you!’ the dean snapped sharply.

Two pairs of eyes focussed on the wretched boy as the dean demanded, ‘Well?’

The voice had taken on a menacing tone that made Leslie fear that he was about to be punished. Would it be the switch, a belt, a ruler across the hand? ‘It’s true—’ he blurted out, ‘—I did swallow the coins and it hurt my throat and tummy so much. It’s always so, no one ever believes me… And it’s not true that I put the coins in the toilet!’ There was a hint of defiance in the boy’s voice.

‘How many coins were in the toilet?’ asked the dean.

‘I didn’t see them, but Mrs. Morton said there were three, she said I must have put them there to make her believe I swallowed them. I couldn’t understand why she would say that because I liked her, but she upset me saying that I lied.’ The defiance disappeared as tears welled up in the boy’s eyes.

Mary placed a hand on her brother’s knee as a tear rolled down his cheek and onto his lap. ‘Is he in trouble Sir?’ she asked in the coyest manner she could muster.

Sir Alastair looked again at the letter as he sat in his chair and looked at the boy and his sister.

Directing a question at the boy he asked, ‘What do you know about the human digestive system?’

The children looked at each other with puzzled expressions. Leslie turned back to the dean, ‘Nothing Sir, I haven’t seen any books about that, and they don’t teach us that at school.’

‘Very well, we shall make it part of your education plan. Now, I will arrange for you both to undergo an assessment to establish your educational requirements. Mary, you are allocated to Miss Weston in Epping House, pending the assessment results. Leslie, you will be in Roding House with Mr. and Mrs. Atkins. You will be treated fairly, with care and respect. We expect the same from you towards the staff and the other children. Our aim is to provide the best care and education within our power—’

Mary fidgeted anxiously, constantly shifting her bottom on the hard seat of the chair.

‘—What is the matter child?’ the dean snapped, breaking his train of thought. ‘Do you need the bathroom?’

‘Er… no Sir. It’s just that daddy said we would be kept together an I was to look after Leslie—’ the hand was raised again.

‘I am afraid that is not possible here, we do not have mixed houses. You may see each other in recreation time because your houses are opposite each other.

‘But daddy—’ the hand stopped Mary again.

‘You repeat yourself young lady! Your brother will be well cared for in Roding House,’ the dean reiterated, putting an end to Mary’s protestations.

The dean flicked through the folder on which he had written LESLIE JOHNS and removed a slip of paper.

‘I trust you have been informed of your father’s situation—’ and without waiting for confirmation he continued; ‘—this is the telegram from his commanding officer: Will Johns was reported missing in action. He was involved in a skirmish resulting in many deaths, and severe casualties. He was not amongst the injured; therefore, he is presumed dead or captured—’

The news struck the children like a thunderbolt; Mary’s face blanched and Leslie sat rigid with tears falling freely down his cheeks in rivulets. His bottom lip quivering without making a sound. Mary raised one hand to her stomach and the other to her mouth.

The dean already had the telephone receiver in his hand. ‘Send in Susan please and ask Doctor Hendricks to meet me in the west library, Oh! and tell Susan to bring Joan with her. Thank you.’ There was an audible click as the recipient of the call replaced the handset. Immediately a bell sounded down the hall, and a few moments later the sound of muffled voices could be heard approaching the double doors.

Leslie was now sobbing and shaking, a darkening wet patch spreading across his short grey trousers. And Sir Alastair observed with dismay the results of his announcement.

There was a light knock at the door, ‘Come in, come in! …’

***

For once the dean felt out of his depth. He didn’t deal with emotions because he had people who could do that far more successfully than he. This was the first time that he had been faced with this situation. He was a fish out of water. How could he have been so unfeeling when dealing with small children, susceptible creatures? But all emotions had been systematically removed from him. He had himself been placed in a school, an institution like this, a boarding school where such displays of emotion were frowned upon. Stiff upper lip and all that. Then, there was the officers’ training academy where the leaders of men could not, in any way display such self-indulgent emotions. Tears were for women and babies.

***

Susan and Joan entered the room and Susan looked towards the dean, and the dean’s face indicated the actions required. She took both children by the hand and led them away toward the hall. Joan glanced at the boy’s shorts and lifted the chair on which Leslie had sat and headed towards the open door. Susan stopped and turned, ‘If I may, Sir?

The dean nodded.

‘They must be frightful hungry after such a long journey—’

‘Yes Susan, how remiss of me. Have them cleaned and fed, and return them to me when you are ready, and Susan, thank you!’ The merest hint of softness in his voice was not something Susan had heard before… Surely, the Lord and Master had a soft spot. A slight chink in the family armour? and, if this got out, goodness knows what would happen. But it would not come from her lips, she was the very soul of discretion.

Susan led the children hurriedly down the hall and into a room off to the left, then took Leslie into a washroom through one of the doors at the far end of the room where she gestured towards the basin and soap. She handed the boy a large towel from a rail fixed to the wall. She left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Mary sat alone with her thoughts when a door opened, a stout, red faced woman dressed in white, peered around the room. She saw the girl sitting alone and said, ‘Oh!’ and disappeared in an instant.

A few moments passed before Susan returned and asked Mary if she was feeling better. The girl replied that she was, a little. ‘I must attend your brother, but Joan will be here shortly to attend you.’ She collected some clothes from a cupboard and left, accompanied by a slight rustling of the starched apron.

Leslie stood cloaked in the large, comforting towel. He had wrapped it around him as tightly as he could. He exuded the aroma of carbolic soap, pungent, heady, clean and powerful. His urine-soaked clothes were neatly folded on the seat of the white painted chair. Susan entered the washroom, a bundle of clothes under one arm, a clean towel and a laundry bag under the other. She handed the clean clothes to the boy and told him to dress. She turned and placed the clean towel on the brass rail, and with a deft sweep of her hand, she scooped up the wet clothes from the chair and stuffed them into the waiting laundry bag. She cleaned up the washroom and wiped the chair with a solution of disinfectant. Leslie had put on the clean underpants and navy-blue shorts. Susan helped him with the vest and the over-sized short sleeved shirt. She sat him upon the chair and placed his socks and shoes on his feet. She placed the laundry bag outside the door as she hurried down the hall with the boy in tow.

The two entered the room where Susan had left Mary, but the room was empty. Susan placed two chairs at a small table against one of the walls, and from a drawer beneath the table, she removed a crisp white tablecloth and two white napkins. With a single deft flourish, the cloth covered the table evenly, perfectly. From a sideboard, she removed some cutlery and two white China plates which she arranged into two place settings. It was all conducted swiftly and efficiently. Leslie was in awe of her! Never had he seen such dexterity, such grace of movements. Nothing, it seemed, came between her and the task to be performed. It must require a lot of dedication to achieve such perfection, he thought.

A door opened as Joan entered with Mary, and Susan bade the children be seated at the table whilst Joan exited for a few moments. The children surveyed the table before them, what are the folded squares of cloth for? they wondered. Joan returned pushing a trolley ahead of her containing two glasses of milk, a plate of sandwiches neatly cut into triangles with the crusts removed, and fresh pear slices. Susan removed the items from the trolley and placed them on the table. ‘You may eat now,’ she said softly.

The boy realised that he was hungry because it had been a long time since breakfast. The bacon and egg and the toast and homemade preserve had done well to set them up for the journey ahead. Susan’s soft gentle hands lightly brushed Leslie’s skin as she tucked the napkin under his chin, it felt like a caress to his unaccustomed skin.

With the meal finished, Susan indicated they should dab their mouths with the napkins.

She mimicked the action and they copied. Then she held out her hands to take the children back to the library. Leslie was overcome by an urge to cling to Susan like a limpet. She should have been my Mother! Quietly they walked the length of the hall.

Susan was no stranger to the whims and fancies of children; she knew how to deflate their bubbles if they misbehaved. This boy was different she felt. She had a soft spot for this boy that had been without a mother’s love. All Leslie had of his mother was a vague memory of water. It was a memory he could not store, a memory best left unvisited.

Susan led the children to the library and smoothed the wrinkles from her apron before knocking on the oak doors. ‘You may enter,’ came the calm voice of the dean. Susan entered and glided across the floor, her two charges in tow. A nod from the dean indicated that it was permissible for the children to sit.

‘Will that be all, Sir?’

‘It will for now thank you, Susan.’ Susan made her exit.

***

The dean had been writing, and he gathered two sheets of paper and placed them in one folder, one in the other. He sat pensively for a moment, with that now familiar mannerism of stroking his chin. ‘I trust you are refreshed?’ he said, looking from one child to the other. The children both nodded. He was about to admonish them (a question requires an answer!) but let it go unsaid because the children had had an eventful day. Leslie was aware of the pungent aroma of disinfectant. Joan had washed the chair before replacing it.

The dean began by outlining the facilities of the village: ‘We have our own chapel and school, a small cottage hospital with a resident doctor, and an on-call optician and a dentist. There are six houses of residence, each staffed by a Master or Mistress and two maids. There are usually six children in each house. The grounds are maintained by a team of gardeners led by Mr. Joseph Breen. The house staff all live in and have their own quarters. Your food, clothing, and education are provided within the village, but you will however be expected to perform minor tasks within your respective residences. These tasks will be allocated to you by the housemaster who will take account of your age and ability—’

The telephone interrupted the dean. He lifted the receiver to his ear, ‘Yes?’ He listened to the voice for a few moments. ‘Thank you, Ernest, I will be with you directly.’ Then he clicked the button on the top of the telephone and dialled a single number… ‘Would you send in Susan please, thank you.’ He replaced the handset and the bell sounded down the hall. Then moments later the sound of a knock at the door, ‘come in Susan,’ the dean responded. ‘Mary is to stay at Epping House, accompany her and then leave the boy’s luggage at Roding House. Here is a list of some things I require, please obtain them for me and return here, thank you.’

‘As you wish, Sir.’ Susan took the list in one hand and the girl by the other. They both disappeared into the hall, the door closing quietly behind them.

***

The room was silent as the dean sat in contemplation, looking at the small boy in front of him. Leslie looked up at the man and for the first time their eyes met: the boy was almost transfixed by those piercing black orbs. He felt they could see into his very soul, no thought in his head could hide from the scrutiny. He felt a slight tremor, was it fear? But what did he need to fear from this man? The dean pushed the book of verse in front of the boy saying, ‘I have a small matter to deal with.’ He consulted a gold hunter watch from a waistcoat pocket, and then snapped it shut with a click. ‘You may read if you wish,’ he said as he headed towards the single door by which he had entered.

On entering the next room, the dean had left the door slightly ajar, and Leslie could hear the voices of two men. One was the dean’s, the other was also a man, a softer higher tone, and slightly muffled. Leslie surmised that this unknown man probably had his back towards the door.

The boy opened the book searching the index for another poem by Sir Edward Dyer. But before he found the page, he could make out some of the conversation next door:

‘…letter … the Morton’s…’ ‘History… lying… St. Vincent’s…’ ‘A strange boy…’

Leslie froze! That description of him, the one they had used at St. Vincent’s; the one he dreaded, hated and feared with every fibre of his being. Please, no! … They cannot use that here! The words rang loudly in his ears… A STRANGE BOY. He could still hear the voices:

‘—benefit of the doubt, but if it is true—’

‘Punish—’ the other voice was indistinct, and Leslie could not discern what he said. There were a few more muffled words. ‘Fool that I am… I’m afraid I handled the situation badly … assumed too much …. They knew about…’

‘They should have been told at St. Vincent’s, no?’

‘With hindsight, I should have left that for you to deal with, and you are the expert—’ The dean’s voice grew louder and more distinct, he was returning.

‘Come you should meet him,’ the dean said as the door opened.

***

The dean’s heels clicked as he crossed the floor closely followed by a shorter, rotund man who bore a striking resemblance to a picture the boy had seen of Mr. Pickwick. The boy stood, closing the book on the desk and remained silent. ‘Mr. Pickwick’ smiled at the small, fair haired boy in borrowed clothes and extended a hand towards him. ‘This is Doctor Hendricks,’ the dean said.

Leslie took the man’s hand, ‘Leslie Johns, Sir,’ the boy replied, lightly grasping the open hand.

‘You and I will spend some little time together shortly, we will be the good friends I am sure, will we not?’ the doctor said.

Although the boy was only six, (but nearly seven!) he analysed the man. Slightly clipped speech with an unusual turn of phrase. Foreign, possibly of Germanic origin, a jovial type, perhaps they could be friends, ‘Yes Sir,’ the boy replied.

‘Today is Thursday, is it not? So perhaps we can have some little talk on Saturday. Tomorrow you will like to find the feet, no?’

Such an odd manner of speech the boy found amusing, but he controlled the urge to giggle, sensing that it would be inappropriate, ‘As you wish, Sir.’ Leslie said, repeating the response he had learnt in his short time in this house.

The doctor and the boy discussed St. Vincent’s and Felixstowe and how the boy felt about being at the village. Leslie had not been there long enough to form an opinion but showed some enthusiasm regarding his future there.

The sun now shone directly into Leslie’s eyes, and he shielded them with his hand as the dean raised himself from his chair and beckoned Leslie and the doctor over to the other side of the room, away from the windows.

The doctor asked Leslie questions about his journey from Felixstowe, and what he had read, the kind of books he enjoyed reading, and what sort of pictures he drew. It was about three hours since Mary had left when the dean consulted his Hunter again for the second time.

The sound of car tyres crunching the loose shingle signalled the return of Susan and Jackson. Hurried footsteps sounded in the hall, and then a light knock at the door.

‘Enter Susan!’ the dean said, as he made a few notes and slipped the paper into the folder with the boy’s name on it.

Susan stood behind the boy’s chair, ‘Sir?’

‘Did you manage to get those items for me?’

‘Yes Sir, eventually.’

‘Good, you may escort the boy to Roding House. Ask Jackson to garage the Wolseley on his return and make ready the Bentley as I am expected elsewhere, but I should return around seven.’

‘Will you require tea before you leave, Sir?’ Susan enquired.

‘I fear I will not have the time, Susan. Please ask cook to have something prepared for eight o’clock. I must now freshen up before I leave. Thank you, Susan, you may go now.’

‘Sir.’ Susan smiled at the boy and took his hand, leading him into the hall.

‘Come Ernest, you may fill me in on the details…’ the dean’s voice faded as Susan closed the door.

Susan walked swiftly down the hall, collected the boy’s jacket and then out to the waiting car. Jackson held open the rear passenger door as Susan gently ushered the boy inside and climbed in beside him. The car glided smoothly over the shingle forecourt as Leslie gazed up at Susan, still clutching her hand. The crunching of the shingle ceased as the car turned onto a tarmac avenue. ‘Is Doctor Hendricks foreign?’ the boy asked. Susan remained silent; she gave the boy’s hand a very light squeeze which was enough to tell him that one did not ask such questions. The journey took only a matter of minutes before they arrived at the large double fronted house where a brass plaque announced, RODING HOUSE.

Chapter 2

Of Epping, Roding And Settling In

During her car journey to Epping House, Mary had contemplated the leaden cloud above the tree lined avenue. It was as if such a cloud had crashed down on her, destroying the very fabric of her world. Her mother was gone, her father was gone, her little brother torn from her, no longer hers to control, everything she had was gone. The dark empty hollow she saw looming before her, would be her life from now on. The gloomy thoughts pressed down upon her, crushing, squeezing, dissolving every semblance of all she had had and could never regain. Devoid of hope and encompassed by a despair that tugged and wrenched at her. She felt feeble, useless, and powerless. Sensations that were unknown to her. They were new, unwanted, uninvited. How could God let this happen to her? He’s a wicked God! A God with no feeling for a child.

***

The car had arrived at Epping House and as Susan and the girl approached the front door, Jackson removed two small suitcases from the boot of the car. He carried the one bearing a brown label tied with coarse string to the handle: MARY JOHNS printed in black capitals. Susan took the suitcase from him and thanked him, and then rang the doorbell. From inside the girl could hear, Ding-Dong. Susan and Mary waited a few moments and the door opened. A stout woman wearing a green tweed two-piece, stepped out onto the large polished, red-painted step under the entrance porch. ‘Miss Weston, this is Mary Johns for your care.’

‘Thank you, Susan. Welcome child, I expect you’ll be hungry and tired,’ said the kindly Miss Weston.

Jackson had delivered the other suitcase to the house opposite and was holding open the car door for Susan. As he closed the car door he tipped the peak of his cap in the direction of Miss Weston, she in return, gave a slight nod. Mary was certainly feeling tired but had no interest in eating. She felt sick, despondent and deposed, a lost waif in this unknown place. She hated the dean for stealing from her, her authority, her responsibility and her reason for living.

***

‘Good afternoon, Master Leslie. I am Miss Lola. Come this way please.’ The short olive-skinned woman led him through the entrance into a large hallway dominated by a wide flight of stairs curving around three walls, leading to the top floor. As the maid helped him with his jacket, Leslie looked around. On the right just past the bottom of the stairs, was a white painted door with a nameplate ‘PRIVATE.’ Straight ahead an open door revealed a kitchen as the smell of toast and melting cheese wafted through the hallway. Next to the doorway was a brass gong suspended from a wooden frame. On the wall to the left, a large portrait hung from a wooden picture rail. A portrait of Sir Alastair? No! The nameplate at the bottom announced, Sir Giles Woodford. Founder and Benefactor 1799-1891. The resemblance was remarkable, because the tall, elegant, well-dressed man looking down at the small boy had those same black, piercing eyes.

‘I am Mr. Atkins—’

The voice from behind him startled Leslie. He had not heard nor noticed the man arrive. He turned to face the man.

‘—Miss Lola will take care of your needs for now,’ he said, looking at the maid. ‘I am the housemaster, and you may address me as Master or Sir.’ Leslie looked up from one face to the other. ‘You will have something to eat with the rest of the boys, then Miss Lola may show you around.’ He turned and disappeared into the private room.

Miss Lola hung the boy’s jacket on an empty peg at the end of a row of jackets. She took hold of his suitcase, which had been left just inside the entrance hall. On lifting it she remarked, ‘Dios mío, que tienes dentro, hijo? — Oh, sorry,’ she said realising she had reverted to her native tongue. ‘Is heavy, what do you have inside?’ She led him across the hall and turned into a corridor on the left. A short way along she opened a door and told the boy to wash his hands. Inside was a wash basin, a white painted chair, just like the one at Howard House. A clean towel on a rail. Against one wall stood a white painted cabinet with glass panelled doors. He could see clean, folded towels inside. He washed and dried his face and hands and noticed a toilet cubicle as he re-joined Miss Lola. And holding her hand they continued to an open door at the end of the corridor. Inside was a large room arranged with tables and chairs. The dining room, of course.

***

At the far end of the room was a large fireplace with the usual accessories, a brass fireguard in the front, and an ornate clock on the mantelpiece. To the right of the room were two tables, each of them next to a window. Each table had four chairs with just three place settings. On the left, there were also two tables with two chairs and place settings at one, and four chairs and place settings at the other. The wall behind them had an oak dresser with shelves lined with white plain China plates. From a row of hooks under the bottom shelf hung white China cups. The base had three drawers above three cupboards. The tables had been laid with white tablecloths, and a boy of about nine was finishing the place settings on each table. Most had been completed as the older boy moved quietly and efficiently, pausing to check each table as he passed. He gave a nod towards the new boy. He removed two water jugs from a wooden trolley and placed them in the centre of each table on the left, ensuring that a large coaster was centrally placed under each of them, and he left the room.

Miss Lola led Leslie to the nearest table on the right and sat him down. She placed his suitcase on the chair next to him where there was no place setting. Just then a gong sounded a single note that echoed through the house. After a few moments, a single file of five boys walked into the room and took their places, each of them standing behind a chair at the tables on the right. The older boy he had seen earlier stood behind the chair directly opposite Leslie. He made a lifting motion with his hand, and Leslie quickly jumped up from the chair and stood behind it, earning a slight nod from the older boy.

Mr. Atkins entered the room accompanied by a woman with a sallow complexion, (Mrs. Atkins, Leslie assumed.) followed by Miss Lola, another maid and two other women. Mr. Atkins and the sallow woman stood behind the chairs of the first table on the left, the maids at the remaining table. Everyone bowed their heads, hands clasped, and eyes closed. Leslie followed suit. ‘We thank you Lord for