Read Online The Cuckoo Child by Katie Flynn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katie Flynn
Ads: Link
breathed a sigh of relief and presently, finishing her task, she rinsed her hands in a little clean water, dried them on the roller towel and returned to the sofa, where she fell into a disturbed sleep.
Chapter Three
‘John Cochrane, get back into line at once and don’t let me see you turning sideways to gaze at what doesn’t concern you again.’
Someone sniggered and Corky twisted round and gave the boy a glare, then turned quickly back again to face the front. The boys were marching in crocodile formation from the untidy, draughty barracks of a house to the playing field, shared by just about every school and institution in the neighbourhood, where they held their once monthly game of punt-about. You could scarcely call it football since there would be fifty boys playing it, but even so it was eagerly anticipated by the boys at the Redwood Grange Orphanage, for it was the closest thing to freedom ever offered by that establishment.
‘What’s so funny about my name, Tolstein?’ Corky muttered, addressing the sniggerer. ‘It ain’t anywhere near as funny as Tolstein. At least it’s an English name . . . or Irish, at any rate.’
The sniggerer looked apologetic. ‘I weren’t laughin’ at you, Corky,’ he said humbly. ‘I were laughin’ at old Blister, ’cos when he shook his fist at you like that, the drop on the end of his nose fell straight on to his knuckles. Wish my name were Cochrane,’ he added wistfully. ‘What was you lookin’ at, anyroad?’
‘Dunno as I were lookin’ at anything in pertickler,’ Corky said vaguely. Old Blister hated him, but then there was constant war between most of the boys and the men in authority over them. There were so many rules, that was the trouble. For instance, no one was supposed to talk when being herded from the orphanage to the playing field and the boys were always warned not to gaze into shop windows, not to lag behind or hurry forward, and never to look at passers-by but to keep their gaze fixed on the back view of the boy in front.
Corky was a foundling, which meant that he had been left on the doorstep of the home fourteen years ago. There had been a note pinned to the thin piece of blanket in which he was wrapped and this had read: John Cochrane, aged about five weeks . Please take care of him . Corky had maintained for a long while – still maintained to his friends – that this meant he had not just been abandoned, that his mother had intended to return for him as soon as she could, but something had intervened to prevent her from doing so. However, he had not voiced the theory aloud for some considerable while because what was the point? There were boys there who had simply been dumped and had been named by Mr Burgoine, the head of the orphanage, according to the whim of the moment. There were others who had come here, aged anything from three or four to eleven or twelve, because their parents had died or could no longer cope with the number of children they’d produced. Once, Corky had envied such boys, but he did so no longer. They had memories, to be sure, but they must be wistful memories. Corky had dreams, and in his opinion dreams were much better than memories because you could be anything you liked in a dream.
He had tried to explain this theory to a young reporter, a certain Nicholas Randall, who had come to the orphanage for a couple of days earlier in the week to interview the boys for an article he was writing about one of the largest orphanages in London. He had talked to Corky alone, sitting behind a desk in a small room which was used to interview new members of staff. He had been a nice young fellow and when Corky had told him that he intended to be a great man one day, make piles and piles of money and take over the orphanage himself, he had clapped him on the shoulder and said he was a grand chap, full of grand ideas, and would undoubtedly do something truly worthwhile when he was a man. But as he talked and laughed and
Chapter Three
‘John Cochrane, get back into line at once and don’t let me see you turning sideways to gaze at what doesn’t concern you again.’
Someone sniggered and Corky twisted round and gave the boy a glare, then turned quickly back again to face the front. The boys were marching in crocodile formation from the untidy, draughty barracks of a house to the playing field, shared by just about every school and institution in the neighbourhood, where they held their once monthly game of punt-about. You could scarcely call it football since there would be fifty boys playing it, but even so it was eagerly anticipated by the boys at the Redwood Grange Orphanage, for it was the closest thing to freedom ever offered by that establishment.
‘What’s so funny about my name, Tolstein?’ Corky muttered, addressing the sniggerer. ‘It ain’t anywhere near as funny as Tolstein. At least it’s an English name . . . or Irish, at any rate.’
The sniggerer looked apologetic. ‘I weren’t laughin’ at you, Corky,’ he said humbly. ‘I were laughin’ at old Blister, ’cos when he shook his fist at you like that, the drop on the end of his nose fell straight on to his knuckles. Wish my name were Cochrane,’ he added wistfully. ‘What was you lookin’ at, anyroad?’
‘Dunno as I were lookin’ at anything in pertickler,’ Corky said vaguely. Old Blister hated him, but then there was constant war between most of the boys and the men in authority over them. There were so many rules, that was the trouble. For instance, no one was supposed to talk when being herded from the orphanage to the playing field and the boys were always warned not to gaze into shop windows, not to lag behind or hurry forward, and never to look at passers-by but to keep their gaze fixed on the back view of the boy in front.
Corky was a foundling, which meant that he had been left on the doorstep of the home fourteen years ago. There had been a note pinned to the thin piece of blanket in which he was wrapped and this had read: John Cochrane, aged about five weeks . Please take care of him . Corky had maintained for a long while – still maintained to his friends – that this meant he had not just been abandoned, that his mother had intended to return for him as soon as she could, but something had intervened to prevent her from doing so. However, he had not voiced the theory aloud for some considerable while because what was the point? There were boys there who had simply been dumped and had been named by Mr Burgoine, the head of the orphanage, according to the whim of the moment. There were others who had come here, aged anything from three or four to eleven or twelve, because their parents had died or could no longer cope with the number of children they’d produced. Once, Corky had envied such boys, but he did so no longer. They had memories, to be sure, but they must be wistful memories. Corky had dreams, and in his opinion dreams were much better than memories because you could be anything you liked in a dream.
He had tried to explain this theory to a young reporter, a certain Nicholas Randall, who had come to the orphanage for a couple of days earlier in the week to interview the boys for an article he was writing about one of the largest orphanages in London. He had talked to Corky alone, sitting behind a desk in a small room which was used to interview new members of staff. He had been a nice young fellow and when Corky had told him that he intended to be a great man one day, make piles and piles of money and take over the orphanage himself, he had clapped him on the shoulder and said he was a grand chap, full of grand ideas, and would undoubtedly do something truly worthwhile when he was a man. But as he talked and laughed and
Similar Books
