Trash - Andy Mulligan [23]
José Angelico was a good man, whatever he did – and I won’t forget him.
PART THREE
1
I’m Olivia Weston, and I was what they call a ‘temporary house-mother’ at Behala’s Mission School. I also have one part of the story. The boys and Father Juilliard have asked that I write it down carefully, so that is what I will do.
I’m twenty-two, and I was taking time after university to see some of the world. I came to the city intending to stay in it for a few days, get over my jet-lag, and then fly on to meet up with friends for a month or so of swimming and surfing.
I visited the Behala dumpsite, though, and my plans changed.
I did go swimming and surfing – I did have a holiday. But I found lying on the beach was good for a week, and then I started to feel restless and useless. Behala had hit me hard, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I’d gone there to deliver some sponsorship money for my parents, who had a friend who’d worked there. My father works in the Foreign Office, and had paid my airfare (and a bit more) in the hope I’d get something educational out of the trip. Sure enough, before I knew it, Father Juilliard had suggested I teach reading and writing to the little ones. Then I got involved in a water-sanitation project they have going. Then I was doing very basic first aid, because the kids are always getting scratched or bitten, and things go septic fast – and then I got the title ‘temporary house-mother’ – which means you agree to do daytime shifts helping out wherever you can.
I fell in love.
I fell in love with the eyes looking at me, and the smiles. I think charity work is the most seductive thing in the world, and I’d never done it before. For the first time in your life you’re surrounded by people who tell you you’re making a difference. The Behala children are beautiful, and to see them on the rubbish tips all day can break your heart. If you come to this country, do the tourist things. But come to Behala too and see the mountains of trash, and the children who pick over them. It is a thing to change your life.
I knew Jun – the little boy they called Rat. Jun would not call me Olivia – it was always ‘Sister’, and then it became ‘Mother’. I am stupidly soft-hearted – I will drip tears over a stray cat back in England. Little Jun had me wrapped round his finger in about two days, and I was forever giving him little bits of food, and little bits of money. I don’t know how else a boy like that survives.
We have a rest room in the school, where people can go when it all gets too much, and just lie down under a fan. We’ve got a small fridge in there too – and the housemothers use it as a base. Jun got into the habit of visiting me and trying to make things tidy, and I got into the habit of giving him things. So when he brought his two friends to see me, it was a nice surprise but I had no idea what I was getting involved in.
They asked if we could talk, and I assumed it was about what had happened the night before. Father Juilliard was resting, and I didn’t want to disturb him – he’d been up most of the night trying to find out where Raphael had been taken, and I think he was still badly shaken – the police had not been helpful. Then, of course, the child had simply come walking back to Behala, walking in as the sun rose. I wasn’t there, but I’d heard all about it – and I could see how badly he’d been beaten. His auntie had held him and held him, and wouldn’t let him go. The whole neighbourhood came out, apparently. Father Juilliard says the people here are like that. When one of their number is hurt, everyone feels the wound.
Now he smiled shyly at me, pulling back his hair. The bruising was terrible, and I remember wondering how an adult could possibly strike such a child. He saw me staring, and moved behind his friend. Gardo – the bald boy – put his hand very gently on his arm before turning back to me.
Jun said, ‘We don’t know what to do, Mother. We’ve got a big problem. You know Gardo, yes?’
Gardo sat down, looking at his