Free State Ward by Alan Duff

he ever been able to understand why you went wrong in the first place. Discipline. He thinks if you’d had discipline you’d not be here to begin with.”
    “So tell that to our parents.”
    “Exactly, Charlie. But Mr Weston, maybe because of his own past, refuses to believe a child can’t find his own discipline when it’s missing from his home life.”
    Charlie went through the staff: Mr Wakefield, the only Maori housemaster, and the nicest of them all. Mrs Gladstone, mean and nasty to those not on her “pet” list.
    “How about her then, what makes her tick?”
    Miss Eccles’ eyes clouding over at that, just a shrug in reply. Leave that one, Charlie not blind.
    “And Mr Dekka?”
    “Mr Dekka is hiding behind his Christianity. As so many of them do.”
    “You’re not a Christian, Miss Eccles?”
    “No. But don’t tell anyone. I hardly tell a soul, Charlie. It is not considered a good thing to have a housemistress not believing in God. But I don’t. And nor do I believe for a moment that what is shoved down your throats here is either Christianity or in your best interests. How can it possibly be, when they throw this Jesus and God loves you stuff at you as if that is the only thing that shall save you, yet hardly a one of them can show you love by example? Now, off with you before I tell you every one of my colleagues’ secrets.”
    “But what about you, Miss?” (And why aren’t you married?) Charlie dying to ask of such a nice lady, grey and wrinkled though she was.
    “What about me, Charlie?”
    “I was, uh, wondering why you’re a Miss, Miss Eccles?” For some reason watching her face more intently than when he’d asked about her colleagues.
    “I — my fiancé was killed in the war. I never got over it. Or, when I did, it was too late. That answer your question?”
    “Miss Eccles, I think you’d’ve been a neat mother.”
    “I’m sure I would, Charlie.” She paused then. “And I’m certain an equally good wife. Now, off with you. And not a word to anyone. Not even,” she pointed knowingly, “George.”
     
    The day ended at nine o’clock when he was through with washing the supper dishes from the evening cup of hotchocolate and biscuit. Yet still a boy did not sleep. And still he did not know why he felt so troubled. As if something needed doing. A task, a great act of somehow making up for something, but what …? What, for God’s sake?
    As if life wasn’t confusing and hard driven enough, George hardly stopped and talked to Charlie any more. Tommy was one of the few people that treated him as before, but it was George’s distance that sent Charlie into a deep gloom. Nor did confronting George about it bring any reason. Just a shrug, and a fleeing of those dark brown eyes, sometimes happy, yet always kind of haunted. Charlie knew them like his own. Or so he thought, till George stopped speaking to him.
    “George, what’s wrong, mate?” Charlie several times tried to get to the problem. But only the shrug in reply. Or else a sullen, “Nothink.” As if he didn’t belong to this world, to nineteen sixty-seven. Not to the time, nor the mostly white-skinned people who ordered his life.
    As if … as if … as if, Charlie every night in bed troubling over. As if George is carrying something. Like guilt. Or deep, deep worry. When Charlie was just released off the punishment squad and enjoying his first free weekend in ages, George suddenly approached Charlie out in the table-tennis room.
    “Talk to you, Charlie. Round by the tramp. No one there now.”
    Out on the trampoline, Charlie so pleased to be tandem bouncing with his best friend once more, giving George time to come out with what’d been bothering him. Charlie understood. I understand everything! His heart sohappy it felt every bounce was going to soar onwards into the very sky.
    Then George told him, “The kehua, Charlie. The kehua come back.”
    And Charlie’s blood ran cold. Goosepimples broke out. He brought the