Free Convalescence by Maynard Sims

his ginger hair away from his eyes.
    â€œI’m clearing the blanketweed,” he said. “And you’re not really dressed for it, are you?”
    I looked down at my tee-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals, and shrugged. “I suppose not,” I said.
    â€œThen you’d better take off,” he said. “I’m busy.”
    â€œCan I stay and watch.”
    He turned back to the pond but I saw his shoulders shrug. “Please yourself,” he said and started to drag more weeds from the water.
    I went down to the spot where I’d sat with my uncle the previous evening, plucked a long blade of grass and stuck it between my lips.
    â€œI was looking for Amy,” I said. “Has she gone to town?”
    â€œDon’t know,” came the surly reply. He didn’t look round.
    â€œOnly I can’t find her in the house.”
    No response.
    He turned and dumped another mound of weeds on the bank a yard away from me. Water drained out of it, and as the weeds settled I saw that it was alive with small pond creatures—some water boatmen, three or four thin, black leeches, a newt and a couple of sticklebacks. Had I a jam jar, I would have collected them.
    Instead, I just watched as the leeches squirmed and the sticklebacks gasped for life. The newt managed to crawl across the weed and drop back into the pond.
    â€œWere you here when the children from the orphanage used to come for their holidays?”
    The question made him pause. He pulled the rake upright, rested its head on the bottom of the pond and seemed to lean on it. “Why d’ya ask?”
    â€œWell, were you?”
    â€œYes, I was here. Why?”
    â€œI was wondering if you remembered any of them.”
    He gave a sort of rueful grin and shook his head. “I stayed away from them. Bloody kids with their stupid questions…a bit like you.”
    â€œSo you don’t remember any of them?”
    He shook his head again. “Don’t think so…apart from Amy. I remember her. ” His face twisted into a kind of lewd, lopsided grin I decided I didn’t like very much.
    â€œDo you remember Hugh, Mrs. Rogers’s son?”
    â€œYeah, of course, but he wasn’t from the orphanage.”
    â€œBut Michael was. Michael O’Herlihy? He was. Remember him?”
    He glared at me. “What is this? Twenty bleedin’ Questions?”
    â€œI just wondered if you remembered him, that’s all. He was Irish, about my size, with light hair that flopped over one eye.”
    A spark of recognition flared in his eyes. “What if I do?”
    I took the blade of grass from my teeth and replaced it with a fresh one. “I just wondered if you knew what happened to him. Amy said he just disappeared one day. She thinks he might have been adopted.”
    â€œWell, there you go then. These kids, they were never here very long. There was lots of coming and going. I never got involved with them. I left that to them up at the house.”
    â€œBut you do remember him.”
    â€œI remember him, the cocky little sod. Full of himself. Thought he was better than…well, thought he was better. I was glad when he didn’t come here again. Adopted, you say? Well, God help the poor people who got lumbered with him.”
    He threw out the rake again and started to drag. When he turned back to the shore to deposit another load of stinking blanketweed, he saw me still sitting on the bank.
    â€œAre you still here? Go on, bugger off. I’ve got work to do. Can’t spend all my time blathering to you.”
    â€œAmy seems quite worried about him,” I said. It was stretching the truth, but it seemed to engage his attention again.
    â€œWorried? Amy?”
    I nodded. “She thinks something might have happened to him. Something…nasty.”
    He frowned. “Well, him and Hughie were always getting the rough edge of old Mother Rogers’s tongue…the old