The woman went back into the house, while her son remained on the porch leaning against the post at the top of the stairs, looking down at John not hiding his contempt for the other boy. John glanced up sideways to McCarthy and saw that he was looking towards the entrance of his workshop across their yard, next to their stable, where a young man made his appearance.
John took that opportunity to look up at Horace, sending him daggers and slowly mouthing the words "Watch it, arsehole!"
Horace, a little intimidated by this, made himself stand as straight as he could before turning around and limping after his mother. John glanced back up at McCarthy who was telling the young man, who at this stage had made it over to them, to unhitch the horse and put away the buggy. Neither had noticed a thing.
John tried to feel pleased about that.
"That' him," the young man asked, nodding at John as he took hold of the horse they stood beside.
McCarthy nodded and the young man smiled down at John, trying to make eye contact with him in the hope it would elicit a smile but instead it caused John to look away.
"He' sure is small," the young man said, and then quickly added, "if you don't mind me saying so, sir."
"I do mind," McCarthy replied dryly and then told the young man, who he called Carter to get on with it and reminded him that he was not paid to stand around talking.
The man called Carter, led the horse and buggy into the stable, while McCarthy led John up to the house.
John hadn't taken much notice of his surroundings earlier. He had been feeling too sick, and disheartened but now he was curious and had a good look at the place.
From the front, the house seemed small. Made out of stone, there seemed to be only one storey with three tall windows, one on the right and two on the left-hand side of the front door. John knew that neither of those two rooms were the kitchen. The kitchen was out the back.
With his hand on John's back McCarthy led John into the house, where they were greeted by the comforting smell of freshly baked bread being taken out of the oven. Like before, the doors to the two front rooms just behind the entrance door were closed and John was wondering if they were the parlour and the dining room of which Mrs McCarthy had spoken the previous day.
McCarthy made John walk down the narrow corridor in front of him until they came to two doors on either side and a couple of steps that led down to a lower level right in front of them. He hadn't noticed those earlier. They went through the door at the left which was the kitchen, where Mrs McCarthy welcomed him with a kind smile, but Horace scowled at him.
"He needs a bath, Clarissa and a haircut too," was the first thing McCarthy said to his wife in his cold way of speaking.
John felt his face go red. He knew McCarthy was right. He could smell it himself every so often. The sour odour of his dried puke and the mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat and egg sandwiches from the other passengers on the train that had imbedded itself in his clothes and was now festering there.
Not knowing where to look, he found Horace's beady eyes smirking at him, from where he was sitting on the bench that had served as John's bed the night before. His foot tugged in under the knee of his crooked leg, he was awkwardly holding a book on his lap with his claw-like deformed hand.
Hiding the gesture by casually lifting his good hand to turn to the next page in his book, he swiftly squeezed his nose between his thumb and index finger, while at the same time grimaced at John indicating his disgust.
John glanced up at McCarthy. It seemed he hadn't noticed his son's gesture either.
It seemed Horace found it easier to feel pleased about his deceit as he brought his attention back to the inside of his book with a self-satisfied smirk.
"He sure does," Mrs McCarthy said with a compassionate smile, and a good-natured nod towards John. "Come on, John. Let's have a look at what you've got with you, eh?" she added, and then moved the tray of freshly baked biscuits in front of her from the table to the counter, inviting him to put his bundle of clothes on her kitchen table.
Reluctantly, John obeyed. He would have liked to be on his own when he opened it up. He wasn't sure what exactly Sally had put into it. He only knew that none of the clothes that Numees had made for him were in it.
The woman opened the knot and unfolded the thin blanket which revealed a bar of soap wrapped in a handkerchief embroidered with pink flowers on top of a meagre stack of folded up boy's clothes. Holding the soap in her open palm she gently unfolded the handkerchief and lifted the two items up, showing them first to her husband than to John. The scent of the soap made John swallow hard as it reminded him of Numees combing her brother's hair sitting on the floor in their cabin. "They meant him well," she told her husband with a well-meaning smile and then smelt the soap. John watched her suspiciously as she put it to the side. He was wondering if she was going to keep it for herself.
There was a pair of warm socks, mittens and a warm jumper made from the same wool, a pair of trousers and a shirt with thin stripes. The clothes had been Carl's. Sally had apologised to Carl for giving them to John and told him she'd replace them for him, but Carl had told her he didn't care. The shirt was practically new, she had said. Carl had ribbed it on the very first day he wore it to church, and she had just not gotten around to fixing it yet. She'd put it off because they hadn't had occasion to wear their good clothes since, she'd said. Sally had been talking mostly to herself while she gathered the things, but John had heard her, because he was trying not to listen to Walls arguing with the doctor.
"I suppose, they will do for work," Mrs McCarthy told her husband, showing him the opened seam at the collar of the shirt and the lightly scuffed knees on the trousers, "He needs a change of clothes for school and church as well. What he's wearing is surly coming to the end of its lifetime. What do you think, Matthew?"
McCarthy picked up the trousers and examined them, by holding them up in front of him, "He needs a change of clothes for church alright, and proper shoes and a warm coat too. But he's not going to school Clarissa," McCarthy told her stoically as he handed her back the clothes.
"Hm," Mrs McCarthy went in a high pitch, but otherwise ignoring what her husband said, while she continued to fold the clothes.
"Clarissa, he's our apprentice. He's needed in the shop. I can't afford him being in school for most of the day. I teach him what he needs to know. You can give him some lessons in the evenings if you must, but he's not going to school," McCarthy argued with his wife as if she had contradicted what he had said.
"Hm-m," Mrs McCarthy, went again, as she turned to her stove where she pulled a large towel from the rail that was hanging above it.
"Clarissa," McCarthy said sternly.
"What?" his wife asked feigning innocence, as she folded up the towel and placed it on the table and then folded the trousers, shirt and socks into it.
"I am serious, Clarissa," McCarthy said, looking at her resolutely.
"I know," Clarissa replied in a neutral tone, as if she was in complete agreement with her husband. Her eyes however gave her away. She might as well have added, "...and so am I."
Without even saying what she was serious about, John suspected that one way or another she'd make sure he'd end up going to school, which made him almost smile a little. He started to like her, and he'd always liked the idea of going to school.
McCarthy sighed, as his wife gave him the warmed towel and fresh clothes.
"I take it the water is already hot?" McCarthy asked.
"Of course, dear," his wife replied.
"Of course," he said in an irritated tone, "did you even for a moment doubt I wouldn't bring him back?" he asked.
"Hm," Mrs McCarthy went with a shrug of her shoulders, and a smile that turned into a light chuckle, "It is Saturday, love. Bath Day. I've just started a bit earlier than usual in the hope you'd have come to your senses."
McCarthy was not amused. He sighed exasperatedly, and then told John to follow him.
Having left the kitchen, McCarthy pointed at the door across and told him that it was their dining room which they'd seldom use. "Unless we are using this, it's out of bounds to you," he instructed. They then went down a short flight of stairs and along a long dark wood panelled corridor. Halfway through, McCarthy pointed out two more doors on the right side of the corridor, one beside the other. Both doors were closed, and McCarthy explained that the first one was his and his wife's bedroom, while the second one was Horace's. Both rooms were also out of bounds, he told John. At the end of the corridor, facing them this time, they got to yet another door. McCarthy opened it and made John walk across the threshold in front of him.
It was a bathroom, similar to the one they had in the orphanage, just a lot smaller, with stone tiles on the floor and a drain for the wastewater to be carried away. There was a sink with running water out of taps but most impressively a tall cylinder-shaped boiler, that heated water and delivered it straight into the large enamel bathtub that stood proudly on its four feet in the middle of the room.
Between McCarthy being able to order double at the merchant on a whim and this, they must be enormously rich, John mused and had to think of his poor mother, carrying bucket after bucket of water upstairs just to fill the tub in which she gave his brothers the occasional bath. He tried to help of course but could only ever carry half a bucket full at any one time up the two flights of stairs. She'd do it quicker herself, she used to tell him. They only had the one bucket.
He never saw his ma indulge her own want for cleanliness in taking a bath, instead she washed herself meticulously with a sponge and the warmed water that he had waiting for her every night when she came home from work.
He pretended to, but rarely was asleep, when she came home and instead liked to watch her. He slept easier knowing that she didn't have any fresh cuts or bruises on her body. When she caught him watching she gave out to him but not in a bad way. She hated climbing into bed to them unwashed she had told him once when he asked why she wasn't just coming to bed. It had been a cold winter's night and they had run out of fuel for the fire. It was a choice between heat or food, and they'd chose food. He had spent most of the day in bed with his brothers making up stories for them because of the cold and he felt so sorry for his ma who nevertheless washed herself with the freezing cold water in the icy room. He could see her breath as she spoke and made him yelp in delightful horror when she placed her cold hands on his warm belly when she finally got into their bed. It was a game they played, that always made them laugh and the miserable cold a little more bearable. They simply called it 'cold hands'.
McCarthy walked past him and put the clothes on the chair that stood against the wall and hung the towel over the back of it. He then proceeded to fill the bath by opening the two taps while sitting on the rim of the bath with his back to John.
"Don't ever touch this. It's fierce hot," he told John, who remained standing in the doorway half wondering what would happen if he'd run, "have you seen one of these before?" he asked, as he looked around to John. He was talking about the boiler in the corner of the room.
John shook his head.
"Well, don't ever touch it, and be careful letting the hot water in as well. Come on over and get ready, put your bag on the floor beside the chair," he told John who just stood there, still holding on tight to Edwards satchel in front of him.
It wasn't that John didn't want to take a bath.
In Walls' he had started to grow fond of them, but that was there, where he knew everyone, that was different. Apart from that one time, where Jeremiah washed him from head to toe, with a soft washcloth, they let him get on with it by himself. Jeremiah only ever did his hair and back, and John liked that. He never hurt him.
It was one child after the other in Sally's kitchen. It went by age, the oldest two, Alfred and Anna first, then the boys, and last the little ones. Carl said it was because they peed into the bathwater. Babs and Clara were offended by that, but Felix wasn't. The memory of bath day at Walls' brought a faint smile to John's face. It was the job of the person who just had finished their bath to take two buckets full of the dirty wash water out to the vegetable garden and come back with fresh water for the next person. One bucket was to be given to Sally who always kept a large pot of water heating up on the stove. The other was going straight into the bath. If they were lucky, by the time they came back the next person was already in the tub which was an opportunity to douse them with the ice-cold water from the well. They had to be fast though and watch out for Sally, who would stop them. She hated this game and gave out to them for putting her kitchen under water if water got spilled in the act, which it often did. Walls would threaten them with a trip to the barn if he was around, but he didn't mean it. He only did it to back Sally up. Secretly he thought it was funny, everyone knew, including Sally.
John looked around the room and saw a smaller zinc tub standing beside the chair on which McCarthy had put the clean clothes, which brought back memories that weren't so pleasant and put him on high alert. In the bucket was a wash board and beside it on the floor was a brush. Sally and his ma only ever used that kind of brush to scrub stains out of clothes or for cleaning the buckets and tubs, but in the orphanage, they used them on the children as well.
They scrubbed them clean every Saturday evening for Sunday mass, but no matter how much they scrubbed, it seemed whatever stains they saw on them, they just never completely managed to clean the perceived 'filth' off. They weren't allowed to wash themselves. It had something to do with not being allowed to play with their pecker. They had to fall asleep with their hands above the blankets as well. He didn't care about that so much, it was just another one of their many silly rules, but he hated how rough they were. At the orphanage none of the children liked bath day.
What he hated most was that he couldn't even completely protect his brothers from this although he did his best. There was that one man, that everyone was fearful of as he was particularly harsh. Everyone did their best to avoid him, although that was somewhat futile. The man had his favourite victims, and John was one of them, ever since he volunteered himself, because Billy had been next in line to be washed by him. There were rumours that he'd sometimes scrubbed a boy so hard that he would leave his skin bleeding. If he did, he never did it to John, but it sure hurt and his skin felt as if it was on fire afterwards. That man was danger. He downright enjoyed hurting them. Of all the adults in the orphanage he hit the hardest, and always carried a strap, like a policeman carried a baton. The trick was to come early and never be late, so that at least you wouldn't end up on your own with him when everyone else had left. He was always the one who volunteered to do the stragglers if there were any, and they always ended up coming back sobbing.
McCarthy turned the taps off and got up from the side of the bath where he had been sitting, checking the temperature of the water as the bath filled up. He walked over to a door on the other side of the room, while John's eyes followed him cautiously. He unlocked the door and told John that it led out to their backyard reminding him that he'd got sick out there the night before. He pointed out that the house was in an L shape and the outhouse was just around the corner. He pointed across the yard and told him to come over and have a look, that he could see the kitchen window from there, but John didn't move.
McCarthy sighed and then closed the back door again, locking it with the key that he left in the lock. He then came walking across the room to the other door where John was still standing.
John's heart was thumping like mad in his chest as he quickly glanced back and noticed a key in this lock also.
"Get in there and wash yourself, John. You find soap and wash cloths on the counter beside the sink," McCarthy said in his cold and unaffected way of speaking and then took John by the arm and nonchalantly shoved him into the room somewhat closing the door behind him.
John's heart was in his throat, as he leapt back and leant against the closed door pressing his ear against it wanting to hear McCarthy walk away. But McCarthy did not walk away, and instead remained at the other side of the door, quietly waiting.
"Are you getting into the water or do I need to come back in?" he suddenly heard McCarthy call brashly from the other side of the door, which made John jump right out of his skin and quickly turn the key in its lock.
But McCarthy still did not move away from the door, nor did he say anything.
John watched the doorknob anxiously, wondering if he really did lock the door and if that would enrage the man, but the doorknob remained still.
"What is it, Matthew?" John heard Mrs McCarthy call from the other end of the corridor.
"I don't know," he heard her husband reply from right next to him but the wooden door between them, "I don't think he is getting into the water."
"Oh Matthew," Mrs McCarthy said in her soft voice with a tut, "did you spook him again? Leave him alone."
"Spook him? Again?" McCarthy called back indignantly, as he started to walk away, "that boy's no fear, he's just stubborn."
"Can it not be both?" he heard Mrs McCarthy say.
John waited until the sound of McCarty's heavy boots had completely disappeared before he slowly turned the key in the lock and opened the door to have a peek. The husband and wife had both gone and there was no one in the long dark corridor that led back to the kitchen.
Relieved he went back into the bathroom and locked the door, scolding himself for being such a chickenshit for no reason. He went over to the other door and rubbed a little hole into the steamed-up window that was set into it. There he saw Horace, sitting on the steps to the back door of their kitchen in the morning sun reading a book. There was a scrawny looking dark cat with specks of ginger in its fur lying at his feet, which he stroked absentmindedly with the back of his deformed hand. The gentleness towards the cat and the fact that he reminded him of Jeremiah reading with Dog at his feet almost mad the other boy seem likeable in that moment. With jealously, John noticed the midday sun reflecting of the boy's blond curls that went past his jaw line. John touched his own hair that at some places was left long but cut ridiculously short at others.
He went over to the mirror above the sink and looked at his own image and got a terrible fright. He hadn't looked at his reflection since he'd been attacked by the cat. There'd been no mirror in Anna's little room. He was gaunt looking and his eyes had dark rings underneath. His hideous hair reminded him of the straw that stuck out from underneath the hat on Jeremiah's scarecrow in his vegetable garden. He looked just as miserable and lonely, and looking into his own eyes in the mirror only made it worse and caused them to overflow. But then he had to think of his little brother Billy who just after Charlie was born would push a chair to his mother's dresser and climb up on it so that he could look at himself crying in the mirror. It always caused him to wail even louder and got them to hug him. He was so cute, and the memory made him smile a little, but also cry even harder. God how he missed them. He missed hugging them.
Eventually he did get in the bath and scrubbed himself from head to toe, not forgetting behind his ears either just as Jeremiah would have reminded him. He knew that if he didn't do a good enough job, he risked being washed by either McCarthy or his wife, and he sure didn't want that
He took his time as well and sank into the warm water. He'd never been in a tub where he could actually stretch his legs out fully. He tried to relax and enjoy it. He had to think of Enkoodabooaoo that night when they all took a bath in Jeremiah's cabin, so he climbed back out of the bath and retrieved the cigar he had lifted of the sheriff in Salesville from Edwards' satchel.
He lit it and took a few puffs, even though it made him cough. He then put it out again in the sink before getting back into the bath, where he laid back and closed his eyes.