King Albert

You tend to believe the person that taught you how to make a bow and arrow. That person was Peter, but now I know he did not always get it right. We were in detention when he told me the wonderful stories of King Albert the king of Canterbury.

The Americans were beginning to come every Saturday, laden with supplies for the Hall, treats for staff and the children. The children’s teats had a heavy price that I was not going to pay. The week previous I had misbehaved, and managed to get the punishment I wanted, detention. Detention was by no means pleasant but better that subjected to abuse by the American airman, especially Gold Tooth. Detention was being shut up in the broom cupboard for the duration of the visit. The real skill was to get detention, without the cane first, and with the more soft hearted of the staff that left the light on. If they brought you a drink occasionally and American sweets, but kept you locked in, and safe was a bonus. I was good at judging the scale for punishment, and talked Peter in joining me. We sang badly at hymns, out of tune and laughing. When told off, became disruptive, leaving no alternative, than to be sent out for a talking to by matron, and the ultimate punishment the following day, of detention during the visit. What I got wrong, was the kind-hearted staff to carry out the punishment. We had the furious music teacher that took her revenge by locking us in and switching off the light.
All we could do was talk, and Peter told stories, that he had been told fairly recently, the story of King Albert, king of Canterbury. The king lived many years ago when knights on horseback roamed the country, saving damsels in distress, whatever they were, slaying dragons, and driving off bad people. King Albert was special even in those days, and had a magic sword he kept in a huge boulder at night. Only he could draw the sword so it was always safe.

He sent all his knights out to roam the country and do good deeds, but one got fed up with being sent out and wanted to stay at home. So they had a fight, and King Albert killed him, but was sorry. He threw the sword in the water, and went into a cave to live, until needed. He would only return if the good and defenceless of the land were in real danger.

A good story but was it true? Peter thought it was, and one day we might see King Albert at the Hall.

When let out, it was obvious that something had happened. All the children had been sent to their dormitories while the staff went out to sort out the problem.

 We looked out the window and saw Matron with some others, walking briskly in the direction of the woodshed. Things did not look good. What if they found we went there? What if they made too much noise? It was the too much noise,that really bothered us.

We had gone to the woodshed a few times. The Woodman was a friend, a kind friend, even if he smelt a bit, and never spoke. A few weeks earlier we were in the shed when a loud bang was heard. Peter and I jumped but the Woodman dived under his bed, covered his head, shook from head to toe, and made strange noises. We left him.

During the following week Peter and I talked about it, what we should do. His actions were disturbing, and we were a bit frightened at this shaking man having a fit. After a while we thought his actions must be something to do with the burns on his face. Peter said we expected too much from the Woodman, he was kind, and good to us. Never touched us, never expected anything from us, but would share what little he had, for nothing. Peter said he must be like us, not like them. We were not perfect, why should he be.

We then felt bad, we had betrayed him, left him when he was in need. We said we would not do it again, not betray him, not expect more than what he was. The time until we could visit the wood shed dragged, but eventually we could go after church when everyone else was playing.

The thin wisp of smoke rose from the woodshed, and we set off quickly to see if he was in, he was. We stood outside the half door looking in. He sat on a log plucking a bird. He looked up, we smiled. I think he smiled it was hard to tell with all the scars. We opened the door and walked in, I sat on my log, Peter lay on the old trough covered in leaves, as if we owned the place. We were glad to be here, and I thought he was glad to see us, the incident forgotten and forgiven.

But now Matron was heading that way and there was nothing we could do about it.

Next morning we looked out to see if there was smoke coming from the shed, there was none. We looked again at night, still no smoke. We wondered why. 

Then we heard what happened while we were in detention. Gold Tooth was attacked by a mad man that had a sack on his head and shoulders with a hat on top of it. The mad man had beaten Gold Tooth badly, and Gold Tooth ran away. Now it looks like Matron has chased the Woodman off. But that was not all of what happened, Gold Tooth was with a boy, behind the wall. Gold Tooth did run away but with difficulty as he had his trousers down by his ankles, so was beaten until the stick broke over his back. The boy escaped.

The Woodman had saved a boy in need. He came to the rescue when the good and defenceless of the land were in real danger. We knew who the Woodman was, even with that hideous disguise. He would return, there were many boys that needed to be rescued, and he knew where we were.

There is something comforting about wood smoke.