Never had the worker eat with us, not ever. It wouldn’t be nice and it’s just not done,’ Mrs Pearson had ordered. ‘Rinse your plate under the tap when you’ve finished, leave it on the bench and bring it back in next time. Understand?’

He understood. He was to understand the lay of this land very quickly. The farm belonged to the woman, not her husband. She was the boss. Not that she did anything, either outside or inside the home. The old man ran the place.

That first night would be the only occasion during his time with the Pearsons that Jake would be inside the house proper for longer than it took to get his food. He stood. The Pearsons sat around the kitchen table. Six hard eyes measured him up.

‘We’ve been good enough to give a home to a poor war orphan…’

‘I’m not an orphan,’ said Jake.

‘Speak when you’re spoken to, lad,’ said Mrs Pearson.

‘My father is alive,’ he said, ‘I’m not an orphan.’

‘As far as we’re concerned, you’re an orphan. That’s what we told the authorities we wanted, out of the goodness of our hearts. Whatever it is you’ve left behind in the old country you’ll soon forget, and a good thing, too.’

‘Yeah, Pommie, you’ll be too busy to be thinking of anything but work.’ Darcy Pearson grinned. ‘That’s what you’re here for.’

‘He knows that,’ Mrs Pearson glared at her son. Mr Pearson, tired after a hard day’s work, leaned back in his chair and snored slightly. ‘Wake up, Clarrie. We’re talking to the boy,’ she said loudly and her husband snorted himself awake.

‘What about me going to school?’ asked Jake.

‘School? What d’you mean, school?’

‘Do you hear that, Mum? Thinks he’s going to school. Geez, have we got a surprise for him.’ Darcy Pearson chuckled happily.

‘To the best of my knowledge, you’re fourteen years of age, not far off fifteen. There’s no school for you, boy. You’re here as our farm worker and that’s what you’ll be doing,’ said Mrs Pearson. ‘By the time you’ve settled in here and learnt the ropes, you’d be of age to leave and no one would mind.’

‘But…’

‘But nothing. Let that be an end to it. Goodness, gracious, whatever next?’ The woman barked out a laugh. ‘We don’t have our worker going to school. We asked for a good strong boy for farm work…’

‘Yeah, and look what we got, a skinny little runty weasel,’ said Darcy, continuing to enjoy himself.

Mr Pearson grunted. ‘Not to worry. We’ll get our money’s worth out of the little blighter, or my name’s not Clarrie Pearson.’

‘Before I was so rudely interrupted…’ Mrs Pearson started again. ‘Let’s put an end to this school nonsense. You’re here as a worker, boy, nothing more and nothing less, even though our Darcy tells me you didn’t bring suitable work clothes.