The Ghost of Windrush

The clanking and groans of the ship cutting through the grey North Sea provided the beat to a woman’s melodic humming as she soothed her child. Her fingers trace the rounded cheek of a little girl, whose head lolloped in sleep and whose nose made soft snores. A boy who could be fourteen or fifteen, watched the woman tilt her face to capture the spray of seawater, which found its way through cracks in the porthole. Perhaps the woman he watched remembered her faraway sunny home, as her mouth curled up. The salty taste of the sea, mixed with the tang of oil and grime, and the boy breathed deeply and he shrunk back between luggage and barrels, which smelt sweet and woody.

The boy believed he was called Mik, but it had been so long since anyone used that name. At the camps, he was a number, and at the plantation, he was the Pole. In his corner of the ship, he sat crouched and alone. He was as pale as a wisp of white, almost translucent in appearance. Nobody noticed him until a shard of moonlight crept through the porthole and caught his jutting cheekbones and hollow eye sockets. Shivering, he pulled up the collar of his stolen coat and allowed himself to rock with the rhythmic creak and crunch of metal, and the gentle roll and tap of the boat as it slows. Excitable chatter rose when passengers realised, they reached the end of their voyage. Songs, voices, and movement did little to capture his attention as Mik continued to stare at something or nothing, just like he was watching a film from long ago. When the little girl stirred, her sleepy brown eyes found his own watery grey gaze. Her eyes widened in horror, and she shrieked. ‘Look Mama. There’s a ghost.’ The girl’s mama told her there’s no such thing, and not to stare at the poor Polish boy. The wary glances at Mik suggested otherwise.

Nobody dared get close enough to Mik to see if her accusations were true, because like an apparition, sometimes he was there, sometimes he wasn’t, depending on the direction of the casting shadow. But he was a boy, at least, in body, but he had lost his mind. It was easier that way. The camp guards entombed it in the snow and ice, somewhere in the Siberian wasteland. The mischievous, adventurous, clever boy he once was - lost to the Russians, crushed by the Nazis, and lost to the labour camps and now forever lost to him.

For a while, Mik, found himself in America. His body had moved into a dream world, numb to the hot Southern state sun as he picked cotton, and then avocados in Mexico, then he was bussed to a port and put onto a ship bound for England. He didn’t even know where England was in relation to the plantation, but he didn’t care. His body wasn’t his own after all. People in uniforms had been in charge of him since he was twelve. Mik no longer knew how old he was, or his real family name. He was a number, nothing more. He’d been told he wasn’t human, that much he knew.

The rocking stopped and the blaring honk of the ship's horn announces the vessel’s arrival into the port of Essex. Mik’s travel companions wear their best hats, hold their suitcases, and move together eagerly to start their new lives. They were the workforce arriving to rebuild war-torn England, to save her and make her strong again. Mik wasn’t sure what good he’d do. He didn't have any strength left. The walk from Siberia to Iran took the last of his strength. The last of his hopes.

Soon silence filled the metal cavern at the bowels of the ship and Mik shuffled forward towards the light which tumbled down the stairs. Every step took great effort as he climbed the metal curling steps to reach the disembarking plank. The bright light burned his eyes, so he shielded them with his good arm. Then, slowly, he edged forward. He curled his fingers, which were bloodied, calloused, and sore, around the cold, rough paintwork of the ship’s doorway. He glances back at the safe shadowy corner and back to the jubilant faces of the welcoming crowd next to the ship’s birth below. But he knew they weren’t here for him. The smiling faces were there to welcome the new workforce. Mik knew he was a mistake, he shouldn’t be here. What right did he have? He was nothing. He was a waste of air. He’d been told so, again and again.

But when a uniformed man told him to leave the ship. Instinctively, he did as he was told and made his way to the noise, which shook his insides like a machine. The noise kept getting louder, even though he covered his ears. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. He looked back to the ship, but the door was closed. Mik had only one choice and that was to move forward to his brand new life. He swallowed hard as his face grazed against the wool of a man’s coat and he breathed a woman’s floral fragrance, as he bounced from flesh to flesh. He was like a flea hitching a ride on the back of the hopeful souls heading to a new life, he wasn’t sure he wanted. His own life ended amongst the rubble of his home in Warsaw. Maybe he can help rebuild England? Maybe he will rebuild himself, somehow. Somewhere.

 ‘Name?’ A woman with red lips and a clip demanded.

The boy croaks a sound from the back of his throat, but no words.

‘For the love of God,’ the woman said. ‘Name?’

‘Mik,’ he said.

‘Last name?’

The boy shrugs.

‘Date of birth?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Ruddy Nora,’ the woman says while stamping a form. ‘Some good you’ll be, rebuilding Britain. Bus number 32. Stop 12.’ She gestures to a bank of busses all bustling to park. ‘Soldier were you? Although you are awfully young for that?’

Mik nods. He was a soldier. He was sure of it. Once, a distant feeling of pride swells in his chest.