Crow Boy by Philip Caveney

‘And who am I to say that there isn’t something in it? But like I say, rats is rats; you’ll no’ keep them out of anywhere they want to go and that’s a fact.’
    The door swung open and Cameron entered, carrying a full chamber pot from which issued an unbelievable stench.
    â€˜Auld Mr Selkirk’s been eating cheese again,’ he announced and Morag and Alison groaned, as though this were a regular occurrence.
    â€˜What are you going to do with that?’ Tom asked in disbelief as Cameron hurried past.
    The boy gave him a scornful look. ‘What do you suppose I’m going to do with it?’ he smirked. ‘I’m going to take it outside and beat it to death with a stick.’
    â€˜You will wash your hands after you’ve finished, won’t you?’ Tom called after him.
    â€˜Why would I want to do that?’ muttered Cameron, as he passed through another door.
    Tom turned to look at Missie Grierson. ‘You must make him wash his hands,’ he told her. He gestured around at the other kids. ‘All of them. If they handle . . . poo, they’ve got to scrub their hands with soap and hot water.’
    â€˜Another of your strange Sassenach customs?’ she asked him. ‘I wouldn’t worry. They’ll all be doing the laundry in a while and there’s plenty of soap and hot water to be had there.’
    â€˜Yes, but they’re working with food now !’
    Missie Grierson waved away his worries and gave him an inquiring look.
    â€˜Don’t make me regret giving you a chance,’ she advised him. ‘Now, I’ve been thinking about how we might make best use of you around here. How are you with pigs?’
    Tom actually took a step back in surprise. ‘Pigs?’ he echoed. ‘You mean like . . . real pigs?’
    â€˜No, I mean straw ones,’ said Missie Grierson and, when he seemed to relax a little, she added, ‘Of course, real pigs, do you know of any other kind? What experience have you with ‘em?’
    â€˜Well, I’m fond of a bacon sandwich,’ said Tom. ‘If that helps?’
    Missie Grierson shook her head. ‘I mean, have you looked after them?’ she cried.
    â€˜I don’t think I’ve ever seen one until today,’ he admitted. ‘And that one was dead. Before that, I’ve only seen them in photographs.’
    â€˜In where?’
    â€˜I mean, like . . . in pictures?’
    This caused even more merriment among the orphans.
    â€˜He’s never seen a pig!’ echoed Alison gleefully, ‘Except in pictures!’
    â€˜Well, I’m from the city,’ argued Tom. ‘You don’t get pigs in the city, do you? You only ever see them out in the . . .’ His voice trailed away. ‘Oh right, this is a city . . . and . . . somebody was chopping up a pig on the way here, so . . . I suppose you do have them, right?’
    â€˜Of course!’ cried Morag. ‘The best porkers on the Close!’
    â€˜Ask anybody,’ said Alison proudly. ‘You haven’t tasted pork until you’ve tried some of ours. The secret’s in what we feed them.’
    Missie Grierson waved to silence her. ‘Too much jibber-jabber,’ she said. ‘Morag, show Tom where he’ll be working. And mind you don’t stay out there all day. We need to make a start on the laundry.’
    The girl nodded, wiped her hands on her apron and then, stepping away from the sink, she stooped and picked up a big iron bucket filled with potato peelings and other scraps of thrown-away food. She swung her head to indicate that Tom should follow her and led him across the kitchen to a door, which she barged open with one shoulder to reveal a small, sun-blasted yard at the back of the house. She stepped outside and Tom followed – then almost reeled backwards as the smell hit him full in the face.
    â€˜There,’ said Morag, grinning. ‘Here are our