Hunter Scott

Hunter’s mother was fed up of calling him down to dinner. Having tried several times, she decided to go up to his bedroom. She found him sitting at his desk, leaning on his elbows, immersed in his reading.

‘Hunter,’ she said with a tenderness only mothers have, ‘dinner’s on the table.’

The boy lifted his head and glanced at her. He had tears in his eyes. He looked away and tried to hide them by wiping them with the back of his hand.

‘What is it, son?’

‘The Indianapolis,’ he answered in a desperate attempt not to start sobbing uncontrollably.

His mother understood it all without the need for further explanations. She went over to try to give him a reply that would help soothe all that sadness.

‘Terrible things like this happen in war, Hunter.’

The boy shook his head.

‘There aren’t any sharks in war.’

‘Oh yes, there are. Those in charge of armies are always sharks.’

She hugged him and gave him a peck on the forehead. Then she took a chair and sat down beside him.

‘Hunter, where have you got to in the story?’

The boy explained that the rescue ships had just reached the survivors. His mother took the book and glanced at it. She turned a couple of pages and went to the end of the story. Then she took Hunter’s hand and spoke with a tone of gravity in her voice.

‘I’m going to ask you a favour. I don’t want you to carry on reading. If you promise you’ll wait until tomorrow, I’ll take you to see someone who knows this story very well.’

Hunter’s eyes opened wide.

‘Who? Where are you going to take me?’ he asked excitedly.

His mother performed an exercise in introspection for several moments. She searched inside herself and discovered vague childhood memories she had been unable to place for years. Hunter gazed at his mother, waiting for an answer. Finally, she took a breath and said:

‘To the house of Grandma Mary Jane.’