A Note From The Author: This story was inspired by several stories that I have previously run across in different genres. It has weighed on my mind for several weeks just fighting to get out, so here it is. I hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is always welcomed so feel free to leave a review.
As always, I do not own Wendy, Peter, or any of the other characters from the movie who are mentioned. All other characters are mine.
My Boys
"Mother." A small voice repeated insistently by her side. "Mother! Stinks called me a muffin head on accounta my hair. Make him stop. Please?" the boy pleaded, staring intently into my eyes with the sincerity that only a five year old boy could pull off.
"Alright Sam…sorry, Snail. I'll talk to him. You run along and play with some of the others and leave Stinks to me." I said, running a hand over the offending mop of curly brown hair.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he exclaimed exuberantly before awkwardly running off to join in a game of 'lost boys and Indians'. It was a game I had taught my first charges. Ah, it brought back such memories. I remember the first time I had played. Of course, it was no game to me, but afterwards, I never forgot the excitement that went through me at the prospect of capturing or being captured again. It stirs my heart, watching them strategize and work as a team as they prepare for the big attack, and then I laugh openly as they chase each other in circles around the meadow, half of them wearing chicken feathers stolen from the kitchen to represent the elaborate Indian headdresses.
Looking out over my ever-increasing 'band' of boys, my heart swells with such love that I can hardly contain it. These are my boys. Each and every one of them looks to me for protection and comfort. I guess it must be the sense of purpose I got when I first set eyes on the Lost Boys and was asked to take on the role of mothering them, but from then on, that was what I was. Mother.
Upon my return from Neverland with the lost boys and my brothers, I knew that I could not merely settle down and marry, as was expected of me. How could I settle for a life of domestic boredom when I knew of adventure and of a life outside of the four walls of a home? So, after several long talks with my parents, and some creative finagling, I was allowed to study to become a school teacher. This was the only way that I could be allowed to have enough interaction with children without becoming a governess, which, considering my father's affluent state, was out of the question.
After a few years teaching at a school for boys in London, I was offered a position teaching at a home for boys out in the country. It was exactly what I had been looking for. It was my place. I started out a mere teacher/overseer in a crowded, dingy cottage that was home to some of the sorriest lot of boys that I had ever seen. I did what I could for them there, but the man who ran the home or "the Pen" as the boys called it, was always trying to please his financial backer, who was a penny-pinching, bible-thumping pastor who believed that to 'spare the rod was to spoil the child.' It was a dismal place that did remind me of a prison. It was heartbreaking to see the meager rations and shabby living conditions that they were given. They were not even allowed to play, lest they ruin their clothing which had been so 'generously donated by their great and benevolent benefactor'. All in all, it was a place where there was little laughter and joy.
Finally, after I witnessed this atrocity for nearly a year, Mr. Smeegle was removed from his post when an inspection revealed that he had been pocketing most of the money that he was supposed to be using for things like food and clothing. But there was one problem...who would take his place? The future suddenly seemed bleak for my boys. Who would willingly take the job of caring for a bunch of poor, rowdy boys, especially when the pay was awful and you rarely got a vacation? Therein lay the problem, and the answer.
I was temporarily placed in charge, for some reason that I still cannot fathom, until a permanent caretaker could be found. And as it so happens, none could be persuaded to take the job. At first I was terrified that I would be forced to leave once the new manager arrived, but after the first few weeks, I settled into my job and did my best to turn the 'Pen' into a more habitable place. With all of the money that was being sent by the pastor and his community, it was no wonder that Mr. Smeegle was tempted to keep some, but I was resolute that every cent would go towards the children. Soon, it was clear that I would remain in charge, and I was elated. Finally, I had gotten my wish.
My boys were now being brought up in an environment a little more conducive to the attitudes and needs of little boys. It was not but a few months after I took the reins, that we were once again inspected, and in that time we had received no new charges, which was a blessing to me.
"Well Miss Darling, I must say that I have never known this place to look so. . .homey. I must commend you on that. I've always said that this place needed a woman's touch. And the gents have never done so well in their studies. I must ask, how did you win over Pastor Heekum?" He inquired earnestly from his position at the window where he had been watching the boys play.
"Thank you, sir. It was not as difficult as you were led to believe, though. I just had to remind him of what it was like to be a child…and to promise to attend church every Sunday with the children." I said with a grin. Letting the curtain drop, he returned to his chair on the other side of my desk.
"Congratulations Miss Darling, I see we have not made a mistake by choosing you as the permanent Mistress of this establishment." And with that, he turned and left my office, gently closing the door behind him. Of course I probably would not have noticed had he slammed the door, I was in such a state of shock and happiness. When I again regained control of my faculties, I gathered up my skirts and ran out to tell the boys the good news.
Soon after, I was barraged with an influx of poor orphans that were being sent to me from the city for their chance at a fresh start. And I welcomed them all in with open arms. It took a while for some of them to warm up to me and the wide open spaces of the country, but they all acclimated soon enough.
Soon, I decided that we were going to have to move. The population of our home consisted of over twenty boys between the ages of four and sixteen, one cook, two teachers, a general worker and myself, and we were still getting a new boy every few months. We needed more room. After approaching Pastor Heekum and the board that oversaw this establishment and dozens like it, I was grudgingly allowed to search for a bigger home. I believe the only reason this was allowed was because this would provide them with a guilt-free reason to send more souls my way. Getting the additional funding was not as hard as I thought it would be either. There were plenty of wealthy, generous people in London who would take one look at us and scramble for their wallets. Especially when several of them were acquaintances of my father. Isn't family wonderful?
A house was eventually found. Located about ten miles from where we were currently living, it was a marvelous, three story stone building with a magnificent stretch of yard that was surrounded by trees and a small orchard, which would provide us all with adequate amounts of apples and pears. It was love at first sight. When I took the boys to see it, they all whined and drug their feet when it came time to leave. I think that they had already chosen rooms, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they had marked it in some way that I don't even want to think about. Moving day was stressful, but exciting all at the same time. The next few weeks were spent exploring the house and grounds. I even cancelled lessons that first week. I knew that there would be no attention focused on schoolwork anyway, so why put everyone through that torture?
We all settled in nicely, and soon it was back to the routine, with the addition of a few new members of staff to deal with the sudden rush of newcomers. At our peak, we had over thirty inhabitants. Chores were re-divided amongst the boys to include the new demands of the household. This also included weekly rotations in the kitchen and doing laundry. I was adamant that everyone, not just women, should learn to cook and clean for themselves. My time with the Lost Boys had taught me the importance of these skills.
We also had a nightly routine, one which was strictly enforced upon me by the children. After everyone had washed and had a final round of play for the night, we would all gather in the largest room of the house, and I would tell a bedtime story or read a few chapters of a novel that I insisted we read to 'broaden their minds'. They always groaned at this, but by the end of these stories they were just as enthralled as they were when I told them of Rumplestiltskin and Peter Rabbit. The tales of Gulliver, Aladdin and Robinson Crusoe were among the most requested.
But the favorite story, the one that had began it all and the one that was repeated on the first night of every inhabitant, was that of Peter Pan. They even call themselves the Lost Boys. If only they knew. The real Lost Boys would visit occasionally, as well as Michael and John. They could always be found in the trees, playing 'Lost boys and Indians'. Some things never change.
Standing there, watching 'Snail' playing with the other boys, I couldn't help but to glance up at the sky, longing for a glimpse of him; the one who started this, the only boy I couldn't help. I know it's silly, he hasn't returned yet, why would he come now, after all these years, but I knew that tonight, just like every night, I would leave my window unlocked.