Scott takes hold of my shoulders and looks into my face as though he’s searching for something. ‘Tessa, what the hell? I hope you haven’t gone and done something stupid.’
I shrug his hands off and take a step back. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I hiss. ‘I’m telling you what happened. I came home and he was in our house, sitting at the kitchen counter, drawing. And then he asked me if I was his mummy!’
‘Christ, Tess. What have you done?’ He pushes past me and opens the door to the kitchen, halted in his tracks by the sight of Harry sitting at the table, scooping out milk froth from the bottom of the mug with his forefinger.
I edge past Scott to go and stand with our little visitor, not wanting him to feel intimidated by the sight of an angry stranger. But Harry seems fine. He stares at Scott before switching his gaze to me.
‘Harry,’ I say with forced cheerfulness. ‘This is Scott, who I was telling you about.’
Harry gets to his feet and wipes his sticky fingers on his jeans. He comes around the table and holds his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you, Scott,’ he says, his little voice so pure and confident I want to hug him.
Scott’s anger towards me has deflated. He stands there with his mouth open before responding to Harry with a dazed handshake. ‘Hello,’ he croaks. ‘Me and Tessa are just going to have a little chat in the hall, okay? We’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Is your name Tessa?’ Harry asks me.
I nod.
‘But you’re my mummy, right?’
I give him a limp smile, unwilling to deny it.
‘Okay, Harry,’ Scott interrupts. ‘Just give us a couple of minutes.’
He grabs me by my upper arm and manoeuvres me out of the kitchen, his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He closes the door behind us and turns to me, hands opened out like claws.
‘Why does he think you’re his mum? Where’s he from, Tess? Where’d you get him?’
I shake my head. ‘I told you before. I got home and he was—’
‘Yeah, you said, he was just there, sitting at the counter. But that’s impossible. A child can’t magically appear in your kitchen. Where did you find him, really? Tell me and we can sort it out.’
I should have known Scott wouldn’t believe me. After all we’ve been through, he no longer trusts me. He doesn’t have my back any more. I’m on my own.
His voice softens. ‘I know this is hard. I know your heart is broken from what happened, but you can’t do stuff like this. You’ll get into serious trouble. You could go to prison.’
‘I didn’t find him, or take him, or whatever else you think I’ve done,’ I snap, clenching my fists by my sides. ‘Do you really think I’d take someone else’s child after what happened to us? Do you think I’d put another mother through that kind of pain? I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. But if you can’t believe me, then—’
‘It’s not a case of not believing you. Maybe you genuinely can’t remember what happened. Maybe… Oh, I don’t know.’ Scott’s broad shoulders droop and he runs a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking like a small, tired boy himself.
‘We need to call the police, right?’ I say.
‘Yes. You should have called them before you called me. You should have called them instead of calling me.’
‘I know.’ I dip my head and chew my lower lip, feeling ashamed. I’ve put my own inadequacies ahead of Harry, ahead of his parents, and that was wrong of me. What was I thinking? ‘Can you call them?’ I ask Scott. ‘Please. I don’t think I can do it.’
He nods and draws his mobile out of his coat pocket. ‘What shall I say?’
‘Tell them the truth,’ I reply. ‘That I came home and found him here.’
‘It sounds so dodgy, Tessa.’
‘Better than lying.’
‘Okay. Well, if you’re sure.’
I nod, unsure of anything, a wave of helplessness surging through me. This little boy delivered by an angel will soon be gone from my life, like everything else.
Chapter Three
It didn’t take them long to arrive. Less than ten minutes from Scott’s call to their official-sounding ring on the doorbell.
Two officers – a man and a woman whose names I can’t remember – are in the kitchen talking to Harry while Scott and I wait in the lounge, an awkward silence filling up the small space. I sit on the sofa in my usual spot, and Scott hovers by the window, staring out into the dark, rain-lashed evening. I listen, hoping to eavesdrop on what’s going on through the wall, but they must be speaking quietly as all I can hear is the occasional deep bass note of the male officer’s voice. I can’t make out any clear words.
What will they think of Harry’s story? Will he tell them the same thing he told me? When the police first arrived, I told them exactly what had happened when I got home earlier, and then they asked for mine and Scott’s whereabouts this afternoon. Scott had been playing in his usual five-a-side football match, and I was at the cemetery, alone. Aside from asking their questions, neither of the officers passed any comment. They simply wrote down what we said.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask Scott, who’s been awfully quiet since the police went into the kitchen with Harry.
‘Hmm?’ He turns towards me.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for this evening.’
‘Me neither.’
He grits his teeth and shakes his head. I know he feels like this is my fault. That I’ve dragged him into something he doesn’t want to be a part of. Maybe I shouldn’t have called him. I have no real claim on my husband. We’re separated, he doesn’t owe me anything. But he has always been the one I’ve turned to. We were always there for one another. It’s painful to realise that he now resents my need for him. That he would probably rather be anywhere else than here.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘For what?’
‘For coming when I called. For ringing the police for me.’
He gives a sad smile and runs a hand through his damp brown hair. His tall, broad frame usually gives him stature and presence, but this evening he just seems awkward and ill at ease. Too big for the room, like he doesn’t fit here any more.
‘What do you think will happen to him?’ I ask, hugging my knees to my chest.
‘I’m sure they’ll find his parents.’
‘I hope they’re nice people. Maybe he ran away from them.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Scott says dismissively. ‘The police will sort it out.’
I nod, but I’m not convinced.
Scott’s eyes widen at the sound of chairs scraping back, of voices getting louder, the kitchen door opening. I jump up from the sofa and follow him into the hallway, where the two officers now stand with Harry between them. He looks forlorn. A little lost, story-book boy.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ the female officer says.
My stomach swoops at her words. What does she mean by that exactly?
‘Okay,’ Scott replies.
‘Bye-bye, Harry,’ I say. ‘It was so lovely to meet you.’
But Harry doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even respond. I get the feeling he thinks I’ve let him down. I can’t think of anything reassuring to say to him. And in a moment he’ll be gone. It will be too late.
‘Will you let me know what happens?’ I ask the officers, suddenly terrified that I’ll never hear from or see this little boy again. That I’ll never know what becomes of him.
‘I’m afraid we can’t really give out that kind of information,’ the male officer replies.
‘But…’
Scott places a warning hand on my arm and I fall silent. I can’t take my eyes off Harry’s pale, downturned face, his dark curls.
‘Did you remember to take your drawing, Harry?’ I say. ‘You don’t want to leave that wonderful picture behind.’
He doesn’t respond. Where is that chatty little boy who was calling me ‘Mummy’ only a short
while ago?
‘We asked if he wanted to bring the picture with him,’ the female officer says, ‘but he said it was for you, Mrs Markham, didn’t you, Harry?’
I can’t be sure, but I think Harry gave her a small nod.
‘I’ll treasure it,’ I say too brightly. ‘I’ll put it on the fridge where I can see it every day.’
Again Harry doesn’t reply. But I hope he understands what I’m telling him.
The male officer hands me and Scott a card each. ‘We’ll be in contact, but in the meantime, you can give us a call if you need to,’ he says. ‘If you remember anything else that might be helpful.’
‘Will do,’ Scott replies. And then, ‘Take care, Harry. Look after yourself.’
The two officers make their way out through the front door onto the wet, slippery path. Harry shuffles next to the woman; her ebony hand wraps around his pale one. Harry’s hood is still down and his hair is getting soaked. Why doesn’t one of the officers put it up for him? I clench my teeth, then sigh with relief as the woman finally leans down and pulls the hood up, before shaking open an umbrella to shield him from the downpour as they make their way to their car.
I want to believe Harry is going back to a warm, loving family who will cover him in hugs and kisses when he gets home, safe and sound. But my heart is heavy as lead. Scott ushers me away from the door and shuts it behind them.
We stand there for a moment, listening to the drumming rain on the porch roof.
‘Well,’ Scott says, ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Have you eaten yet?’ I ask. ‘I can make us both something if—’
‘I’d better get back, Tess. I’ve got food at home for tonight, and it’s vile out there…’
‘Yes, sure, of course. You go.’ I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. My face is blotchy, dark circles ring my eyes, and my hair is a blonde crow’s nest topped off with a solid line of greying dark roots – not the edgy, rock-chick kind, but the tired, middle-aged kind that add about ten years. No wonder Scott is keen to escape. He doesn’t even want to stay and talk about what happened this evening. To speculate about where Harry is from and how he ended up in my kitchen. Once upon a time, we would have cracked open a bottle of wine and chatted long into the night about something as bizarre as this. Not any more.
‘Take care, Tess.’ He leans in to give me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. The smell of his aftershave blindsides me and I want to put my hands to his face, to keep his cheek next to mine. Keep the warm scent of him in my nostrils. But he’s already moving away, pulling open the front door. Escaping. He gives me a last smile and a nod, and pulls the door closed behind him. Gone.
I stare at the closed door and take a breath. I won’t allow myself to sink. To wallow. I’ll make some supper – something comforting and delicious. Even though I’m not at all hungry.
The kitchen is empty. Quiet and still. Harry’s drawing lies on the counter top. I pick it up and examine it: a pretty good likeness of a green steam engine, partly coloured in. To the side, a boy with dark hair and a woman in a flowery dress with a smiley face.
I put my fingers to my hair. Harry said it was a picture of me, but the woman he’s drawn has brown hair, and my hair is fair. I open the top drawer again to look at the pencils. There’s a brown pencil and a yellow one, so he could have made my hair the right colour…
Why am I even thinking this stuff? He’s obviously a traumatised little boy. Something has happened to him and he was just pretending that I was his mum to help him get through a tough time. Perhaps he’s even colour blind. I’ll probably never know.
I’m about to place the picture in the drawer along with the pencils, but something stops me. I told Harry I would put it on my fridge so that I can look at it every day. I can’t break my word.
There’s another picture already stuck to the fridge with two fruit magnets. It’s a drawing of me and Scott and Sam – happy stick figures all holding hands. I remove the bottom magnet and move the picture along to the right. Then I use the magnet to secure Harry’s picture to the fridge too. I step back to survey them both. I’ll have to buy a couple more magnets to stop the paper flapping around.
I open the fridge. Inside, a small block of cheese and a shrivelled carrot moulder on the middle shelf. Looks like I’ll be having beans on toast then. No. I remember there’s no bread left. Beans with grated cheese, that’ll have to do.
The doorbell rings and I freeze for a moment. Could Scott have changed his mind and decided not to leave me on my own tonight? We’ll have to order a takeaway. I run my fingers through my hair uselessly and rush to the front door, pulling it wide open, ready with a smile and a fast-beating heart. But it’s not Scott. It’s my neighbour, Carly, her chestnut hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She’s standing under a black-and-white checked umbrella, and she’s smiling her white-toothed smile.
‘Hi,’ I say, disappointment deflating my body. I should have realised it wouldn’t be Scott. And Carly is the last person I feel like talking to right now.
‘How are you doing, Tess?’ she asks, with that confident rasp in her voice.
I try to pull myself together as she raises her beautifully plucked eyebrows, presumably waiting for some kind of response. I wonder what she’s doing on my doorstep. Back when Scott and I were still together, Carly and I used to be quite good friends. She lives opposite, moved in around the same time as us. We’d have a natter whenever we saw each other, pop round for cuppas and the occasional barbecue, and even keep an eye on each other’s houses when we went away – water the plants, feed her cat, that type of thing.
But then she started getting a bit too pally with Scott. I’d arrive home from work to find her over at our place having a drink with him, or she’d drop things into the conversation that I didn’t know about him, like something funny he’d done but hadn’t got round to telling me yet. It rankled. She would show up on our doorstep, ask to borrow stuff, then never return it. Scott even gave her a small financial loan once. So I ended up cooling our friendship. Not that Carly is very good at taking hints. She’d still call round and wheedle her way in. Well, until Scott left, that is. After that, I didn’t see her quite so often. Funny, that.
‘What’s up, Carly?’ I finally reply.
‘I just stopped by to see if you’re okay,’ she says. ‘I saw the police outside, and a little boy coming out of your house…’
‘Oh, right. Thanks. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. He was lost, that’s all.’ Call me cynical, but Carly has not dropped round to see how I am, especially not on a foul night like this.
‘Lost?’ she repeats, her eyes taking on a feverish gleam. ‘That little boy? Did you find him somewhere?’
I should’ve known she’d be interested in Harry. Carly used to work for one of the tabloids, but with newspaper sales dwindling because of all the free online news sites, she was recently made redundant. Now she’s a freelance reporter and – like so many journalists who’ve found themselves having to scratch around for work – she’s desperate for a story. How can I politely tell her to piss off? It’s been a long, hard day, and all I want to do right now is make some food, read a book and forget about the world outside for a few brief hours.
‘I’m sorry, Carly,’ I say. ‘Is there something specific you wanted? It’s just I’m a little busy right now.’
‘Oh, right. I just thought if something’s happened with that little boy, it could make a good story.’
Bingo! I was right. ‘Nothing’s happened. There isn’t any story,’ I say. I want to slam the door in her annoying face, but I’m too polite. Besides, I don’t want the hassle and embarrassment of any bad feeling between us. It’s already awkward enough. ‘Thanks for coming over, though. It was thoughtful,’ I add, knowing full well there isn’t an ounce of concern in her self-centred, gym-toned little body.
She takes a step forward, places her foot just inside my door. Cheeky cow. ‘So who was he then?’ she whispers conspiratorially, as though we�
�re best mates. ‘I can do a really nice piece on it, interview you, give you a makeover, get your picture in the paper – or at least online.’
‘I don’t want a makeover, and I really don’t want my picture in the paper, and especially not all over the internet. Like I said, there’s no story. Honestly, Carly, I’m sorry but I’ve got things to do.’ I push the door so she’s forced to take a step back. ‘Thanks for stopping by,’ I call out so she can’t accuse me of being rude. Then I shove the door closed with a satisfying click and stand there fuming, the blood boiling in my veins. The absolute nerve of her.
I lean back against the door and realise my hands are shaking, but whether it’s from Carly’s unwanted interest, or the shock of finding a little boy in my house, I can’t tell. And didn’t the police say they would be in touch? Why would they need to speak to me again? I’ve told them everything that happened. Don’t they believe me? My mind feels cloudy, muddled. I try to piece together the events of this evening once more. I came home from the cemetery and found a little boy called Harry in my kitchen. Yes. That’s what happened. Isn’t it?
Chapter Four
I haul the stepladder out of the supply shed, happy to be back at work this morning. Yesterday’s events with Harry don’t feel real. It’s like they happened to someone else. But I’m still fuming over Carly’s visit. I shake my head at the memory of her as I lean the ladder against a wall with a clang before locking the shed again.
I work at Villa Moretti Garden Centre, just a mile up the road from where I live. My wonderful but pressured career as a landscape architect collapsed two and a half years ago along with the rest of my life, and I guess I’m lucky to have found this job, which just about covers my bills.
Moretti’s is a small but perfectly formed slice of Italy, tucked away in English suburbia. Winter isn’t its most spectacular season, but the work suits me. I can get lost among the plants, forget about my car crash of a life and concentrate on nurturing seedlings, pruning, cutting, clearing and shaping. It’s physical work that tires me out enough to get me to sleep each night. Enough to be able to function again the next day.
The Secret Mother Page 2