Not Thomas

by Sara Gethin

  The car is going slowly. We are in a long line of cars. It’s stopping at the traffic lights. Miss is turning round to look at me. She’s smiling but her eyes look sad. ‘Which book did you take home for the holidays, Tomos? Is it another one by Roald Dahl?’

  ‘Rowwlll Daaal.’ I am trying to make the name sound right. ‘Yes. It’s Danny, the Champion of the World.’ The orange light has come on. It’s under the red one on the traffic lights. Miss is starting to move the car.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she says.

  ‘I like the pictures but the words are too hard.’ We’re going fast again. I’m watching the hedges going by and the houses. Sometimes I can see people in the houses. Some of them are watching telly.

  ‘Well, those library books are meant for older children,’ Miss says. ‘But you read your reading book to me the other week in school, and you knew all the words in that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Mmm, I like the words in my reading book,’ I say. ‘And the pictures of Floppy and Kipper. But I like the pictures in my library book better.’ I’m remembering the people in my book laughing at me. I’m remembering them laughing when Mammy didn’t come back. ‘I like some of the pictures,’ I say. ‘And there’s one of the BFG in it. I like that picture a lot.’ I’m driving my truck now. I’m driving it on the seat of Miss’s car. Nanno’s letter is in the tippy bit. And my fifty pence is in the pocket in my trousers. ‘I like the BFG. He’s a big, friendly giant. Did you really kill a baby?’

  Miss has stopped the car all of a sudden. I’m looking for a dog in the road. Or a cat. I can’t see any dogs or cats. Miss is moving the car to the side of the road. I can see her eyes in the mirror. They are very shiny now. ‘I’ve got a story to tell you, Tomos,’ she says. Her voice is wobbly. ‘Some of the people in the story you already know.’

  And then she is turning the key and the car engine stops.

  * * *

  ‘Come and sit in the front,’ Miss says. She’s clicking my seat belt. I’m climbing through the gap in the seats. I’m sitting next to Miss in the front of the car.I’ve put my truck on my lap. I’ve put Nanno’s letter in my pocket with my fifty pence.

  ‘When I was little my mother was ill,’ Miss says. ‘She couldn’t look after me so I looked after her, before school, after school, weekends and school holidays. It was very hard. It made me sad.’

  It’s nice in the front of the car. It’s nice sitting next to Miss.

  ‘Sometimes people came to our house,’ she says. ‘But I never let them in.’

  ‘Did you hide?’ I say. ‘Behind the big chair?’

  Miss is smiling at me a bit. Her eyes look sad. ‘Yes, Tomos. I used to hide ’til they went away.’ She’s looking out of the car window now. It’s dark outside. ‘Then one day, when I was a few years older than you, I was carrying some shopping bags and a lady stopped to help me. I knew the lady a little bit because she lived down the road from my house.’ Miss is looking at me. She’s smiling. ‘She was Nanno,’ Miss says. ‘Your nanno.’

  ‘Nanno?’

  ‘Yes. And she came all the way home with me. And because she was so friendly and kind I let her come in to our house.’ Miss is looking out at the dark again.

  ‘Were you allowed?’ I say. ‘Were you allowed to let Nanno in?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t allowed to let anyone in.’

  I’m nodding my head. It’s nice sitting next to Miss. ‘But she was your friend.’

  ‘Yes. And when she saw the way we lived she made up her mind to help us.’ Miss is smiling at me. ‘And that’s what she did.’

  ‘Did she take you to Nanno and Dat’s house?’

  ‘Not straight away. She called a doctor for my mother and she straightened up the kitchen. It was such a relief to hand it all over to someone else.’ Miss is letting out a big breath.

  ‘Were they very heavy?’ I say.

  ‘What’s that, Tomos?’

  ‘The shopping bags,’ I say. ‘That you handed over.’

  Miss is smiling. ‘They were,’ she says. She’s rubbing her cheeks. ‘And while we waited for the doctor to come, Nanno made me an omelette.’

  ‘Was it cheese?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss is laughing. ‘With tomato ketchup and bread and butter.’ I am thinking about Nanno’s cheese omelettes. They’re lovely. ‘And then when my mother had to go into hospital, Nanno and Dat looked after me. And I lived in their house for a while.’

  ‘Were you one of their special children?’ I am thinking hard. I’m trying to remember all the photos on Nanno and Dat’s piano. There are photos of children with yellow hair and blue eyes like Mammy. And there’s a photo of a boy with brown eyes and brown hair like me. I am trying to remember a photo of Miss.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I was one of their special children – like you and like your mum. I was quite a big girl when she came to live with us. Your mum was eight and I was eleven.’

  I’m looking at Miss. I’m remembering now. I’m remembering the photo of a girl with long brown hair and friendly eyes. ‘You’re Our Lowri!’ I say. ‘But your hair’s not long anymore. There’s a photo of you on the piano. You’ve got a blue dress on, and there are flowers in your hair.’

  ‘That’s me.’ She’s laughing. ‘I loved that flowery hair band. Nanno bought it for me. It was the first pretty thing I ever had.’ She’s wiping her eyes now.

  I am driving my truck a bit. I’m driving it on my lap. I say, ‘Did your mammy get better?’

  Miss is putting her tissue up her sleeve. ‘A bit better. Sometimes she’s quite well.’

  ‘Is she still in the hospital?’

  ‘Oh no. She came back from hospital when I was fifteen. And I went home to live with her. But sometimes she had to go back into hospital when she was ill, and then I’d go and stay at Nanno and Dat’s house again.’ Miss is looking sad. ‘She didn’t like me seeing Nanno and Dat when I was older. She was sorry, you see, sorry she couldn’t look after me when I was little. And instead of thanking them for taking care of me, she was cross with them. I think she was cross with herself, really, but she took it out on them.’ Miss is looking out of the window again. ‘I used to phone them lots and lots, but I didn’t go round there very often… Not after… not after…’ She’s getting the tissue out from her sleeve again. She’s tapping her eyes with it. She’s taking a big breath. ‘Not after I turned eighteen.’ She’s rubbing my head. She’s making my hair messy and she’s smiling again. ‘And you were just a baby then. That’s why you didn’t recognise me when I started teaching you at school.’ She’s squeezing my arm now. ‘But I knew you were Rhiannon’s little boy. Nanno used to talk about you all the time before she got ill. And Dat still talks about you lots and lots.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to see Dat.’ My eyes are all prickly.

  ‘I know. That must make you feel sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I can feel the sad. It’s a big lump in my tummy. ‘Were you sad when you couldn’t see Nanno and Dat anymore?’

  ‘Yes. I was very sad.’

  ‘Is that why you killed a baby?’

  ‘Oh,’ Miss says. ‘I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.’

  * * *

  Miss has found a bar of chocolate in her bag. It’s a bit squishy. She’s broken off a corner for herself. She says I can have the rest. It’s making my fingers chocolatey but it’s yummy. Her phone has been ringing a lot. Miss says it’s not Mammy. It’s only Colin. She has turned the ringing off. It’s warm in Miss’s car. It feels nice sitting with her.

  ‘This is cosy,’ I say. I can feel the chocolate melting in my mouth.

  Miss is laughing. ‘That reminds me of Nanno. She always liked saying “this is cosy”.’

  ‘Yes. It reminds me of Nanno too.’ I’m looking out of the window. The houses outside look nice. There are orange lights in the windows.

  Miss is looking out now. There are little orange squares in her eyes. ‘Long ago, I had to make a choice. It was a hard choice, Tomos.’ Her mouth looks very sad
. ‘I could choose to have a baby, or I could choose to go to college and learn how to be a teacher.’ I am watching the orange squares. They’re dancing in Miss’s eyes. ‘I wanted to be a teacher,’ Miss says, ‘more than anything else in the world.’

  ‘So you didn’t have a baby.’ I’m putting some more chocolate in my mouth.

  ‘That’s right.’ Miss’s eyes are very very twinkly. ‘It wasn’t the right time.’ She’s taking a big breath. It sounds all bumpy. ‘I wanted to make sure I could look after a baby before I had one. – I wanted a job and a safe, happy home first. So when Colin said I’d lost a baby,’ she’s looking at me, ‘and I said I’d killed a baby…that was what we meant.’

  I am thinking. ‘Colin said you lost a child,’ I say. ‘Not a baby. And you did. You lost me at the zoo.’

  Miss is smiling a bit. She’s rubbing her hands on her cheeks. ‘Yes, I did. You gave me quite a fright.’ She’s laughing. ‘I was so glad when we found you again.’

  ‘You cried,’ I say. ‘You cried when the lamb man found me.’ I’m eating the last square of chocolate.

  ‘You’re right. I did.’

  ‘I liked the lamb man,’ I say, ‘at the zoo. He was nice.’

  ‘He was,’ Miss says. She’s looking at her phone again.

  ‘Did Mammy ring?’

  Miss is shaking her head. ‘Come on. We’d better get a move on. Climb back through.’ I’m climbing through the gap. I’m in the back of the car. Miss is helping me put my seat belt on again. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘off we go.’

  I am watching the lights in the houses. They’re getting a long way away. ‘It wasn’t the zoo,’ I say. I am trying to still see the lights. They’re tiny squares now. I’m licking the last bits of chocolate off my fingers.

  ‘What wasn’t the zoo, Tomos?’ Miss is looking at me in the mirror. Her eyes look happy again.

  ‘Where you lost me,’ I say. ‘There weren’t any monkeys and there weren’t any crocodiles.’ The lights are far away now. I’m watching them get smaller and smaller. And smaller and smaller.

  ‘It wasn’t the zoo,’ I say. My voice is small now too. ‘It was the petting farm.’

  * * *

  Miss has parked the car. She’s parked it near Nanno and Dat’s house. She’s parked it a bit down the road. And I’m feeling happy. It’s nice to be near Nanno and Dat’s house again. And I’m feeling sad too.

  I can see Mrs Newman’s house. It has a blue front door and a light over it. Sometimes the light flashes on off on off on off on off. And I can see that light from my bedroom window. My bedroom window in Nanno and Dat’s house. And I like that light and I like my bedroom in Nanno and Dat’s house and I wish I could see it again. But Miss says I must stay in the car.

  It’s quite dark. I am waiting in the back of the car. It’s near the hedge. There’s a little gap in the leaves. I can see Miss through the gap. She’s ringing Dat’s doorbell.

  Dat is opening the door. He looks a bit surprised but now he’s smiling at Miss and he’s giving her a hug and now he’s letting her go and he’s looking up the road and I am waving to him through the gap in the hedge. I am waving and waving and waving and waving. But he can’t see me.

  The window in Miss’s car is open a bit. She opened it with a special button. I’m pressing the button. I want to open the window some more. I want to wave to Dat. I’m pressing and pressing the button. But the window won’t open any more.

  I’m putting my fingers out of the little gap. I’m trying to wave to Dat. But he can’t see me. I’m trying to put my truck out now. I want Dat to see my truck. But the gap is too small. He can’t see me and he can’t see my truck.

  He’s shaking his head at Miss and I’m putting my ear near the gap in the window and I can hear Dat’s voice. It’s a friendly voice and I’m thinking about him saying my favourite words. Combination points and pancakes and locomotive and immaterial my dear Watson and Battenberg cake.

  ‘I don’t have emergency numbers anymore, Lowri,’ Dat is saying. ‘Not since we stopped the fostering.’

  ‘Any social services number will do,’ Miss says.

  Dat is shaking his head. ‘I’ve been clearing everything out ready for the move.’ He’s rubbing his cheeks now. ‘Hold on. I might have one number I can give you.’ Dat’s going into the house and Miss is waiting on the step. I can see Dat walking round in the front room and I can see the yellow light from the lamp near the telly and I can see a tiny bit of his cosy armchair. It’s Dat’s favourite chair.

  Dat’s coming back to the front door and I am waving my fingers at him through the gap in the window and my fingers are waving very very very fast. But he can’t see me. He can’t see me through the gap in the hedge.

  ‘Try this.’ He’s giving Miss a bit of paper. Miss is taking out her phone. She’s tapping it.

  There’s someone standing near Miss’s car. I’m pulling my fingers in fast. It’s a lady. She’s wearing a long pink coat. It’s nearly down to the pavement. It’s got fluffy bits on it. She’s pulling it tight round her. She’s coming very near the car. And I can see her face now. I can see it in the yellow light. It’s Poor Sandra. She lives down the road. I’m moving away from the window. I’m making myself tiny. Tiny tiny tiny on the floor. I am tiny inside the car. It’s very dark down on the floor. I don’t want Poor Sandra to see me.

  She’s putting her hand on the window of the car. Her hand is shaking and shaking. She’s bending down. She’s looking through the gap in the hedge. Her face is near the window now. A smell is coming in. It’s a smell like Mammy and Brick’s tins. I don’t like the smell. I’m holding my breath. And I am making myself tiny tiny tiny. Poor Sandra is watching Dat and Miss. She’s watching them through the gap in the hedge.

  ‘No reply,’ I can hear Miss’s voice saying.

  ‘I don’t know what else to suggest,’ Dat says. I am peeping a bit. I’m peeping through the window. I want to look at Dat again. I can hear his voice but I can’t see him. Poor Sandra’s head is in the way.

  ‘Thief!’ Poor Sandra shouts. ‘Thief!’ I’ve heard Poor Sandra shout that before. I’ve heard her shout it every morning when me and Dat walk past her house. On the way to school. The school I went to when I lived in Nanno and Dat’s house. She’s shouting it again and again. She’s very loud. I am pretending not to hear her. I’m pretending the way me and Dat always do when we are walking to school.

  I can hear someone running. Miss is by the car. She’s putting her arm round Poor Sandra. ‘Come on, Mam,’ Miss says. ‘It’s too cold to be outside in your dressing gown.’

  I am getting up off the floor. I’m standing up in the car. I’m looking at Miss. She’s walking down the road with Poor Sandra. Miss is walking with her arm round her. Poor Sandra is very wobbly and she’s still shouting. Miss is taking Poor Sandra back to her house down the road.

  I’m looking through the gap in the hedge again. I’m trying to see Dat but he has closed the front door. There’s a funny feeling in my tummy. I think it’s the sad. And I’m waiting for Miss. I’m waiting for her to come back to the car. I can see her now. I can see her running back. She’s getting in. ‘You okay, Tomos?’ Her voice is all jumpy.

  I am nodding. I say, ‘Can we knock on Dat’s door again, please? Can I see him?’

  ‘Not tonight. I’m sorry, Tomos. I know this is hard for you, but you can’t see him tonight. Can you put your seat belt back on?’

  I am putting my seat belt back on. ‘That was Poor Sandra,’ I say. ‘She puts little black bags through Nanno and Dat’s letterbox. They have dog poo in them. I picked one up one day. By mistake.’ I’m remembering the squishy bag in my hand. ‘It was very smelly.’

  ‘She’s a sad lady,’ Miss says. ‘And she’s not very well.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Poor Sandra.’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘Poor Sandra.’ She’s putting her seat belt on. ‘What a night.’

  ‘What a night.’

  ‘So much for Pla
n B,’ Miss says. ‘There’s just Plan C left now.’

  Then she turns the key and she drives me away from Nanno and Dat’s house.

  * * *

  We are going to Plan C in the car. I am watching the yellow lights. I have put my head right back. I’m looking out of the back window in an upside down way. The yellow lights are flying through the sky. They are flying like the stars me and Dat saw. The ones we saw from the garden one night. Dat said they were shooting stars. They were tiny. Tiny tiny tiny. Dat said they were a long way away. A long long way away.

  My fingers can feel the bits of label in my pocket. I’m getting the bits out. And I’m thinking about the song Nanno taught me. The song about stars. I’m starting to sing it. And I’m holding up the bits of my label. The yellow lights are shining on the sparkly bits. And the sparkly bits are twinkly like stars.

  Miss is singing now too. We’re singing ‘Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it get away’. Then I sing ‘For love may come and tap you on the shoulder some starless night…’ Miss has stopped singing. She’s looking for something. She has one hand on the steering wheel and one hand in her bag. She’s found a tissue and she’s wiping her eyes.

  ‘Are you crying again, Miss?’

  Her eyes are looking at me. I can see them in the mirror. They look very sad. ‘Nanno used to sing that song to me when I was a girl.’ She’s wiping her eyes again. ‘When I couldn’t sleep. I’m just being silly.’

  ‘I always make you cry,’ I say. I’m putting my bits of label back in my pocket.

  Miss is shaking her head. ‘No, you don’t. It’s not you making me cry.’ She’s smiling at me in the mirror. ‘I’ve got a little surprise to tell you, Tomos.’

  Then Miss says she is going to have a baby. She’s going to have one now she has learnt to be a teacher. And now that she has a job and a home and a husband. She says going to have a baby makes you cry a lot. ‘You can cry when you’re happy as well as sad,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ I say. And I tell her about when I found Nanno’s letter in the train magazine. And about Nanno’s P.S. that said I love you. I love you. I love you. And about how my eyes were crying but my mouth was smiling.