Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  ‘You and me both,’ I say, as I cross the road and head back to pick Tom up from school.

  11

  The wind is icy cold against my body as I wait for the school gates to open. In the morning, I’m the person who unlocks these gates and beckons all the children into the playground, but in the afternoon, I’m just another freezing parent, hoping that the receptionist hasn’t forgotten about us all.

  At 3.27pm, Amy, the afternoon receptionist, trudges across the playground, and unlocks the gigantic padlock.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ squawks one of the mothers next to me. ‘If she was any slower, she’d be going backwards.’

  The doors open one by one, and the children file out. There are unbuttoned coats, PE bags being dragged across the tarmac, knitted bobble hats bouncing with each step, and art projects clutched to chests, or waved in the air.

  ‘Hi, Charlotte!’ Harry from Year One runs up to me, waving a red toy lorry above his head. ‘Look what I won today! It’s a truck!’

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ I say, and Harry looks so proud of himself.

  It’s hard to describe how you feel when you work with children. They become a part of your life and you feel happy and protective of them all. I always wonder if I’ll ever learn their names when they arrive aged four, and then I cry when they wave us goodbye aged eleven. There’s not one of these children I don’t care about, but there’s one child I hold dearer than any other in the world.

  My own.

  I strain to see the Year Five door, and as I do, Charlie comes bounding out, holding his coat around his shoulders like Superman, or Batman or some other kind of superhero. I expect to see Tom following behind, but instead, there’s an empty space. He must have popped to the loo, I guess.

  Charlie sees me staring, stops swinging his coat and looks at the floor. He doesn’t want to make eye contact. As he reaches me, he tries to rush past, but I’m too quick for him.

  ‘Charlie! Hey! Didn’t you see me?’

  He looks up. Sheepish.

  ‘Oh, hello Tom’s mum,’ he says, and then carries on past.

  ‘No Tom with you today?’ I shout.

  ‘He went out of the other door. The Year One door at the back.’

  I stare at the building. The Year One door? What’s he talking about? I turn to ask, but Charlie has already gone, whizzing down the road with his ‘cape’ still draped over his shoulders.

  I look at my watch. It’s 3.40pm. The sun will start to fade soon, and the autumnal weather will be even chillier than it is already. I sigh and make my way around to the Year One door. Why Tom has gone out that way is anyone’s guess, but if I stick to the main path, at least we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.

  Only we don’t meet.

  Three minutes later, I’m at the Year One unit, frustrated and angry that Tom has given me the slip. He must still be cross at me for lopping him out of the newsletter, though how an almost ten-year-old boy can hold a grudge for so long, is beyond me. Maybe he gets that from his father’s side.

  ‘Hey, Charlotte, I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon. What can we do for you?’

  Jennifer, the teaching assistant for the Bluebirds class, helps a little girl on with her coat. Jennifer’s shiny blonde hair swings from side to side as she does so.

  ‘I’m looking for Tom. His friend told me that he came out of the Year One entrance tonight – for some strange reason. Is he here?’

  Jennifer scowls, and looks back towards the unit.

  ‘Tiffany, have you seen Tom Baker? His mum is waiting for him.’

  I can hear a voice coming through the building, but it’s too faint for me to make out what she is saying. Jennifer turns back to me.

  ‘He was here, but Tiffany saw him leave about five minutes ago. She asked why he was leaving out of our door instead of his own, but he rushed out so quickly, that she didn’t get an answer. Sorry!’

  I smile and try to keep the anger off my face. That’s the thing with being a single parent – or at least that’s the thing with me being a single parent. I always assume that people are judging me for not having a man in my life, so feel that I have to be a perfect, patient and never-cross mother to make up for it.

  But when I see my rebellious offspring, I’ll go bloody mental.

  An hour later, the sun is going down, and I’m standing in the hallway of Charlie’s house, shuffling from one foot to the other. The smell of pasta sauce wafts in from the kitchen, but it makes me feel nothing but nauseous.

  ‘I won’t be angry with you, I promise, but I need you to tell me why Tom went out of the Year One door, instead of his own.’

  Charlie stares at the floor, while his mum rubs his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ she says. ‘You need to tell Charlotte everything you know. It’s getting dark outside, and Tom needs to get home.’

  Tom’s friend looks up and purses his lips.

  ‘He said he didn’t want to see you. That he was still mad at you for cutting him out of the newsletter. Sebastian Green said that you mustn’t love him if you did that, and Joshua Brown doesn’t even believe that Tom was going to be in the newsletter in the first place. He called Tom a liar.’

  I rub my forehead and groan. The bloody newsletter again. I have no idea why Tom is still so upset about it, but I guess when you’re nearly ten, a photo in the school paper is maybe more important to you than grown-ups think. Still, that doesn’t excuse him from running out on me. What the hell was he thinking? And where is he now? Where is my son?!

  ‘Was there anything else, Charlie? Did he say where he was going? Anything you can remember at all might help me find Tom. Like your mum says, it’s getting dark and he needs to come home.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s all he said. Can I go now?’

  Charlie gazes up at his mum, and she nods her head. He rushes into the living room and the door slams shut behind him. Seconds later I can hear him chatting with his sister as though nothing has happened. I guess in his little world, nothing has.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Charlie’s mum hugs a tea towel to her chest, and shakes her head.

  ‘It was worth a try,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I guess I should get back home, in case he turns up there.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be home before you are.’ She smiles and reaches over my shoulder to undo the door. I’m disturbing her dinner preparations, but she’s too polite to say it out loud.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and then seconds later I’m out of the house and back into the cold autumn evening.

  Where is Tom? Where is my son?

  Back home, Zach perches on the arm of the chair, staring at his phone. My parents slump on the sofa, both wringing their hands and grimacing.

  ‘That’s all of the neighbours messaged,’ Zach says. ‘The ones we speak to, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I gaze out of the window, but it’s so dark outside that all I can see is a reflection of my living room and its occupants.

  ‘I can’t believe he would just walk off on his own,’ my mother says. ‘It’s not like him at all.’

  My dad nods and breathes in and out through his nose. It makes a long, whistling sound, which is even more unnerving than the silence.

  ‘Are you sure Charlie said he had gone out that way?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘It wasn’t just Charlie who said it. One of the teachers saw Tom leave, and asked what he was doing.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He just ignored her and rushed out.’

  My mum springs up from the sofa.

  ‘Does anyone want some tea? Shall I close these blinds? We don’t want the whole street seeing our business.’

  I say no to both questions, and she sighs and sits back down.

  ‘We should phone the police,’ Zach says. ‘It’s been two hours since he disappeared, and I know it looks like he stomped off in a huff, but better to be safe than sorry.’

  Zach is right. I was hesitant to get the police involved earlier, b
ecause I was sure he’d slink back into the house as soon as he thought his point had been made. Now though, it’s dark and cold and creepy out there. My little boy might be in a strop with me, but he needs to come home. He needs to come home, now.

  ‘Yes, let’s call the police,’ I say, and Zach nods, while my mum grabs her phone from the coffee table.

  ‘Should we call the local police number, or 999?’ My mum stares at me over the top of her glasses.

  ‘I don’t think that matters, Anne!’ my dad growls, and my mum sits bolt upright.

  ‘I was trying to help, Bernard!’ she snaps.

  ‘I’ll call 999,’ Zach says, but before he does, there is a loud bang at the front door. We all jump up, and I dash into the hallway.

  It’s Tom! It has to be Tom! He’s home, thank God he’s home!

  I unlatch the door, and as it swings open, there he is. There’s my son, staring at the concrete path, aware that he’s just put me through two hours of hell.

  ‘Tom!’

  I rush forward, and grab my son, but as I do so, my eyes fall on a figure standing in the shadows behind him. She steps forward and I am floored.

  It’s Monica Travis.

  ‘I found this young man walking down beside the river,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want him to fall in, or catch pneumonia, so I thought I’d bring him home.’

  By this time my family and Zach are all crowded into the hall, welcoming Tom and eager to see the woman who ‘rescued’ him. I can’t say anything. I’m rooted to the spot, but my mother reaches past me and pulls Tom inside.

  ‘Tom, you silly boy!’ She scolds my son, at the same time as hugging him close. Zach pats him on the head and my dad rubs his arm, but Tom remains mute.

  ‘Thank you for bringing him home,’ my dad says, unaware of who he is talking to. ‘It’s a good job you were passing!’

  ‘Could you take Tom inside, please? Get him some clean clothes and a warm drink?’

  ‘Sure,’ my mum says. ‘Come on, Grandma’s little soldier. In we go.’

  Tom scowls as he’s dragged into the living room. He hates being spoken to like a baby, but he’d never tell his grandmother that. I watch everyone go, and then I step out into the garden, and close the door behind me. The concrete is freezing against my stockinged feet, and the wind cuts straight into my chest, but I need to speak to Monica. I need to know what she was doing with my child.

  ‘What’s going on? Why were you following Tom?’

  Monica takes a step back as though she’s taken a punch. Her bobbed hair swishes back with her; immaculate even on the coldest of evenings.

  ‘I wasn’t following your son,’ she snaps. ‘I was walking my dog and I saw him wandering along the riverbank. I ignored him at first, but then I saw him tumble in some wet, fallen leaves, and I stepped in.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Funny, he doesn’t seem to have any mud on his trousers. Surely he would have if he had stumbled.’

  Monica ignores my remark.

  ‘It’s lucky I came along when I did,’ she says, ‘otherwise he could have fallen into the river or been picked up by a predator or something. I was just trying to keep him safe. I did what any other woman would have done.’

  Is she guilting me right now? This is bullshit, and I won’t stand for it.

  Zach appears at the door, holding Tom’s damp school uniform. There are huge muddy patches at the knees. Muddy patches that I had not seen just moments ago.

  ‘Your mum wants to know if we should put Tom’s clothes straight into the washing machine? They’re covered in mud. Or do you want them to go into the wash basket?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Just put them wherever you like.’

  ‘Everything okay here?’ he asks. I ignore him and lean into Monica.

  ‘You stay away from my son. Don’t come near him ever again, you hear me? I want nothing to do with you!’

  She laughs.

  ‘That’s funny, because you wanted plenty to do with my husband this afternoon.’

  My heart sinks into my legs.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were seen at the Mistletoe Inn. My friend’s daughter is a barmaid there.’

  Monica’s voice shakes and I wonder if she’s about to cry. I don’t know what to say. It’s no use denying it, and I can’t believe that Simon would be so stupid as to meet me in a place he knows he’ll be spotted.

  Or maybe he doesn’t know about the barmaid.

  Or maybe he doesn’t care.

  I shuffle from one foot to the other, and Zach grabs my trainers from the hall and hands them to me. I stuff them onto my feet, even though my legs feel like floppy pieces of string.

  ‘I need to know something,’ she says. ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you tell him that he has a son? That you gave birth to his child?’

  My phone buzzes. It’s Charlie’s mum, asking if I’ve found Tom yet. I stick it into my pocket, and take a breath.

  ‘No, I didn’t tell him. Simon knowing about Tom is the last thing I want, and to be honest, I wish that you didn’t know about him either. But since you seem obsessed with us both, there’s not much chance of that, is there?’

  Monica’s mouth contorts, and her nostrils flare. I’ve hit a nerve, but what does she expect? Happy families? That’s never going to happen.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Zach sticks his hands out, as if breaking up a prize fight. ‘Maybe we should just say thank you to Mrs Travis for bringing Tom home. It’s late and we’re not going to solve all of our problems on the doorstep, are we?’

  His superiority annoys the hell out of me.

  ‘Shut up, Zach, this has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He disappears back into the house, and the living-room door slams behind him. Now Monica and I stand glaring at each other, like a scene out of a bad soap opera, and only the occasional car engine breaks the stifled atmosphere. Finally, she shoves her hands deep into her pockets, and sniffs.

  ‘I did you a favour this evening,’ she says. ‘In spite of everything, I brought your son home.’

  Guilt trip again.

  ‘And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean I want you in his life, so please – this has to be the end of this nonsense. You have to leave us alone now.’

  Monica licks her lips, and trots off down the path, her hair whooshing, her high-heeled boots clip-clopping on the concrete.

  I slam the door, rest my head against the glass and silently scream.

  12

  ‘You want me to stay with you tonight? Y’know, just as friends.’

  Zach smiles at me from the other end of the couch.

  ‘No, it’s okay, but thank you.’

  My parents are long gone, after exhausting Tom and themselves with hundreds of hugs. As soon as their car turned out of the street, my son stormed upstairs and slammed his bedroom door. He’s been there ever since. Silent. Moody. Angry. Since then, Zach and I have gone over every moment of what happened earlier.

  ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you,’ I say. ‘I was reacting to Monica, not you.’

  ‘I know. It’s okay.’

  Zach grabs his coat from the back of my dining chair and kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘You think I shouldn’t have been so mean to her, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Monica. You think I should have been more grateful. And I suppose you think I shouldn’t have met Simon, either.’

  My friend shrugs.

  ‘It’s none of my business. Look, get some sleep and we’ll speak tomorrow.’

  He disappears out of the back door, and I lock it, grab some clean pyjamas from the pile of washing on the kitchen table, and then head upstairs. Tom’s bedroom door stares at me; a massive ‘Do Not Enter or Else’ sign emblazoned in the middle. I knock, and then wait for an answer.

  ‘Mum?’

  My son’s voice travels through the wood that separates us
, and lands with a thump in my heart. I open the door and stare inside. Tom is in bed, and his night light shines a soft glow over his little things: his bookcase full of volumes on horses and trucks; his posters of Eminem (a new addition, thanks to Charlie) and his curtains with blue dinosaurs printed on them. A month ago, he decided that a Year Five boy is far too grown up for such babyish curtains, so I’m buying him new ones as soon as I get paid, but for now they stay.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom’s head is turned away from the door, and his voice is muffled and nasal. He’s been crying into his pillow, and that knowledge tears me apart. I sit on his football-themed duvet and rub his hair. It’s damp with sweat, and sticks up at odd little angles.

  ‘I don’t think you are okay,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you turn round and talk to me. Tell me what’s been going on?’

  ‘I am okay.’

  I sigh and pick up his tiny stuffed giraffe. I remember the day we bought that silly little thing. We were in Tesco together, and Tom must have been, what? One maybe? No, a little older than that. We were at the toy section, and he picked up the giraffe and insisted on carrying it around with him.

  ‘Mummy has to pay for that before we leave,’ I said, but twenty minutes later, as I scanned my groceries, I’d forgotten all about the giraffe. It wasn’t until we got out of the store that Tom waved it in my face and I realised. I went straight back to pay for it, because although it was just a pound, I couldn’t bear the thought of being dishonest. Tom has slept with Giraffey-Boy ever since, although now he insists that the toy sleeps on his bedside table, even though there are many times when I sneak in and see him cuddling it – just like the old days.

  ‘I know that you’re mad about the newsletter,’ I say. ‘All I was trying to do was fit the photo onto the page. I never knew you’d be so upset.’

  Tom lifts his head and turns towards me. His face is covered in tears, and I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt.