The Secret Mother(3)

He nods vigorously and sniffs.

I give his hand a squeeze and straighten up. I wish I hadn’t had to call Scott. And yet I need him to be here when I ring the police. I can’t deal with them on my own, not after what happened before. I’m dreading their arrival – the questions, the sideways glances, the implication that I might have done something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong, though. Have I?

And Harry… he’ll be taken away. What if his parents have been abusive? What if he has to go into foster care? A thousand thoughts run through my mind, each worse than the one before. But it’s not my place to decide what happens to him. There’s nothing I can do about any of it, because he’s not mine.

I don’t have a child. Not any more.





Chapter Two





Harry and I bustle about the kitchen together, and it’s so easy. So natural. Like we’re doing something we’ve always done. Like I really am his mummy and he really is my son and it’s perfectly normal to be making hot chocolate together on a Sunday evening after a walk in the rain. We’ll enjoy our drinks while watching a film, and then we’ll have to get his things ready for school tomorrow. I’ll run him a bath and wash his hair before tucking him up in bed and reading him a bedtime story. No! Stop it. Stop it right now. Why am I torturing myself with these ridiculous thoughts?

My throat is tight with tears, and all of a sudden, I’m crying into the bubbling pan of milk.

‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

I swipe at my tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. ‘Yes, yes, I’m absolutely fine, sweetie. I can’t wait to take a great big slurp of this when it’s ready.’

‘Me too.’

Harry kneels on a chair and I supervise as he stirs in the chocolate powder with a wooden spoon. Then I pour the drink into two mugs and we sit together at the tiny kitchen table. I only have a few minutes left to enjoy this snapshot of how my life could have been.

I know I should try harder to find out where Harry is from. To ask again who his real parents are, where he lives, and all those other important things. But he wouldn’t answer them the first time and I don’t want to upset him. I’ll leave those questions to the professionals.

Harry takes a noisy sip of his drink and grimaces. ‘It’s hot.’

‘Careful, don’t burn your tongue. Blow on it, cool it down a bit.’

‘Do you like trains?’ Harry asks. He’s acquired a hot-chocolate moustache, which makes me smile.

‘I love trains,’ I reply. ‘Once, I took the train right down through France and then on through Spain and Portugal.’

‘Wow! How long did that take?’

‘Days and days.’

‘And nights, too? Did you sleep on the train?’

‘Sometimes,’ I say, remembering the cramped carriage Scott and I shared, back when we first got together. Those hazy, beautiful first days of love.

‘Can we do that?’ Harry asks, his eyes wide at the thought of such an adventure. ‘Can we go on a train through all those countries and sleep on there with our sleeping bags?’

I want to tell him yes, of course we can. I want to say that tomorrow we’ll book tickets and travel across the world by steam train together. That we’ll see amazing, exotic sights and wave to all the passers-by. We’ll chat to interesting people and have a cabin of our very own. I’ll buy him an engine driver’s cap, and the conductor will let him blow the whistle. It’ll be the best fun in the world.

‘I’m sure that one day when you’re older you’ll be able to do that, Harry.’

‘Brilliant,’ he replies with his nose in his mug, making his voice sound all echoey.

The doorbell rings and I give a small start.

‘Who’s that?’ Harry asks with a frown, placing his mug back on the table.

‘That will be Scott,’ I reply, getting to my feet. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s nice.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m going to let him in,’ I say, ‘and then I’ll be back. Just stay here for a moment, all right?’

Harry nods, his face suddenly serious.

I leave the kitchen, closing the door behind me. Scott refuses to use his keys any more. Even though we’re separated and no longer living together, I told him to keep a set for himself. I said that this will always be his house too. But he never lets himself in, he always rings the bell.

I open the front door to my dripping, scowling husband.

‘Hi, come in. I didn’t know it was raining so hard.’ I stand back and he walks past me into the hallway. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

‘I’m not staying, Tess. What’s this about?’ His deep voice booms around the narrow space.

‘Shh, keep it down,’ I say, gesturing towards the kitchen.

‘What?’ he says, louder than ever. ‘Why? Is someone in there?’

‘Scott, please.’

‘Okay,’ he says in an exaggerated whisper.

‘Listen,’ I begin. ‘I came home from the cemetery this afternoon…’

Scott’s face darkens further. He never goes to the graveyard, he says it’s too depressing. That he would rather remember them how they were.