The Secret Mother(31)

Once I reach my house, I storm through the bulb flashes, clicks and cries from my welcoming committee. I’m so mad, their intrusive behaviour barely registers. I stomp up the garden path, open the door and flip on the hall light. I’m sick of skulking in my own house, of creeping about in the dark. I carry my shopping bags through to the kitchen and bang my way around, stuffing food in the fridge and cupboards without concentrating on where each thing actually goes. I take a knife from the cutlery drawer and punch holes in the top of the arrabiata carton before shoving it in the microwave. While I’m waiting for it to heat up, I shove half a chocolate eclair in my mouth. I really don’t care that I’m having my pudding first, I think I’m entitled to eat what I like after the crappy week I’ve had.

The gooey chocolate and cream tastes like heaven, and I sit down at the table, sliding the rest of it in my mouth before I’ve even swallowed the first half. But even while I’m enjoying the confectionery, my body is still tense with anger. I lean my forehead on the table and give a cry of rage. Ellie might be a patronising cow, but she’s so pretty. So perfect. No wonder Scott has fallen for her. And she’s having a baby. His baby – a half-brother or sister to our twins. I lift my head off the table and bring it down again with a bang. Once… twice. Not enough to do any damage, just enough to make a noise, to shake the fury from my body.

Then I turn my head and press my cheek to the tabletop, carry on chewing my eclair through choking sobs. Imagine if anyone I knew could see me now. They would have me taken away in a straitjacket. I give one last frustrated growl before pushing myself upright again, my palms flat on the table.

The microwave pings. I pour myself a glass of water, dump the arrabiata into a bowl and grab a fork from the drawer. I could carry on sitting here in a simmering rage, or I could try to take my mind off her. I decide to go and watch some TV, though not the news.

I head into the living room and turn on the side lights. I thought I was too angry to worry about the press, but there are slight gaps in the blinds that a long lens could see through, so I turn them off again, annoyed that I care. In the semi-darkness I place my water and pasta on the arm of the sofa, snatch up the remote and flick on the TV.

Thursday night… I try to think what’s on the telly on Thursdays, what I could watch to distract me from my life. The screen lights up and I freeze. There, on the TV, is a picture of Harry. With trembling fingers, I press pause. A head-and-shoulders shot of him wearing his school uniform – a striped private-school-type blazer and tie. He’s smiling, his sweet face so open and happy, his brown curls gleaming.

So they’ve discovered his identity.

I gaze at the image for a moment, scared to unpause the television in case they say something bad. Something I won’t be able to handle.

My thumb hovers over the play button. I press it. A news presenter is speaking:

‘The mystery child, whose name we now know is Harry Fisher, has finally been reunited with his father in Dorset. The boy first came to our attention earlier this week when he was discovered in the home of Tessa Markham, a gardener who lives and works in the London Borough of Barnet.’

Harry’s picture is replaced by that awful image taken of me earlier in the week. I’m coming out of my house in my work clothes and I look grumpy, disorientated and pale – exactly how you’d imagine a mad child abductor to look.

‘Ms Markham has previously been under investigation for snatching a three-month-old infant, but no charges were ever brought.’

I clench my jaw at their selective description of me. My photo disappears from the screen, thank goodness, and is replaced by footage of a news reporter speaking from outside what looks like a Georgian farmhouse set on a country road. Maybe that’s the house where Harry lives. Dorset, though – that’s miles away, isn’t it? I think I went there once on a family holiday when I was younger.

‘Harry’s family have declined to be interviewed at this stage, but in a statement to the press, his father, Dr James Fisher, commented: “As you can imagine, it’s been a very stressful time. I’m relieved and happy to have Harry safely back home where he belongs.”’

A black-and-white newspaper cutting fills the screen. It shows a man in a dinner jacket at some kind of black-tie event. He looks as though he’s in his forties. He has a beard and is wearing glasses. I’m guessing this is Harry’s father. For a second or two I’m sure he looks familiar. But he’s Harry’s father, so there’s bound to be some resemblance.

‘Sadly, Harry’s mother died in October 2017 from an aggressive form of stomach cancer, which makes the five-year-old’s return home to his widowed father doubly special. It’s remarkable to have a happy ending to this mystery that has had the nation gripped for so many days.’

The story ends and they move on to a piece about a local school closure. I know I said to myself that I didn’t want to watch the news, but I’m desperate to see if there’s any further information about Harry. I flip through the channels while absent-mindedly eating forkfuls of pasta, chewing without tasting. Finally, I reach another news channel, but they’re discussing politics. I keep going until I’ve checked out every station. There’s nothing more on the story, I’ll have to wait until the nine o’clock news. I turn off the television, knowing I’ll be unable to concentrate on watching anything else, and finish up my pasta.