The Secret Mother(5)

‘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.