The Secret Mother(7)

She takes a step forward, places her foot just inside my door. Cheeky cow. ‘So who was he then?’ she whispers conspiratorially, as though we’re best mates. ‘I can do a really nice piece on it, interview you, give you a makeover, get your picture in the paper – or at least online.’

‘I don’t want a makeover, and I really don’t want my picture in the paper, and especially not all over the internet. Like I said, there’s no story. Honestly, Carly, I’m sorry but I’ve got things to do.’ I push the door so she’s forced to take a step back. ‘Thanks for stopping by,’ I call out so she can’t accuse me of being rude. Then I shove the door closed with a satisfying click and stand there fuming, the blood boiling in my veins. The absolute nerve of her.

I lean back against the door and realise my hands are shaking, but whether it’s from Carly’s unwanted interest, or the shock of finding a little boy in my house, I can’t tell. And didn’t the police say they would be in touch? Why would they need to speak to me again? I’ve told them everything that happened. Don’t they believe me? My mind feels cloudy, muddled. I try to piece together the events of this evening once more. I came home from the cemetery and found a little boy called Harry in my kitchen. Yes. That’s what happened. Isn’t it?





Chapter Four





I haul the stepladder out of the supply shed, happy to be back at work this morning. Yesterday’s events with Harry don’t feel real. It’s like they happened to someone else. But I’m still fuming over Carly’s visit. I shake my head at the memory of her as I lean the ladder against a wall with a clang before locking the shed again.

I work at Villa Moretti Garden Centre, just a mile up the road from where I live. My wonderful but pressured career as a landscape architect collapsed two and a half years ago along with the rest of my life, and I guess I’m lucky to have found this job, which just about covers my bills.

Moretti’s is a small but perfectly formed slice of Italy, tucked away in English suburbia. Winter isn’t its most spectacular season, but the work suits me. I can get lost among the plants, forget about my car crash of a life and concentrate on nurturing seedlings, pruning, cutting, clearing and shaping. It’s physical work that tires me out enough to get me to sleep each night. Enough to be able to function again the next day.

The rain has eased this morning, the temperature an almost balmy eight degrees, melting the icy patches and taking the nip out of the air. I swing the ladder sideways under my arm and head over to the outdoor part of the café, its tables and chairs still in storage. We probably won’t get them out again until next spring. In the meantime, I need to take advantage of the absence of frost and prune the dormant wisteria covering the pergola. I set up my ladder by one of the posts, climb a couple of steps, and take the secateurs out of my fleece pocket, getting to work on trimming back the shoots.

Normally, this kind of work takes my mind off everything, letting me lose myself in the business of cutting and snipping. Not today. Images of Harry’s downcast face keep popping into my head. I replay our conversations about trains and hot chocolate, thinking about the ease of our brief time together. Where is he now? Has he been returned to his family yet, or is he in care somewhere, worried and alone? I have a lump in my throat and a stone in my stomach at the thought of him placed with strangers. Even though I guess I’m technically a stranger, too.

I climb down the ladder and shift it further along the edge of the pergola. I’m about to climb back up when I realise I can’t simply carry on and act like nothing’s happened. I can’t blithely continue with my life and forget about Harry. He came to me for a reason – he called me his mummy, for goodness’ sake. I have to at least try to discover what’s happened to him.

I peel off my gloves and lay them on one of the ladder’s steps, then I pull my phone from my pocket. Damn, I left the police officer’s card in my bag in the staffroom. I’ll have to go inside for it.

‘Morning, Tess.’

I turn to see Ben walking towards me with two mugs of coffee in his hands.

‘Is one of those for me?’ I ask.

‘Who else?’ He grins and hands me the steaming mug. ‘One Americano and…’ he takes a paper bag out of his coat pocket, ‘a cinnamon Danish from the café.’

‘Lifesaver,’ I say, realising I haven’t eaten anything at all this morning. The coffee smells heavenly.

‘Can’t have my staff keeling over on the job. Not when they’re climbing up ladders and wielding sharp implements.’

I smile. Ben Moretti is quite possibly the nicest boss on the planet. He took over the family business from his parents, who’d moved over here from Italy in the late sixties. They’ve recently retired and moved back to their home town just outside Naples. Ben was born and bred here in London. Now in his forties, he looks like an Italian film star, with his jet-black hair and dark eyes. He’s a softie, though. Nothing like the suave Italian stereotype everyone thinks he is.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Cheers.’ I twist my lips into a sarcastic smile, but I know he’s right. ‘Didn’t get too much sleep last night.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘Long story,’ I reply. ‘But this coffee and Danish will fix me up. Thank you.’