Shalini Boland - The Secret Mother

For Pete .

Your name means ' rock '

and that's what you are to me .

My rock .

T he street lamps flicker, illuminating the grey pavement mottled with patches of dirty snow and slick black ice. Slushy puddles hug the kerb, cringing away from the hissing, splashing car tyres. It takes all my concentration to keep my balance. My hands would be warmer if I jammed them into my coat pockets, but I need them free to steady myself on walls, fences, tree trunks, lamp posts. I dont want to fall. And yet would it really be so terrible if I slipped on the ice? Wet jeans, a bruised bum. Not the end of the world. There are worse things. Far worse things .

Its Sunday: the last exhale of the week. That uncomfortable pause before Monday, when it all starts up again this lonely pretence at life. Sunday has become a black dot on the horizon for me, growing larger each day. Im relieved now its almost over and yet Im already anticipating the next one. The day when I visit the cemetery and stand above their graves, staring at the grass and stone, talking to them both, wondering if they hear my inane chatter or if Im simply talking into the empty wind. In burning sunlight, pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures or thick fog I stand there. Every week. Ive never missed a Sunday yet .

Sleet spatters my face. Icy needles that make me blink and gasp. Finally, I turn off the high street into my narrow road, where its more sheltered and the wind less violent. A rainbow assortment of overflowing bins lines my route, waiting for collection tomorrow at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. I turn my face away from the windows where Christmas tree lights wink and blink, reminding me of happier Christmases. Before .

Almost home .

My little north London terraced house sits halfway along the road. Pushing open the rusted gate, I turn my face away from the neglected front garden with its discarded sweet wrappers and crisp packets blown in from the street, now wedged among long tussocks of grass and overgrown bushes. I thrust my frozen fingers into my bag until they finally close around a jagged set of keys. Im glad to be home, to get out of the cold, and yet my body sags when I open the door and step into the dark silence of the hall, feeling the hollow of their absence .

At least its warm in here. I shrug off my coat, kick off my boots, dump my bag on the hall table and switch on the light, avoiding my sad reflection in the hall mirror. A glass of wine would be welcome about now. I glance at my watch only 5.20. No. Ill be good and make a hot chocolate instead .

Strangely, the door to the kitchen is closed. This strikes me as odd, as I always leave it open. Perhaps a gust of wind slammed it shut when I came in. I trudge to the end of the hall and stop. Through a gap in the bottom of the door I see that the light is on. Someones in there. I catch my breath, feel the world slow down for a moment before it speeds back up. Could I have a burglar in my house ?

I cock my ear. A sound filters through. Humming. A child is humming a tune in my kitchen. But I dont have a child. Not any more .

Slowly I pull down the handle and push the door, my body tensing. I hardly dare breathe .

Here before me sits a little boy with dark hair, wearing pale blue jeans and a green cable-knit jumper. A little boy aged about five or six, perched on a chair at my kitchen counter, humming a familiar tune. Head down, he is intent on his drawing, colouring pencils spread out around an A4 sheet of paper. A navy raincoat hangs neatly over the back of the chair .

He looks up as I enter the room, his chocolate-brown eyes wide. We stare at one another for a moment .

Are you my mummy? the little boy asks .

I bite my bottom lip, feel the ground shift. I grasp the counter top to steady myself. Hello, I say, my heart suddenly swelling. Hello. And who might you be ?

You know. Im Harry, he replies. Do you like my picture? He holds the sheet out in front of him, showing me his drawing of a little boy and a woman standing next to a train. Its not finished. I havent had time to colour it in properly, he explains .

Its lovely, Harry. Is that you standing next to the train ?

Yes. He nods. Its you and me. I drew it for you because youre my mummy .

Am I hallucinating? Have I finally gone crazy? This beautiful little boy is calling me his mummy. And yet I dont know him. Ive never seen him before in my life. I close my eyes tight and then open them again. Hes still there, looking less confident now. His hopeful smile has faltered, slipping into a frown. His eyes are now a little too bright. I know that look its the one that precedes tears .

Hey, Harry, I say with false jollity. So you like trains, huh ?

His smile returns. Steam trains are the best. Better than diesels. He scrunches up his face in disgust and blinks .

Did you come here on the train? To my house ?

No. We came on the bus. I wish we did come on the train, the bus was really slow. And it made me feel a bit sick. He lays the sheet of paper back on the counter .

And who did you come with? I ask .

The angel .

I think I must have misheard him. Who ?

The angel brought me here. She told me that youre my mummy .

The angel ?

He nods .

I glance around, suddenly aware that Harry might not be the only stranger in my house. Is she here now? I ask in a whisper. Is there someone else here with you ?

No, shes gone. She told me to do some drawing and youd be here soon .

I relax my shoulders, relieved that theres no one else in my home. But it still doesnt help me solve the problem of who this little boy is. How did you get into the house? I ask, nervously wondering if I might find a smashed window somewhere .

Through the front door, silly, he replies with a smile, rolling his eyes .

Through the front door? Did I leave it open somehow? Im sure I would never have done that. Whats going on here? I should call someone. The authorities. The police. Somebody will be looking for this child. They will be frantic with worry. Would you like a hot chocolate, Harry? I ask, keeping my voice as calm as possible. I was going to make one for myself, so

Do you make it with milk? he interrupts. Or with hot water? Its definitely nicer with milk .

I suppress a smile. I agree, Harry. I always make it with milk .

Okay. Yes, please, he replies. Hot chocolate would be lovely .

My heart squeezes at his politeness .

Shall I carry on colouring in my picture, he says, or shall I help you? Because Im really good at stirring in the chocolate .

Well, thats lucky, I reply, because Im terrible at stirring in the chocolate, so its a good thing youre here to help me .

He grins and slides off the stool .

What am I doing? I need to call the police right now. This child is missing from somewhere. But, oh God, just give me ten minutes with this sweet little boy who believes Im his mother. Just a few moments of make-believe and then Ill do the right thing. I reach out to touch his head and immediately snatch my hand back. What am I thinking? This boy has to go back to his real mother; she must be paralysed with worry .

He smiles up at me again and my chest constricts .

Okay, I say, taking a breath and blinking back any threat of tears. Well do the chocolate in a minute. Im just going to make a quick phone call in the hall, okay ?

Oh, okay .

Carry on with your drawing for a little while. I wont be long .