**Diary Entry – 15th December, 2022**
Tom had an ordinary family. Mum and Dad loved him, and he loved them back. On weekends, they’d go to the cinema or the theatre, ice skating in winter, and in summer, they’d drive down to Cornwall. They collected seashells, and his father taught him to swim… Then the company he worked for went under. And Dad started drinking. When he was drunk, he’d rant about the government, the Prime Minister, the laws—everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When Mum, tired of his drunken tirades, asked him to go to bed, he’d snap at her. Lately, he’d started picking fights the moment he walked in. She’d send Tom to his room, but he still heard everything—the shouting, the sound of smashed plates. What could he do?
When Dad finally passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stench of beer, Mum would slip into Tom’s room, often falling asleep beside him in his narrow bed. He noticed bruises on her arms, even her face. In the morning, Dad would apologise, swearing he’d never lay another hand on her…
By day, Mum crept out quietly. Once sober, Dad left too, claiming he was “job hunting.” Tom stayed behind, doing his homework. He was in Year 3, attending afternoon classes. He heated his own meals, ate alone, then walked to school.
Evening brought the same routine all over again.
*”What, your dad making a scene again last night?”* asked Mrs. Rose Bennett, the neighbour next door.
Tom nodded. *”Yeah.”*
*”Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”*
*”Gotta go—I’ll be late for school.”* He hurried off before she could say more.
*”Go on then, off with you.”* She sighed, watching him leave.
When Tom got home, Mum was cooking dinner. Dad wasn’t there, and he was glad. He sat at the table, chatting about trivial school gossip. Then, quietly, he said life was better without Dad—and maybe he shouldn’t come back.
Mum gave him a sharp look.
*”He’s going through a tough time, love. Once he finds work, things’ll go back to normal.”*
But Dad came home, slamming doors, dropping things, grumbling as he kicked off his shoes. Mum stiffened, glancing nervously from the kitchen.
*”Go to your room,”* she whispered, nudging him away.
He sat inside, listening. Tonight was different—quieter. Then Mum let out a short cry, followed by a heavy thud. Tom crept out and peeked into the kitchen. Dad stood over her, legs wide, watching as she lay crumpled on the floor. Tom gasped. Dad turned, bloodshot eyes locking onto him.
*”Tom,”* he slurred.
Tom bolted, banging on Mrs. Bennett’s door, trembling so hard he could barely speak. She didn’t understand but called the police and an ambulance. They arrived almost at once. Dad was arrested, Mum taken to hospital. Tom spent the night at Mrs. Bennett’s.
The next morning, they went to see Mum. She lay alone in a ward, tangled in tubes, asleep even when Tom called her name and tugged her hand. The doctor pulled Mrs. Bennett into the corridor, leaving Tom alone.
He kept shaking her, willing her to wake. Bored, he wandered out to find Mrs. Bennett. A door was ajar—inside, he heard the doctor say, *”She’s in a coma—unlikely to wake, but keep hoping…”* Fear sent him sprinting from the hospital.
Mrs. Bennett found him on a bench in the car park. He cried the whole way home, her patience wearing thin as she tried to soothe him. Back at hers, she asked if they had any family.
*”Gran’s in the countryside,”* Tom mumbled.
*”Far from here?”*
*”An hour and a half by coach, then another two miles on foot.”*
*”Do you remember the way?”*
*”I’m not a baby,”* he muttered, offended.
*”I’ll take you to her tomorrow,”* she promised.
But in the morning, her friend’s daughter called in a panic—her mother was dying. Mrs. Bennett wavered.
*”I’ll put you on the coach. You’re a big lad now.”*
At the station, she asked the driver to keep an eye on him. The man agreed. Tom rode alone, exhaustion pulling him under. It felt like seconds before someone shook him awake.
*”Oi, up you get—we’re here,”* said a woman beside him.
Tom stumbled out. The other passengers scattered, leaving him alone on the quiet lane. Fear gnawed at him, but the sun was out, crisp leaves rustling underfoot. He told himself he wasn’t little anymore—he knew the way. For courage, he hummed the song Mum used to sing with him: *”When the snow is falling softly, softly, softly… Stands a soldier tall and lofty, lofty, lofty…”*
First, he’d pass a small village, then another with a shop, then Gran’s place. But just past the first hamlet, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Tom turned. Two lads lounged on a fallen tree off the path.
*”Who’re you, then? Never seen you round here,”* sneered the taller one.
*”Visiting my gran.”*
*”Shouldn’t you be in school?”*
*”Day off,”* Tom lied.
*”Got any cigs?”* the younger one piped up.
*”Mum says smoking stunts your growth,”* Tom said.
They howled with laughter. *”Hear that? ‘Mum says…'”* The older one snatched Tom’s rucksack.
*”Give it back!”* Tom lunged, but a rough shove sent him sprawling. His clothes, a book, and the sandwiches Mrs. Bennett had packed tumbled into the grass.
*”When my mum has blokes over, she tells me to bugger off for hours. She send you to Gran’s so she can have fun?”* The lads swore, laughing.
Tom saw red. Mum was in hospital, and they— He charged, but they were bigger, stronger. A hard shove to his chest, a trip from behind, and he crashed onto his back, pain exploding as he hit a jagged branch.
*”Mum must’ve given you bus fare. Hand it over,”* the older one barked.
No houses in sight—no one to help. As Tom struggled up, the older lad knocked him down again, pinning him while the other rifled through his pockets.
*”Ten quid! Look, we’re rich!”* He waved the note Mrs. Bennett had given him.
Tom scrambled up, grabbing for it. A scuffle, a punch—then a sharp crack as his head hit the tree trunk…
*”Up you get, lad.”* An old woman bent over him. *”What’d those ruffians do to you? You’re not from round here—who’re you visiting?”*
Tom stood, wincing. He couldn’t remember—not his name, not why he was here. His rucksack was gone, his jumper torn.
*”Come with me,”* she said, leading him home.
Helpless, Tom fought tears as she washed his face and fed him. She left to fetch the village head, locking Tom in—not that he planned to run. Where would he go?
The head, a wiry man, sighed. *”Keep him tonight. Constable’ll sort it tomorrow.”*
Tom finally broke down.
*”Don’t fret,”* the old woman soothed. *”The head’s stern, but fair.”*
Next day, the constable took Tom to the station, then a children’s home.
*”No one’s claimed you,”* the officer said. *”You’ll stay here till we find your family.”*
Tom didn’t care.
The other kids, sensing his memory loss, tormented him. Nights were worst—blanket thrown over his head, fists flying. He stopped sleeping, lashing out first, earning staff’s scorn. They branded him a troublemaker.
But he did well in school. Though he remembered nothing of himself, facts stuck. They named him Alex—after the song he hummed—Alex Pembleton, after the village where he was found. It never felt like his name.
Months passed. Before Christmas, sponsors brought gifts—most confiscated, kids given a handful of sweets. Alex hid under the stairs, scarfing his before they could be stolen. He got sick, scolded by a carer.
*”You’re singing later—don’t embarrass us.”*
The music teacher praised his voice but insisted on festive songs. Alex refused—only *”When the snow is falling softly…”* The headmistress allowed it.
*”He sings it beautifully. Might squeeze more donations.”*
On stage, Alex froze—so many eyes.As the final note faded, a woman pushed through the crowd, tears streaming, her voice breaking as she cried, *”Tom!”*—and in that moment, he remembered everything.
