David
Tom had a typical English family. His mum and dad adored him, and he loved them in return. On weekends, they went to the cinema and the theatre, skated in the winter, and in the summer, they holidayed on the southern coast. They collected seashells, and his father taught David to swim… Then the company where his father worked went bankrupt. He turned to drink. And when he drank, he cursed the government, the Prime Minister, the laws—everyone was to blame for his misfortune.
When David’s mum, weary of his drunken rants, asked him to go to bed, he would turn on her. Lately, he’d started in on her almost as soon as he got home. She would send David to his room, but he still heard everything—the shouting, the shattering plates. What could he do?
Once his father finally passed out, filling the flat with his snores and the sour stench of alcohol, his mum would slip into David’s room, sometimes falling asleep beside him on his narrow bed. He noticed the bruises on her arms, even her face. In the morning, his father would apologise, swearing he’d never lay a finger on her again…
But by afternoon, the cycle repeated. His father would leave to “look for work,” as he called it, while David stayed behind, doing his homework. He attended Year 3 in the afternoon session. He’d heat up his lunch, eat quickly, and walk to school.
Evenings brought the same dread.
“Did your dad make trouble again last night?” asked Mrs. Wilson, their neighbour from next door.
“Yeah,” David muttered, nodding briefly.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“I’ve got to go—I’ll be late for school,” he said, hurrying away.
“Off you go, then,” Mrs. Wilson sighed, watching him leave.
When David returned from school, his mum was making dinner. His father wasn’t home, a rare relief. He sat at the table and chattered about school, then admitted quietly that things were better without his dad—maybe he shouldn’t come back at all.
His mum frowned. “He’s going through a hard time, love. Once he finds work, things will go back to normal.”
But that evening, his father stumbled in, loud and clumsy, dropping things in the hallway. His mum tensed, peering out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging him away.
David sat in his room, listening. Tonight felt different—quieter. Then came a sharp cry, something heavy hitting the floor. He crept out and peered into the kitchen. His father stood wide-legged over his mother, sprawled on the tiles. David gasped. His father turned, eyes bloodshot.
“Son,” he slurred.
David bolted, pounding on Mrs. Wilson’s door, shaking uncontrollably. She didn’t understand his frantic words but called the police and an ambulance. They arrived together. His father was taken away; his mum rushed to hospital. David spent the night at Mrs. Wilson’s.
The next morning, they visited his mum in her hospital bed. She lay still, tubes snaking around her, asleep even when he called her name and tugged her hand. The doctor led Mrs. Wilson into the hall, leaving David alone. He kept trying to wake her until boredom and fear sent him wandering. A half-open door revealed the doctor murmuring, “She’s in a coma—unlikely to wake, but we must hope…” Terrified, David ran from the hospital.
Mrs. Wilson found him on a bench outside. He cried all the way home. She asked if they had family.
“Gran’s in the village,” he sniffed.
“Far from here?”
“An hour and a half by bus, then three miles on foot.”
“Can you find your way?”
“I’m not a baby,” David snapped.
“I’ll take you to the station tomorrow,” she promised. But the next morning, a call came—her friend’s daughter was dying. Flustered, she put David on the bus alone, asking the driver to watch over him.
David dozed off, exhausted. A nudge woke him.
“Oi, lad, wake up—your stop,” said the woman beside him.
He stumbled out. The driver called after him, “Stay with the others! Don’t wander off!” But the crowd dispersed, leaving David alone on the country lane. Fear prickled, yet the sun shone, and autumn leaves crunched underfoot. To steel himself, he hummed his favourite song—the one he and his mum used to sing: *”Snow lies white upon the meadow, soft and deep… There upon the hill stands Tommy, keeping watch while others sleep…”*
Two villages stood between him and Gran’s. He’d just passed the first when a sharp whistle cut the air. Two lads lounged on a fallen tree.
“Who’re you? Never seen you round here,” the taller one demanded.
“Going to my gran’s,” David said.
“Skiving off school?”
Shrugging, David ignored them.
“Got any fags?” piped the other.
“Mum says smoking stunts your growth,” David muttered.
They burst out laughing. “Listen to ‘Mum says’! What else’d she say?” The big one yanked David’s backpack free.
“Give it back!” David lunged, but the lad shoved him down, dumping his clothes, book, and sandwiches onto the grass.
“When my mum had blokes over, she’d tell me to clear off for hours. She packed you off to Gran’s to get you out the way?” They cackled, crude and mocking.
David saw red. His mum was in hospital—how dare they? He charged, but they were stronger. A shove sent him sprawling onto sharp stones and broken wood.
“Bet Mum gave you bus fare. Hand it over,” the older boy growled.
No houses in sight. No help. David struggled up, but the lad pinned him again, while the other rifled his pockets.
“Twenty quid! Loaded, are we?” The boy waved the note Mrs. Wilson had given him.
David fought, but he was no match. A hard shove sent him reeling—his head cracked against the tree trunk.
An old woman found him later, groggy and bruised. “What’s your name, lad?” she asked.
David couldn’t remember.
She took him in, fed him, then fetched the village chairman. The next day, a constable came, took his photo, but when no one claimed him, David was sent to a children’s home.
There, the boys preyed on him for forgetting. Nights were worst—blanket beatings. He stopped sleeping, lashing out first, earning punishments. The staff branded him a troublemaker, though he excelled in school. They named him Tommy after his song—Tommy Woodley, for the village where he was found.
Months passed. At Christmas, sponsors visited. Staff hoarded the gifts, doling out sweets. Tommy hid under the stairs, gorging his share until he sickened. The matron scolded him but plied him with tea—he had to sing at the concert.
The music teacher praised his voice but insisted on carols. Tommy refused—he’d only sing his song. Relenting, she let him perform *Tommy*. The matron approved; it moved audiences, loosened purse strings.
On stage, Tommy hesitated—crowds terrified him—but a glare from the PE teacher forced his hand. His voice started small, then swelled. By the last verse, adults were wiping tears.
Then a woman rushed in, shouting, “David!”
The matron chased her. “That’s Tommy Woodley—a wild one, not your boy!”
But the woman gripped him. “My son! I’ve searched every home… Remember when you cut your foot on a shell? Or the kitten you cried over when it ran off?”
Girls sniffled; boys gaped—*lucky sod*, they thought.
In the office, she pointed out birthmarks, bike scars, while flashes of memory sparked in David’s mind—his father looming, the hospital wires…
“Mum,” he whispered.
She clung to him, weeping.
The matron hesitated. “You can’t just take him—paperwork—”
“I’m not leaving without him,” his mum said firmly.
Grudgingly, the matron relented.
On the way out, David faltered. “I heard the doctor… he said you wouldn’t last the night.”
“Silly boy—that was another patient.” She ruffled his hair. “We’re going to Gran’s. She’s missed you dreadfully. We’ll trim the tree, eat mince pies—your favourite.”
Memories trickled back—including the lads who’d stolen his name. He’d find them someday, make them pay.
But one fear lingered. “Will Dad come back?”
“No. I divorced him. If he bothers us, we’ll move.”
Hand in hand, David kept glancing up, assuring himself she was real. The months alone, nameless, had hardened him—but her love thawed the bitterness.
Nothing is crueller than losing yourself in a world without kindness. YetAnd as the years passed, the scars faded—not forgotten, but softened by the quiet certainty that home was no longer just a place, but the safety of his mother’s hand in his.
