Tom
Tim had an ordinary family. His parents loved him, and he loved them in return. On weekends, they went to the cinema and the theatre, ice-skating in winter, and in summer, they holidayed down south. They collected seashells, and his father taught Tim how to swim… Then the company he worked for went under. His father started drinking. And when drunk, he ranted about the government, the prime minister, the laws. Everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When his mother, exhausted by his drunken tirades, asked him to go to bed, he turned on her. Lately, he’d start in on her straight away. She’d send Tim to his room, but he could still hear everything—the shouts, the sound of shattering crockery. What could he do?
When his father finally passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stench of booze, his mother would creep into Tim’s room, often falling asleep beside him on his narrow bed. Tim noticed the bruises on her arms, even on her face. In the morning, his father would apologise and swear he’d never lay a finger on her again…
In the morning, his mother would slip away quietly. Once sober, his father would leave too, “job hunting,” as he called it. Tim stayed home alone, doing his homework. He was in Year 4, attending afternoon school. He heated his own lunch, ate, and went to school.
In the evening, it all started again.
“Your dad was at it again last night, wasn’t he?” asked Mrs. Rose Wilkins, their neighbour from next door.
“Yeah,” Tim muttered with a quick nod.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“I’ve got to go, I’ll be late for school,” Tim hurried off.
“Go on then, run along,” Mrs. Wilkins sighed, watching him go.
When Tim got home from school, his mum was making dinner. His father wasn’t there, and Tim was glad. He sat at the table and told her simple school news. Then he said it was better without his dad—better if he never came home.
His mother shot him a disapproving look.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he gets a job, everything will go back to normal.”
But his father did come home, noisily stomping about the hallway, dropping things and grumbling. His mother stiffened, peering out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging him away.
He sat in his room and listened. Tonight was different—quieter. Then his mother gasped, and something heavy thudded on the floor. Tim crept out and looked into the kitchen. His father stood with his legs spread, staring down at his mother where she lay crumpled. Tim let out a cry. His father turned, eyes bloodshot.
“Son,” he said.
Tim bolted out the door and rang Mrs. Wilkins’ bell. He was shaking. She couldn’t make sense of his panicked words but called the police and an ambulance. They arrived almost together. His father was taken away; his mother was rushed to hospital. Tim spent the night at Mrs. Wilkins’ flat.
The next morning, they went to see his mum. She lay alone in a hospital bed, tangled in clear tubes. She didn’t wake, not even when Tim called her name and tugged her arm. The doctor led Mrs. Wilkins into the hall, leaving Tim with his mother.
He kept trying to wake her. Bored and worried, he wandered out to find Mrs. Wilkins. A door stood ajar. He heard the doctor say, “She’s in a coma—unlikely to wake. But we must hope…” Terrified, Tim ran from the hospital.
Mrs. Wilkins found him on a bench in the hospital garden. He cried all the way home. She grew impatient trying to calm him. At her flat, she asked if they had any family.
“My nan lives in the countryside,” said Tim.
“Is it far?”
“An hour and a half by coach, then a two-mile walk.”
“You remember the way?”
“I’m not a little kid,” Tim snapped.
“I’ll take you to your nan’s tomorrow,” said Mrs. Wilkins.
But in the morning, her friend’s daughter called, saying her mother was dying and needed her. Mrs. Wilkins flustered.
“I’ll put you on the coach. I’m sorry I can’t go with you. You’re a big boy now.”
At the station, she asked the driver to keep an eye on Tim. The man agreed. So Tim rode alone. The hum of the engine and the weight of everything lulled him to sleep. One moment his eyes were closing—the next, someone shook his shoulder.
“Oi, wake up. We’re here,” said the woman beside him.
Tim stood and shuffled off.
“Stick with the others, don’t wander off. I can’t take you further—got to head back,” the driver called.
Tim nodded and stepped out. The crowd thinned quickly, leaving him alone on the country road. Fear prickled. But the sun shone, and fallen leaves rustled underfoot. He told himself he wasn’t little—he knew the way. He marched on, humming his favourite song for courage: “The snow lies white on the fields so wide… There stands on the hill young Tom, young Tom…” He used to sing it with his mum.
First, he’d pass a small village, then a bigger one with a shop, then his nan’s. As the first village faded behind him, a whistle cut the air. Tim stopped. Two lads perched on a fallen tree.
“Who’re you? Who’re you visiting?” asked the taller one. “Never seen you round here.”
“I’m going to my nan’s,” said Tim.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I am. Just gotta go.” He didn’t explain.
“Got any fags?” the younger one piped up.
“My mum says smoking stunts your growth,” Tim said.
The boys howled with laughter. “Listen to ‘im! ‘Mum says…’ What else she say? What you got in there?” The older lad yanked Tim’s rucksack off his shoulders.
“Give it back!” Tim yelled, grabbing, but the boy shoved him and rifled through it.
Clothes, a book, sandwiches (he’d forgotten those) tumbled onto the grass.
“When my mum had blokes over, she’d shove me out for hours. Your mum send you off so you wouldn’t cockblock?” The older boy sneered. Both burst into crude laughter.
Tim couldn’t take it. His mum was in hospital, and they—He lunged, but they were bigger. The older boy shoved him hard; the other tripped him. Tim crashed onto his back, pain shooting through him. Stones and broken wood littered the grass.
“Mummy give you money for the trip? Did she?” the older boy barked.
No houses in sight. No one to help. Tim tried to stand, but the older boy knocked him down again, pinning him. The other rummaged his pockets.
“Fifty quid! Loaded, are we?” He waved the note—Mrs. Wilkins’ emergency money.
Distracted, Tim wrenched free.
“Give it back!” He grabbed for it.
A scuffle—but he was no match for two. He clung to a sleeve, but the older boy flung him off. Tim fell, his head smacking the fallen tree’s jagged edge…
“Oi, up you get.” An old woman bent over him. “What’d they do to you? What’s your name? You’re not from round here. Who’re you visiting?”
Tim sat up, wincing. He couldn’t remember why he was here. Or his name. His T-shirt was torn. No rucksack, no coat.
“Come with me, clean you up,” the woman said, leading him home.
Helpless, Tim wanted to cry. She fed him, then said she’d fetch the parish councillor to help. She locked him in—not that he’d run. Where would he go? He didn’t know who he was.
She returned with a wiry little man. He scratched his head.
“Keep him tonight, Edna. The constable’ll sort it tomorrow.”
“He can stay. You deal with them louts—bet it was Gary Stevens and his lot.”
“Don’t boss me,” the man huffed and left.
Tim finally broke down.
“Don’t cry. He’s strict but fair. He’ll help.”
Next day, the councillor brought a young constable. They questioned Tim, but he just blinked, lost. The constable took his photo—bruised, swollen—to show around.
Mrs. Edna hadn’t seen the picture; she wouldn’t have recognised him anyway. The constable took him to the station, then to a children’s home.
“Sorry. No one’s claimed you. You can’t live alone. You’re going to a care home. If your family turns up, I’ll tell them where you are.”
Tim didn’t care.
At the homeWhen his mother finally found him—her real name flooding back into his mind like a long-lost tide—he clutched her hand so tightly it hurt, knowing that no matter how dark the world had been, she was his light again.
