A Random Call
Mr Paul Evans? The voice on the line was cool and professional.
Yes, that’s me. Who am I speaking to?
This is the director of the Little Ones Home. In a week, your daughter turns three, so well have to move her to another institution. Youre still not going to collect her, correct?
Waitwhat little one? Whose daughter? I have a son, Charlie! I stammered, utterly shocked.
Nadine Paula Simmons. Isnt she your daughter?
No, absolutely not. Im Evans. Paul Evans, but Evans.
My apologies, the voice sighed wearily from the receiver. It seems we’ve got a muddle with the records.
The dial tone filled the silence, pounding in my ears.
What rubbish is this? I grumbled, Some daughter, little one, really! What sort of chaos do they have with their paperwork?
But that call stuck in my spirit like a splinter. Thoughts kept drifting toward those childrenhow do they manage without a home, without a warm mum, loving dad, doting grandparents? Charlie had a whole team of relatives, aunts, uncles, both sides.
My wife, Emily, caught on to my mood straight away, noticed I answered oddly, and nothing escapes her vigilant eye. Weve been married nearly ten years, and friends since primary school!
Waiting until dinner, she confronted me directly. Whats got into you?
Whats she called? Emily asked, right in the middle of dinner.
Who? I replied, startled (how did she know about the girl? Did someone ring her, too?).
Nadine, I said finally. Nadine.
Oh, Nadine, is it Im your Emily, and shes your Nadine, is she? My wife’s tone grew sharper.
Yes, I said. Nadine Paula Simmons.
Maybe youll tell me her passport details now! Emily shouted.
“She doesnt have any passport, why would she need one?
A refugee, then? Emily shrilled a touch quieter.
Whos a refugee? I was thoroughly baffled.
Your Nadine! She wants a place, doesnt she? Admit it, you scoundrel!
What is there to admit? I mumbled, in disbelief, and forgot all about my meal.
Then Emily started cryingnot loud or theatrically, but angry tears rolling down her apron.
Im going to mums tomorrow. And Charlie stays with me, she managed through her tears.
Emily, whats got into you? Why to your mum? Whats happened?
So Im supposed to serve you and your fancy woman, Nadine? she shouted.
It started dawning on methe absurdity of the situation.
I took Emily by the shoulders, sat her on the kitchen bench, and told her everything about the morning call.
Now Emily sobbed with pity for the little girl. Women have limitless tears; they weep for anything, and in any amount! I can’t stand female tears, especially Emilysthey unsettle me.
Dinner was out of the question after all that. I just picked at it.
I woke up to find Emily next to me digging through my phone. In nearly ten years, shed never done that. She must have doubted me, hunting for traces of love affairs. That stung, left me bitter inside. Then she whispered, Paul, Paul, nudging me gently.
I pretended Id just woken up.
Paul, was it this number, that landline?
Yes, I mumbled, thats the one.
Go back to sleep. Sleep. And Emily slipped out, taking my phone with her.
Easy to say, sleep. As if I could! I heard the computer whirl to life. I lingered a moment, then crept to the sitting room.
Emily was moving the mouse fast, utterly absorbed, oblivious I was behind her.
In the search bar: Little Ones Home and our town.
The computer hummed and threw up the official siteaddress, phone, even photos. Emily checked my phone screen.
Paul, it’s a match.
Whats a match? I asked.
The phone! Its the Little Ones Homes phone!
I told you. So youre checking up on me?
Emily spun round on the chair.
Checking? Im confirming.
Why?
Paul, it’s not far, actually, Emily mused absent-mindedly.
Shall we go visit? How did they get your number, if you’re just some stranger?
I hadnt considered this. How did they get my number? Maybe its worth visiting, find out, and finally sort out their mistakes!
Sleep barely came that night, and I was about to drift off when Emily poked me again.
Paul, Paul!
Now what?
Youre sure theres nothing, absolutely nothing, with anyone else? What if, you know, just oncelong ago, perhaps with your first love? Maybe you met her years later, things sparked again? Maybe she never said a word, and just left her baby at the hospital? Well, Paul?
What love, Emily? I’ve been with you since sitting together in primary school, now I’m lying herestill with you. Four years backremember? Charlie was just turning three, starting nursery, always ill, you went back to work, who stayed with him? Me. Had to switch to home office. Endless medicines, doctor visits, strict meal times. Fancy women? I could barely stay upright, let alone have lovers! Never had, never will!
Then how did they get your number at all? Someone mustve left it on record? Emily pressed.
And that question bothered me, too. I racked my memory for any woman who might pull such a prank. None really, but some could be mischievous.
Yet all were crossed off: some found happiness, others had their child with grandma, the most troublesome moved abroad years ago.
But as life can surprise you in ways youd never expect, I made up my mind to go to the Little Ones Home the next day.
We arrived early but werent firsta scruffy, fair-haired man waited outside the directors office. Well-dressed but somehow unkempt, restless eyes, trembling hands clutching papers. Whether nerves or yesterdays drinking, hard to say.
Youre next after me, he said in a surprisingly deep bass.
The door opened and he went in. For fifteen minutes, muffled voices drifted out, the steady tone broken by his bass mumblings.
He finally stumbled out, papers gone, hair rumpled, and we were called inside.
Good morning, said a pleasant brunette at the window, nibbling her glasses arm. Whats your concern?
Were here about yesterdays call, I joked feebly.
The woman sat at her desk. Ive no patience for riddles. Explain your issue, simply and directly, please.
I reminded her about the previous days callthe voice was unmistakable.
Ah, that Apologies, it was a mix-up, we dialed the wrong person.
How wrong, if youve got my number? How did you even get it?
You see, Mr Paul Evans, I slipped by a digit. Their number begins with 927, but I dialled 937. That youre also Paul Evansits pure coincidence! The man before you, hes the right one.
Who? I asked, though I already guessed.
Paul Evans Simmons, the father of the girl.
So, again, I apologise, and bid you goodbye. Excuse meI have a lot to do.
The woman stood up.
Mrs Tessa Hammond, read the badge on her jacket.
Emily must have noticed too, because she asked, Mrs Hammond, is that Paul Evans going to collect the girl?
The director studied us, sat again.
No, he wont. The girls mum passed away, and this Paul Evans has children by several womenseven, in fact. Hes only been here twice in three years, both times under our pressure. Nadine means nothing to him. Is that all? Ive answered everything? Then, goodbye.
Stunned by all wed seen and heard, we stepped out into the grounds.
The older children were out on the playground. Some rocked on swings, others slid down the slide, two boys staged car races on a bench.
I watched them, and slowly realised what was wrong.
It was quiet in the yard. If Charlie ever goes outside, its soon a racketshouts, squeals, chaos. These children didnt make a fuss, didnt laugh full-heartedly, just hushed conversation. Like tiny pensioners. These kids became adults too soonnever really had childhood. Survival, some in cold, some in hunger, no toys, no proper clothes, neglect or even cruelty from adults.
I turned to Emily. Tears glistened in her eyes.
Those tears again! Always at hand, whatever the reason!
We walked gently toward the gate, when a cry shattered the silence: Mummy! All the children whipped their heads our way. Right at us, arms wide, ran a little girl in a funny bobble hat.
Mummy, mummy! she yelled. Im here!
She hugged Emilys legs with full force, her sobs so piercing and heartbreaking my own eyes filled.
Nadine, Nadine! A carer hurried over to us. She tried lifting the girl, but Nadine kicked and clung tightly to Emily.
Eventually the carer managed to pry her off Emily (she had a chocolate bar handy), and we nearly ran from the Little Ones’ Home grounds.
We sat in silence in the car. Emily was shaking, and I felt drained myself. My hands trembled, just like my namesake earlier; I pulled over by the kerb to gather myself.
Emily glanced through the window and nodded at a nearby shop sign.
Without a word, we stepped out together, hand in hand, and walked into Mothercare.
For a doll and a pink dress.
Our Nadine will be the prettiest little girl of all.
