A Random Call
“Mr Paul Smith?” The voice on the line was cold and businesslike.
“Yes, this is Paul Smith. Who is speaking?”
“This is the manager from the Little Oaks Childrens Home. In a weeks time your daughter turns three, and regulations mean well have to transfer her to another institution. Youre certain you wont be collecting her?”
“Wait, what child? Whose daughter? Ive got a son, Charlie,” I mumbled in shock.
“Hope Pauline Simmons. She is your daughter, isnt she?”
“No, she isnt. Im SmithPaul Smith, but Smith.”
“My apologies,” came the weary reply. “It seems theres been some mix-up here.”
A discordant dial tone struck my ear like an alarm. What nonsense! I fumed. Someones daughter in a childrens homewhat a shambles with their records!
But I couldnt shake the call from my mind. For some reason, I thought about children growing up without a home, a warm mother, a caring father, or doting grandparents. Charlie, after all, had the whole family: aunties, uncles, you name it.
Helen immediately picked up on my distracted mood, my odd answerseven after almost ten years together, theres nothing I can hide from my wife, especially with us knowing each other since primary school.
That evening at dinner, she went straight for it.
“So,” she said, “whats her name?”
“Whose?” I blurted out, stunned. How on earth did she know about the girl? Had she gotten a call too?
“Hope,” I replied after a pause. “Little Hope.”
“Ah, so shes Hope, is she? Im Helen to you, and the other ones Hope?” My wifes voice was rising.
“Yeah,” I said. “Hope Pauline Simmons.”
“Might as well give me her passport number too!” Helen shouted.
“She hasnt got a passportwhat would she do with one?”
“A refugee, is she?” Helen screeched, just a bit quieter.
“Whos a refugee?” I was completely lost by now.
“Your precious Hope! Wants to get her papers sorted, eh? Out with it, you scoundrel!”
“Out with what?” I muttered, bewildered, forgetting my dinner entirely.
Then Helen started to cry. Not noisy, dramatic sobs, but angry tears rolling down onto her apron in big drops.
“Im going to Mums tomorrow,” she said through the tears. “You should knowIm not leaving Charlie with you.”
“Helen, whats got into you? Why would you go to your mothers?”
“And you expect me to serve you and your mistress Hope as if nothings happened?” she screamed.
Then, at last, the absurdity of it all hit me. I sat Helen down on the kitchen sofa and told her everything about the mornings call.
Now Helen cried againtears this time for the little girl. Women, honestly, have a never-ending supply of tears, spilling over at every possible occasion! I cant bear to see Helen in tears; its the one thing I truly fear.
I lost my appetite after all the upset, just nibbled the food before pushing it away.
…I woke up to find Helen standing by the bed, rummaging through my mobile phone! In almost ten years together, shed never done that. So, she didnt trust mewas looking for evidence of an affair. I felt bitter and disgusted at such a lack of trust.
But then she whispered, “Paul…Paul,” gently prodding me.
I pretended Id just woken.
“Paul, this was the number that called? The landline one?”
“Yeah,” I answered automatically, “thats it.”
“Right, go back to sleep.” Helen left the bedroom with my mobile in hand and quietly pulled the door to.
Sleep? Easier said than done! I heard the computer fire up. I lay there a bit longer, then quietly got up and crept into the sitting room.
Helen was clicking away, engrossedshe didnt notice me behind her. Shed typed “Little Oaks Childrens Home, London” into the search bar.
The computer whirred, then displayed the official site, address, telephone, even photos of the building. Helen glanced from my phone screen to the monitor.
“Paul, it matches!”
“What does?”
“The number! It matches. Thats their phone!”
“See, thats exactly what I said. But you had to check?”
Helen spun round.
“Im not checkingIm clarifying.”
“Why?”
“Paul, that home isnt far at all,” she mused out loud. “Lets go over there! How on earth do they have your number if youre a complete stranger, eh?”
It hadnt occurred to me. How did they get my number? Maybe we should go and get to the bottom of it. Otherwise, who knows how many more children theyll try to pin on me!
Sleep eluded me the rest of that night. Just as I was drifting off, Helen nudged me again.
“Paul…Paul…”
“What now?”
“Are you sure there was never anything…with anyone? Maybe, I dont know, ages ago, with your first love, for example. What if it happened without you even realising? She might not have told you, just left the girl at the hospital. Youre sure, Paul? Paul!”
“What love, Helen? Ive been with you since year onehavent budged since! And four years ago, when Charlie had just turned three and caught every bug at his nursery, who stayed home with him while you went back to work? Me! Remember, I had to work from home, barely keeping it togetherendless medicines, food schedules, trips to doctors. Mistresses? I barely stayed awake lying down, never mind anything else!”
“I havent had anyone, and never will.”
“Then how did your number get there? Somebody must have given it,” Helen persisted.
That question gnawed at me too. I mentally ran through every woman Id ever known, just in case. None of them fit; some were happily settled, some lived with their mums, and the most energetic one left the country years back.
Still, life being as mad as it is, I resolved then and there to visit the Childrens Home first thing the next day.
Though we arrived early, someone was ahead of usthe visitor sitting outside the managers office was a thin, pale, nervous-looking bloke. Well-dressed enough, but a bit rough around the edges, shifting his papers from hand to hand, fingers tremblingperhaps from nerves, or maybe recovering after a heavy night.
“Youll be after me,” he boomed unexpectedly, voice deep as thunder.
Almost instantly, the door opened and he was called in. For fifteen minutes, we could hear a steady voice from inside, occasionally interrupted by the mans rumbling responses.
At last, the man came out, flustered and now empty-handed, and we were finally called in.
“Good morning,” said a pleasant brunette by the window, chewing on her spectacles arm. “What brings you here?”
“Were here about yesterday,” I joked, trying to lighten things.
She sat at her desk.
“Im afraid I dont have time for riddles. Please, state your business clearly and briefly.”
I reminded her of the phone callher voice was unmistakeable.
“Ah, that…” She smiled tiredly. “Im very sorrya simple mistake. That call wasnt meant for you at all.”
“But I picked up, and you had my number. How did you get it?”
“You see, Mr Smith, I made a typo. The real number starts 01927, I dialled 01937. That youre also a Paul Smithpure coincidence. It does happen.”
“Actually,” she added, “the real Paul Smith was here just before you.”
“Who?” I asked dumbly, though Id guessed already.
“Paul Smith Simmons. The girls actual father.”
“So once again, I apologise,” she said, already rising from her seat, “but Ive a lot of work to get on with.”
The badge pinned to her blouse read Theresa Moore.
Helen must have noted it too, because she asked, “Ms Moore, will that Paul Smith be taking the girl?”
Ms Moore sat back down, looked at us, and replied, “No, he wont. The girls mother passed away, and this Mr Smith has seven children with several different women. In three years, hes only visited twice, and only when we insisted. Little Hope means nothing to him. Is there anything else? If not, good day.”
Stunned by all wed heard, we made our way out.
Older children were playing outside. Some were on the swings, some down the slide, two boys racing toy cars on a bench.
I noticed what was missing. It was quiet. When Charlies outside, its chaosshouting, laughter, you name it. Not here. The children spoke quietly among themselves, smiles few and far between, like tiny old people. These kids had skipped childhood: survivalwhether cold, hunger, lack of toys, clothes, indifference, or outright crueltywas all theyd known.
I turned to Helen. Her eyes were brimming again. Women and their tearsnever far away.
We walked towards the gate, slow and thoughtful. Suddenly, a little girl ran out, arms wide, calling, “Mummy!” and all the children turned to look. She ran straight to Helen, clutching at her knees, crying so hard it nearly made me cry.
“Hope! Hopey!” The carer hurried up, trying to pick her up, but Hope clung stubbornly to Helens leg. Eventually, a bit of chocolate persuaded her, and we left the grounds in something close to a sprint.
We rode home in silence. Helen was shaking, and I was little better, hands trembling so I had to pull over and catch my breath.
Helen glanced at a shop sign nearby, then looked at me pointedly.
Wordlessly, we both got out, locked hands, and walked into Mothercare.
To buy a doll and a pink dress.
Our Hope was going to be the most beautiful girl there.
