Random Call
Is this Paul Johnson? The voice on the phone was icy and official.
Yes, Im Paul Johnson. Whos calling?
This is the manager of Little Sprouts Childrens Home. Your daughter turns three next week, and well have to move her to another facility. Are you absolutely not taking her home?
Wait a minutewhat little one? Whose daughter? I have a son, Ben! I stammered in shock.
Hannah Pauline Smith. Isnt she your daughter?
Er, no, not mine. Im Johnson. Paul Johnson.
My apologies, sighed the voice wearily. Seems theres been some mix-up.
The phone went dead, the busy signal blaring like church bells in my ear.
Good grief! I fumed. A daughter, in a childrens homewhat sort of chaos is going on in their records? But the call stuck in my mind like a burr. I couldnt help thinking about children growing up without a home, without a warm mum and a caring dad, or doting grandparents fussing over them. Ben, after all, had the full family setuncles, aunts, even cousins from both sides
Helen immediately noticed my distracted replies and the odd, faraway look. Not much gets past a wife youve lived with for nearly ten years, especially when youve known each other since primary school.
She waited until dinner and then asked bluntly what was up.
So, whats the girls name? she said.
Whose name? I blurted, thrown off (How did Helen know about the girl? Maybe she got a call too?).
Hannah, I said. Little Hannah.
Oh, Hannah, is it? my wifes voice sharpened. Im just Helen, but she gets to be Hannah? She started raising her voice.
Yes, I said, Hannah Pauline Smith.
Next thing, youll give me her National Insurance number! she shrieked.
She doesnt even have one! Not at her age
What is she then, a refugee? Helen screeched, a little less loudly.
Whos a refugee now? I was completely lost.
Your precious Hannah! Wants to settle in, does she? Tell me, you scoundrel!
Tell you what, exactly? I sat there, utterly dumbfounded, forgetting all about dinner.
Then Helen burst into tearsnot dramatic sobbing, just furious, hard tears dropping onto her frilly apron.
Im leaving for Mums tomorrow. And Ill have you know, Ben is coming with me, she said, voice trembling.
Helen, for heavens sake! Why? Whats happened? Why go to your mum?
You think Im going to serve you here while you entertain your mistress, Hannah? She flew off the handle.
Gradually, the absurdity of it all began to sink in.
I took Helen by the shoulders, sat her down on the kitchen bench, and recounted the whole tale of the morning’s phone call.
Now Helen wept out of pity for the little girl. Honestly, women seem to have an endless supply of tearsany reason, any volume! And I have an aversion to tears, especially Helens; they make me uneasy.
After such drama, appetite was gone. I picked at my food, but barely ate.
Later that night, I woke to Helen standing by my side, rummaging through my phone! Not once in nearly ten years had she done this. She clearly didnt believe mesearching for evidence of love affairs. The distrust stung, made me feel filthy. Then she whispered, Paul Paul and nudged me gently.
I pretended Id just woken up.
Paul, this is the number that called, right? The landline one?
Yes, I replied automatically, thats the one.
Go back to sleep. Helen left the bedroom with my phone in tow.
Easy for her to saysleep, indeed! I heard the computer switch on. After lying there for a bit, I got up and tiptoed into the lounge.
Helen was furiously clicking, so absorbed she didnt notice me behind her.
In the search bar shed typed: Childrens Home and our town.
The computer buzzed, then pulled up the official site, address, phone number, and even a picture of the building. Helen looked at my phone screen.
Paul, it matches!
What matches?
The phone number! Its the childrens home number!
Thats what Ive said! So youre checking up on me?
Helen spun on her chair.
Not checkingclarifying.
Clarifying what??
Paul, the home is nearby, she said, ignoring me, thoughtfully.
Shall we go there? How did they even get your phone number if youre a stranger?
I hadnt thought of that. But really, how? Maybe we should go and sort this out Otherwise, theyll keep giving me other peoples children, and Ill have to clean up the mess!
Sleep never came that night. Just as I was dozing off, Helen poked me again.
Paul Paul
What now?
Are you sure you never had anything with anyone else? Maybe just once with your first love or something. You meet her after years, old feelings stir up, and she never says anything, just leaves the girl at hospital. Maybe, eh? Paul?
What love, Helen? I started sitting next to you in Year One, and here I amwell, lying, actually, but with you, basically. Four years ago, Ben was three, just starting nursery, always ill, and you were back at work. Who looked after him? Me. I had to switch to remote work, remember? Endless medicine, diets, doctor visits. Mistresses? I barely managed to stay upright, falling asleep mid-air without touching the pillow! No affairs. None. Never!
Then how did your number end up there? Someone must have left it for contact, Helen persisted.
That question bothered me too. I sifted through all the women I ever metnever anything between us, but their tricky natures could explain it. Yet, all had moved onhappy relationships, a grandma with the baby, or the most energetic one moved abroad years ago.
But, since life is full of surprises, I resolved to visit Little Sprouts Childrens Home in the morning.
We arrived early but weren’t firstalready at the directors door sat a pale, scrawny man, neatly dressed, but somehow scruffy, unkempt. Shifty eyes, hands clutching papers, tremblingnerves or a hangover, probably the latter.
Youre after me, he said unexpectedly in a deep bass.
The door opened and he went in. For fifteen minutes, a steady voice alternated with his rumbling baritone.
Finally, he rushed out, disheveled and paperless, and we were called in.
Good afternoon, smiled a pleasant, middle-aged brunette at the window, nibbling her glasses. What brings you here?
For yesterdays fiasco, I quipped.
She sat at the desk.
Look, I really dont have time for guessing games. Please state your issue clearly and briefly.
I reminded her of the call (the voice was unmistakable).
Oh, that she smiled tiredly. Sorry, mistake on our part. We dialed the wrong number.
How can it be the wrong number if you have mine? Where did you get it?
You see, Paul Johnson, I pressed the wrong digit. The correct number starts with 01727, but I dialed 01737. You being Paul Johnson is pure coincidence. That gentleman who was in before youhes the actual parent.
Who? I asked dumbly, though I already knew the answer.
Paul Johnson Smith, father of the girl.
So, my apologies againand goodbye. Sorry, lots to do.
She stood up.
Theresa Simmons, said her name badge.
Helen mustve read it too, as she asked, Ms Simmons, will Paul Johnson Smith take the girl home?
The manager looked at us and sat back down.
No, he wont. The girls mother passed away, and Paul Johnson Smith has seven kids with different women. In three years, hes visited twiceand that was only when we insisted. Hannah means nothing to him. Thats all. Any other questions? Good day.
Shocked, we left the building.
Older children were outdoors; some swinging, some sliding, two boys racing toy cars on a bench.
Watching them, something struck me: the silence.
If Ben was in the garden, thered be shouting, laughing, loud commotion. These kids didnt laugh out loudthey talked quietly, like little old souls. Theyd grown up too soon. Childhood was taken from them; all that was left was survivalcold, hunger, no toys, clothes, indifference from grown-ups, sometimes even cruelty.
I looked at Helen. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Here we go againthe endless tears!
We ambled toward the gate, when a shout shattered the quiet: Mum! All the children turned. A little girl in a silly bobble hat ran towards us, arms outstretched.
Mum! Mum! she cried. Here I am!
She crashed into Helens legs, sobbing so heartbroken and raw, I felt my own eyes sting.
Hannah, Hannah! Down the path came a carer, trying to pick her up, but Hannah clung tightly to Helen, resisting furiously.
Finally, chocolate worked its magic and Hannah was untangled, and we hurried out of Little Sprouts.
In the car, we sat in silence. Helen was shaking, and I felt uneasy myself. My hands trembledjust like the other Pauland I pulled over to calm down.
Helen glanced at the window and signaled at the shop sign nearby.
Wordlessly, we got out, linked arms, and walked into Toy Wonderland.
To buy a doll and a pink dress.
Our daughter Hannah would be the prettiest of them all!
