Foundling
“Hello, anyone home?” Helen slips off her sandals and sighs with delight.
Beautiful, no doubt, but utterly uncomfortable! Tempted by appearances, she hadnt thought how impossible it is to wear such nonsense in the heat. The straps are so thin, they dig right in!
Helen picks up her shoes to put on the hall shelf, and freezes. From the corner by the door, two bright green eyes are watching her.
“And who might you be?” Helen asks, almost whispering.
The owner of those hypnotic green eyes, clearly, would rather not reply. He squeezes himself deeper into the corner, crouches, and hisses.
“Clear enough…”
Carefully, not wanting to scare the unexpected guest, she sets her sandals down and steps back.
“I won’t touch you. Calm down! Ill go find out where youre from. If you don’t mind, that is. What a surprise…”
The visitor responds with a low, threatening growl, so serious that Helen cant help but smile.
“Easy now, you fierce thing! This is my house. No one’s going to hurt you here. No one ever gets hurt here.”
The grumbler seems to take her meaning and quiets a bit, placing both paws on the floor. Still wary, but at least not hissing or growling anymore.
Helen walks down the hall, looks into the living room and kitchen, and is surprised to find everything spotless and peaceful. Usually, she finds such a mess after work that she has to watch her stepnot unlike exploring a minefield! Parts from her son’s building sets are as sharp as tacks, and the paints her husband bought for the kids are near-impossible to scrub off from the table if not spotted in time.
The door to the children’s room is ajar. Everything is so quiet, Helen assumes the house is empty.
But shes wrong. All three of her “darlings” are there, sat on the floor with a large sheet of art paper, drawing together in the middle of the room.
“Well, this is interesting! Why has no one greeted me?” Helen grins, looking at two ginger heads and one brown.
Their answer is a chorus of “Oh!” and felt-tip pens scattering about, while Barbara flops flat in a flurry, trying to cover an unfinished drawing.
“Mum! Dont look!”
Helen laughs, covering her face with her hands.
“I wont! But will someone tell me what sort of beast is hissing at me in the hallway?”
Oliver, the owner of the brown head, glances at the younger ones and gets up.
“Mum, sorry! We wanted to warn you, but well, thats my fault. I brought him in.”
“I see. And why is he so wild?”
“His paw is injured. I rescued him from the dogs outside.”
Helens alarmed. You werent hurt too, were you? Wheres the pain?
“Mum, Im fine. Honestly. The dogs were chasing this poor thing around the green. Mrs. Harriss dogs. Not strays.”
Helen knows that pack well. Four little mutts of suspicious pedigree, adored by the local neighbourhood’s main gossip, Iris Harris. The dogs are a constant source of bickering: badly trained, constantly escaping, while Mrs. Harriss bad knees stop her from walking them as she should. But shed never part with her beloveds. So, all the mums in Beechwood Close know to keep their kids inside until after ten, when the terriers have finished their rampage. The dogs have never bitten anyone, but they can bark loud enough to scare most adults. Iris pays her council fines with a smirk to any mum who objects: “Keep an eye on your children! Fancy letting them out unsupervised at their age! Want a break, do you? What sort of mother needs a break from her kids? No one dares touch my babies, so learn to protect yours!”
Helen has always pitied Mrs. Harris, despite her sharp tongue, knowing how much hardship the older lady has endured.
Iriss husband was a terrifying manon the surface, polite, well-groomed, always with a pressed shirt and neat trousers, always ready to help a neighbour with heavy bags or lift a pram when the lift was down. But what went on behind their door stayed hidden for years, even from close neighbours. He would hurt Iris so cleverly that thered rarely be bruises, and certainly, no shouting allowed.
“Raise your voice once and its you and your son both,” his smile just as sweet as when patting a neighbours baby.
Iris endured in silence for years. Her son, born of her first marriage, meant the world to her. Widowed at twenty-three, she remarried mainly so the boy could have a father. Her new husband played the role perfectly, doting enough that even her son was fooled. The boy knew nothing of what his mother sufferedthe stepdad did all he could to hide their relationship behind the bedroom door.
Eventually, the truth came out, as it always does. Her son came home early from school, opened the door with his own keys and heard a muffled cry from the kitchen. Everything unravelled fast after that, so quickly the authorities later struggled to piece events together. Regardless of the exact details, Iris did all she could so her child wouldnt have to deal with the aftermath.
Who was to blame for Mr. Harriss change? No one knows. The knives were always sharphe handled the home with pride and passed those skills to Iriss son. At twelve he could handle a kitchen just fine. But Iris always claimed responsibility. When it was all over, her son went to his gran, and Iris did her time. When she got out, she brought her son home and swapped her flat for another in a different part of the building, starting a new life that included only her boy and a little stray dog shed picked up off the road. The dog survived being hit by a car, so Iris named her Trudy after a queen she once adored. Trudy became Iriss shadow and was the first in a chain of strays: Trudy had a daughter, also named Trudy, followed by Trudy the Third. Some passed on, others arrived, and Iris could not imagine life without her clever, loyal scruffs.
Her son graduated, moved north for a good job, married, had two children and a spacious three-bedroom house, but Iris always refused to move in with them, despite pleas from her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. She loved her family, but preferred to live independently so as not to be a burden.
That decision didnt sweeten her temper. She missed her family terribly, which often made her difficult with the neighbours. As more dogs joined her household, the little horde would charge around the Close, alarming anyone not in on their origins. Each rescue was taken in on the grounds that they needed a home as much as any person.
Helens children were never hurt by Iriss dogs.
Once a week, after jointing the Sunday roast, Helen would drop off a bag of bones for the dogs. Over a cup of tea, shed admire Iriss grandchildrens photos, which the older lady displayed with pride.
Only Iris knew for certain that Oliver wasnt Helens biological son. She never gossiped, simply commented once when a few neighbours fussed that the dark-haired boy looked nothing like Helen, a redhead, or her fair-haired husband.
“So what? You lot should mind your own! Nature has surprises up its sleeve. Helens granddad looked just like that! Black as coal, with blue eyes. A real stunnerI even fancied him a bit, back in the day. Yes, laugh if you willI was young once! Thats a fine boy youve got, Helen. Touch wood!”
There were no more whispers after that. Helen had told Iris, and only Iris, how Oliver had come to them.
Helen and her husband longed for a child for five years. The doctors were stumped. Youre both perfectly healthy. Sometimes these things just happen. Medicine cant fix everything. Keep trying and hope for the best.
Fate had its own ideas. Helens cousin, Sally, fell pregnant by a long-term boyfriend. To Sallys dismay, he wanted nothing to do with fatherhood: he packed up and left. Sally, nearly fifteen years older than Helen, was never terribly practical. She fell into a black depression, pushing away family and friends. Her mother, Aunt Vera, did everything she could, but Sally wouldnt snap out of it. By the time Sally declared, Ill give the baby up at birth, dont try to talk me out of it, it was nearly too late.
Then tragedy struck: Sally didnt survive the birth. Perhaps it was a medical error, perhaps it was just her time, but baby Oliver was orphaned before his first day had ended.
Helen had adored Sally, and didnt think twice.
She looked after me as a little girl, loved me Shell always be my Sally! And her son he shouldnt go to strangers. They wont give him to Aunt Vera, shes too old and unwell. What do we do?
Helen looked at her husband, but knew his answer already. Shed chosen him, out of all her admirers, for his calm loyalty and devotion. He wasnt flashy, rarely laughed raucously, but she felt safe and loved by him. He would make her happy.
Helen had never been slim, so it was easy enough to fake a pregnancy: she spent a couple of months with her aunt, sorted the paperwork, and brought Oliver home. When quizzed about the timing, she and her husband would simply nod and joke, deflecting all questions.
Only Iris knew the truth. Helen didnt know why she told her, but her neighbour understood.
“Im glad you confided in me. Dont worryI wont breathe a word. Not my business. But its a heavy thing to keep to yourself. Youre young and hes still so little. One day youll need advice, and Im here. I have a son, too. I wasnt always by his side, but Im proud I nurtured our relationship. So come to me, if you ever need to. For now, keep it quiet! Never tell anyone he isnt yours. It isnt true anywayhe is yours, because you choose to be his mother. Never let yourself believe you dont have the right to raise him as your own. Take it from meIve seen what happens when mothers try to dance around their adopted children, treating them like precious breakablesnonsense! They need firmness. Doubt your right to parent, and youll lose him. Both of you will suffer.”
Helen remembered those words for years. Whenever she nodded to Iris in the Close, she knew her neighbour understood exactly what she meant.
Oliver grew, Helen had more children. First little Jack, then Barbara. Iris would smile, watching the two redheads chase each other or dole out biscuits to Trudy the Third and her companions.
Then, Helen needed advice.
Oliver had become unexpectedly aggressive with other children. He never hurt his siblings, only others. Helen was concernedhe was old enough to know better by now.
Talking didnt help. Oliver clammed up, refusing to say why he fought at school. The school counsellor just shrugged: Hes growing. Ill chat with him if you insist but itll pass.
Helen found that answer unsatisfying. So one evening, leaving the little ones with her husband, she went to see Iris.
Knew youd come, Iris said, letting her in. Lets go to the kitchen. I baked a pie today. My little ones love it. Theyre not supposed to have too much, but I sneak them a treat. Tea?
“You’re worried about Oliver, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Helen replied, suddenly relieved of a great weight. Her husband Alex was always supportive, but tonight Helen needed to be able to speak freely, without worrying about anyones feelings but Olivers.
Iris listened silently, offering tissues and topping up the tea, sometimes asking a question, waiting until Helen poured everything out.
What can I tell you, Helen? Boys fight; they stand their ground. Try to see things from his side. If he believes youll hear him out, hell tell you everything. Have you ever asked him why he fights?
I triedhe won’t answer.
Then you didnt ask the right way! We always do this: someone complains, gives us the worst version, and we jump in: Why did you embarrass me, son?! I did it myself! But you have to do it differently.
Listenask him to explain. Tell him hell still be in trouble, because fighting is wrong, but you want to understand what happened first. If he has a good enough reason, youll listen. Believe me, knowing youll try to understand him means more than anything else. And dont interrupt, let him say his piece. No gasping, no scoldingjust listen! Youll learn so much. I learned this too late. I missed out on really knowing my own child for too long.
They talked late into the night. When Helen got home, only Alex was awake; the rest of the house was fast asleep. She kissed her younger children and knelt by Olivers bed.
Black hair like Sallys. Tanned skin, not at all like her little flame-heads. But Helen always felt a warm glow in her chest, gazing at his mucky cheek and the fat little heel poking out from under the duvet. Oliver was just as much her own child as Jack and Barbara. She knew this as well as she knew her own name.
Oliver stirred, stuck his arm out and hugged his tearful mum. Mum? Why are you crying? Dont, pleaseI wont do it again!
His dark eyes were so full of pain, Helen just pulled him in and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder.
“Tell me everythingright now, please! Who’s been unkind to you?”
And Oliver spoke.
The answer was obvious, but had never occurred to Helen.
They all say Im adopted. That Jack and Barbara are yours and Im not. Because I dont look like you. They say youre not really my mum!
“Nonsense!” Helen wiped her tears, took his chin and made him look at her. “You’re mine. From head to toe, you are my son. And Dads too. Don’t listen to anyone else, and please, never get into fights over this! Let people talk nonsense if they want. Where theres sense, theres no place for anger or spite. Remember, a wise person never insults or hurts anyone, nor needs to use fists to defend their truth. Alright, sometimes you must, but not in this case. Hold on!”
She fetched an old photo album Oliver had seen before but perhaps never truly absorbed.
“Look, heres your nan, young and beautiful. See her with her sister and their children? Heres me, heres my cousin Sally I loved her dearly. She was my first babysitter, then my best friend. And that’s your great-granddad, my granddad. See how tall, and dark-haired he was? Just like you! Is there any doubt you belong in our family?”
“No… Mum, why are you ginger? Why is Jack? And Barbara?”
“Because we take after Grandma. Sally and her mother after Granddad. Its all genetics. Youll learn this in school eventually. For now, dont listen to anyone else. You are ours, and thats all that matters, alright?”
Seeing Olivers relief, Helen almost confessed everything, but stopped herselflater, maybe, but not now. For now, Oliver was at peace, and that was enough.
The next day, Iris Harris greeted Oliver in the Close with her usual regal nod. Youre a credit to your mum and dad, Oliver. They should be proud.
Simple words, but enough to help Oliver settle. Iris never praised for nothing!
Helen came to Iris for advice many times after. Then, one day, she knocked at Iriss door and it remained closed. Inside, the dogs howled, but no one answered.
She found out later that Iris had been taken to hospital. Not wanting to trouble anyone, she hadnt phoned even her own son.
Helen rang round the hospitals, found out where Iris was, visited and collected her keys.
Thank you, Helen! My little ones need walking or they’ll tear the place down.
“And feeding! They havent eaten in two days. Why didnt you call me or your son?”
“I didn’t want to be a nuisance. Thought it would pass”
“Come on, thats what family is for, to fuss over you! What if you found out your son was ill but hadnt told you? Youd be upset, right? Exactly! Call him. Or I will. Tell him not to worry but that youre in good hands. He deserves to know!”
“You’re probably right But I hate bothering you, using up your time.”
Helen laughed. “As my kids say, ‘It’s not polite to sleep on the ceiling.’ Dont be silly! Youve spent loads of time helping us, and thanks to you, Oliver isnt afraid anymore. Let me at least do this for you!”
The pack was walked and fed, and Oliver took over the dogs care while Helen looked after Iris. Fortunately, the crisis passed and Iris soon returned hometo her dogs utter delight.
In that time, Oliver bonded with the dogs so much he offered to walk them regularly. Iris accepted, though she sometimes still let them out on their own. Oliver would grumble, and theyd squabble, but with a smile.
It was because the dogs trusted him that they listened when, one day, Oliver snatched a frightened, battered tomcat from their barking midst. The cat was scrawny, battle-worn, with huge eyes, and miserable beyond words. Oliver took a swipe to the face for his trouble but didnt mind.
“Youre a purebred, arent you? A British Blue? How on earth did you end up lost?”
The cat said nothing, growling and staring, but didnt struggle anymore.
The younger children were thrilled with their new lodger but quickly agreed that Mum needed warning. They crouched to reassure the catand strategise how best to break the news.
Helen, watching them, couldnt help but laugh at the resulting portrait: a cat twice her size in their family drawing, looking perfectly at home.
“So you thought a picture would be enough to convince me to let this grumpy giant stay? Ive never owned a cat! I dont even know where to start.”
“Mum, we dont either. Ill ask Mrs. Harrissurely, cats and dogs cant be so different? Shell know what to feed him!”
Just then, the doorbell rings. Helen smiles.
“Never mind askinggo and open the door. Looks like Iris has come just in time to help me sort his paw.”
The younger ones exchange happy glances and, just as Helen did earlier, whisper, “Mum, can we keep him?”
Havent I said so already? He can stay, unless his owners turn up. Someone should love him, shouldnt they?
And so the cat stays. Helen sighs quietly when paying the vets bill, but decides its a small price for the childrens happy faces and the gentle warmth of the cat pressed against her. After all, once he realised he was safe, the tom gave up his grudge and became Helens shadow. Oliver feigned jealousy, but Helen would only laugh:
“He knows whos really in charge! Clever puss.”
She knew that, every night, when the house grew still and the children buried their faces in their pillows, a grey shadow would rub against her leg, pad down the hall and nudge open the childrens door. Oliver, drowsy, would pull him close under the quilt, and the cat would settle quietly, his green eyes catching the hallway light as Helen peeked in.
Goodnight, shed whisper, stroking children and cat alike.
And sleepy silence would answer her. Helen would smile, quietly closing the door.
Happiness loves quiet. Let it be quiet for now. Until morningand then new worries, and new joys.
They would later see Iris off to her sons, promising to care for the pack until her return. Helen would hug her neighbour, stroking her trembling, joyful hands.
Theyre waiting for you! We all are. Safe travels!
And Iris would smile through tears, watching the children wave. No one looking at her thenthe toughest battleaxe in the Close, but still a handsome womanwould call her a troublemaker now. There was something in her eyes that told everyone: this was a good person. Her life still had many chaptersand the people around her were good, too. There would be joy and light yet.
Thered even be one more grandchild, unexpected and delightful. The long-dreaded move would finally happen and prove a blessing: in her sons big new house, thered be room for the whole pack. The dogs would have a proper garden and guard it diligently.
Twice a week, Iris would settle in at her granddaughters computer, waiting for her to set up the video call.
And from far away, but closer than ever, she would hear: “Hello, Auntie Iris!”
And the big grey tom, now family, would close his eyes, nestling into the hand of grown-up Oliver.
