Tommy
James had an ordinary family. His mum and dad loved him, and he loved them back. On weekends, they’d go to the cinema or the theatre, ice skating in winter, and in summer, they’d holiday down in Cornwall. They collected seashells, and his dad taught James how to swim… Then the company he worked for went bust. His dad started drinking. Drunk, he’d rant about the government, the prime minister, the laws—everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When Mum, tired of his drunken rambling, asked him to go to bed, he’d turn on her. Lately, he’d start on her the moment he walked in. She’d send James to his room, but he’d hear everything—the shouting, the sound of smashed plates. What could he do?
When Dad finally passed out, snoring loudly, filling the room with the sour stench of booze, Mum would slip into James’s room, often falling asleep beside him on his narrow bed. James noticed bruises on her arms, even her face. By morning, Dad would apologise, swearing he’d never lay a finger on her again…
Mum would leave quietly in the morning. Once he’d slept it off, Dad would head out, saying he was “looking for work.” James stayed home, doing his homework—he was in Year 3, attending school in the afternoons. He’d heat up his own lunch, eat, then walk to school.
By evening, it all started again.
“Bloody hell, your dad on one again last night?” asked Mrs. Higgins, their next-door neighbour.
“Yeah,” James nodded shortly.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“Gotta go—I’ll be late for school,” James muttered, hurrying off.
“Off you pop, then,” Mrs. Higgins sighed, watching him go.
When James got home from school, Mum was in the kitchen making dinner. No sign of Dad—James was relieved. He sat at the table, chattering about school, then blurted out that it was better without Dad. He wished he’d never come back.
Mum shot him a look.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he gets a job, things’ll go back to normal.”
But Dad came home, crashing around in the hallway, dropping things, grumbling. Mum stiffened, peering out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging James forward.
He sat in his room, listening. But tonight was different—quieter. Then Mum let out a sharp cry, something heavy thudded to the floor. James crept out, peering into the kitchen. Dad stood wide-legged over Mum, sprawled on the tiles. James gasped. Dad turned, his eyes bloodshot.
“Son,” he slurred.
James bolted, banging on Mrs. Higgins’s door. He trembled as she called the police and an ambulance. They arrived together. Dad was taken away. Mum was rushed to hospital. James spent the night at Mrs. Higgins’s.
The next morning, they went to see Mum. She lay alone, tubes snaking around her. She didn’t wake, even when James shook her arm. The doctor pulled Mrs. Higgins into the corridor, leaving James alone with her.
He kept trying to wake her. Bored, he wandered out, looking for Mrs. Higgins. A door was ajar—he overheard the doctor saying, *She’s in a coma. Unlikely to wake, but we’ve got to hope…* Terrified, he ran from the hospital.
Mrs. Higgins found him on a bench outside. He cried all the way home. She tried to soothe him, patience wearing thin. At home, she asked if they had any family.
“Gran’s in the village,” James said.
“Far from here?”
“Hour and a half by bus, then a three-mile walk.”
“D’you know the way?”
“‘Course I do,” James snapped.
“I’ll take you tomorrow,” Mrs. Higgins said.
But in the morning, her friend’s daughter called—her mum was dying. Mrs. Higgins flustered.
“I’ll put you on the bus. You’re a big lad.”
At the station, she asked the driver to keep an eye on him. James dozed off, worn out. A nudge woke him.
“Oi, mate, last stop,” said the woman beside him.
He stumbled off. The other passengers scattered. Alone on the lane, fear prickled. But the sun shone, leaves crunched underfoot. *You’re not a kid*, he told himself, humming for courage: *”The snow lies deep upon the field…”* Mum used to sing it with him.
One village, then another with a shop, then Gran’s. As he passed the first, a whistle rang out. Two lads loitered by a fallen tree.
“Who’re you, then?” the taller one sneered. “Never seen you round here.”
“Visiting my gran.”
“Skiving off school?”
“Nah, just… gotta see her.”
“Got any fags?” the other piped up.
James scoffed. “Mum says smokers stay small.”
They cackled. “Listen to ‘im! Proper little know-it-all.” The taller one snatched James’s backpack, scattering clothes, a book, sandwiches he’d forgotten.
“Bet your mum’s shagging some bloke while you’re gone,” they jeered.
James lunged—but they shoved him down.
“Got any cash?”
They rifled his pockets, crowing at the twenty quid Mrs. Higgins had given him.
James scrambled up. “Give it back!”
A scuffle—he was no match. One shoved him hard. James fell, cracking his head on the tree.
A bent old woman crouched over him. “Lord, what’ve they done to you? Who are you, love?”
James sat up, aching. He couldn’t remember—his name, why he was here, anything. His shirt was torn, his coat gone.
The woman took him in, fed him, then left to fetch the village chairman.
“Keep him here tonight,” the man said. “Copper’ll sort it tomorrow.”
The next day, a young policeman took James away. No one had claimed him.
“You’ll go to a children’s home,” the officer said.
James barely listened.
At the home, the kids picked on him when they realised he remembered nothing. Nights were worst—blanket punches in the dark. He fought back, earning a reputation. The staff called him a troublemaker. But he did well in school—formulas stuck, even if his past didn’t.
They named him Tommy Carter—after the song he hummed, and the village where he was found. It felt wrong, but what choice did he have?
Months passed. Before Christmas, sponsors visited with gifts. The staff hid most, doling out sweets. Tommy wolfed his down, hiding under the stairs. He felt sick—a teacher scolded him.
“You’re singing later—pull yourself together!”
The music teacher noticed his voice.
“But it’s got to be a Christmas song,” she insisted.
Tommy refused. He’d only sing *his* song.
The director allowed it. “He sings it beautifully. Might loosen the sponsors’ wallets.”
Decorations sparkled. Dressed up, the kids performed skits and dances. Tommy’s turn came. He froze—but the PE teacher glared. So he sang, voice wavering at first, then strong: *”The snow lies deep upon the field…”*
By the end, even the staff wiped tears.
Applause erupted. Then the director hurried in—with a woman who stared straight at Tommy.
“James!” she shrieked, rushing forward.
The director chased her. “This is Tommy Carter—he’s not your boy!”
But the woman grabbed him. “My love, I’ve looked everywhere—so many homes…” Her voice broke. “Don’t you remember? You cut your foot on a shell—that kitten you cried over—the dog bite when you were five?”
Kids sniffled. Staff gawked.
In the office, she pointed out birthmarks, scars. Fragments flickered in Tommy’s mind—then he remembered. Mum, hospital wires… Dad looming over her…
“Mum,” he whispered.
She clutched him.
“Take me home?”
“Of course—”
“Hold on,” the director cut in. “There’s paperwork. How do I know you’re fit?”
Mum stood firm. “Try stopping me.”
They left that night, Gran waiting with mince pies.
Bit by bit, James remembered—including the lads who’d robbed him. He’d settle that score later.
For now, one fear nagged: *Would Dad come back?*
“No,” Mum said firmly. “We’re free.”
Hand in hand, they walked. James kept glancing up, reassuring himself—she was here.
Nothing’s worse than being alone, memory gone, in a cruel world. Cruelty changes you. Suspicion, fear, despair lingered.
But a mother’s love melts evenAnd as the years passed, James learned that home wasn’t just a place—it was the quiet strength in his mother’s hands and the melody they’d hum together on warm summer evenings.
