Tommy
Tom had an ordinary family. His mum and dad loved him, and he loved them back. On weekends, they went to the cinema or theatre, skated in winter, and in summer, they travelled to the seaside. They collected seashells, and his father taught him to swim. Then the company where his dad worked went bankrupt. He started drinking. Drunk, he would curse the government, the Prime Minister, and the laws—everyone was to blame for his lost job.
When his mum, tired of his drunken rants, asked him to go to bed, he turned on her. Lately, he had been picking fights the moment he walked in. She would send Tom to his room, but he heard everything—the shouts, the sound of smashed plates. What could he do?
After his father passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stench of booze, his mum would creep into Tom’s room, often falling asleep beside him in his narrow bed. He noticed bruises on her arms, even her face. In the morning, his dad would apologise and swear he’d never lay a finger on her again…
By dawn, his mum would slip away quietly. Once sober, his dad left too—”job hunting,” he called it. Tom stayed home alone, did his homework. He was in Year 4, attending afternoon school. He warmed up his own lunch, ate, and walked to school.
Come evening, it all started again.
“Your dad kicked off last night, didn’t he?” asked Mrs. Rosemary, their neighbour through the wall.
“Yeah,” Tom nodded shortly.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“Gotta go. I’ll be late,” Tom hurried off.
“Go on, then,” she sighed, watching him leave.
When he got home, his mum was cooking dinner in the kitchen. No sign of his dad—Tom was relieved. He sat at the table, telling her small bits of school news, then admitted it was better without his father, and maybe he shouldn’t come back.
His mum frowned.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he gets a job, everything will be like before.”
But his dad came home, staggering, dropping things in the hallway. His mum tensed, peering out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging him toward the stairs.
Tom sat in his room, listening. Tonight was different—quieter. Then his mum let out a sharp cry, something heavy hit the floor. Tom edged out and peeked into the kitchen. His dad stood wide-legged, glaring down at his mum sprawled on the tiles. Tom gasped. His father turned, eyes bloodshot.
“Lad,” he slurred.
Tom bolted, banging on Mrs. Rosemary’s door, trembling. She didn’t understand his jumbled words but called the police and an ambulance. They arrived together. His dad was taken away; his mum rushed to hospital. Tom stayed the night with Mrs. Rosemary.
The next morning, they visited his mum. She lay alone in bed, tubes snaking around her. She didn’t wake, even when he called her or tugged her hand. The doctor led Mrs. Rosemary into the corridor, leaving Tom behind.
He kept shaking her awake. Bored, he wandered out to find Mrs. Rosemary and overheard the doctor say, “She’s in a coma… unlikely to wake…” Terrified, he ran.
Mrs. Rosemary found him on a bench outside. He cried all the way home.
“Any family nearby?” she asked.
“Gran’s in the countryside.”
“How far?”
“Bus ride and a long walk.”
“Know the way?”
“I’m not a baby,” Tom muttered.
“I’ll take you tomorrow,” she promised.
But the next morning, her friend’s daughter called—her mum was dying. Mrs. Rosemary flustered.
“I’ll put you on the bus. You’re a big lad now.”
At the station, she asked the driver to watch him. Tom dozed off, exhausted—until a woman shook him awake.
“Wake up, lad. Last stop.”
The driver warned him to stay with the others, but the crowd scattered. Alone on the country road, he felt small under the autumn sun, singing softly for courage: *”Scarborough Fair… parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme…”*—a song his mum used to hum.
After passing one village, two boys whistled at him from a fallen log.
“Who’re you?” the taller one sneered.
“Visiting my gran.”
“You skippin’ school?”
“None of your business.”
“Got any fags?” piped the other.
“Mum says smoking stunts your growth.”
They laughed.
“Listen to mummy’s boy,” the older one mocked, snatching Tom’s backpack.
He fought, but they shoved him down, rummaging through his things—clothes, a book, forgotten sandwiches.
“Ten quid! Little rich brat!” They waved Mrs. Rosemary’s money.
Tom lunged, but they knocked him back. His head cracked against the log…
An old woman found him. “Who did this? Who are you?”
Tom couldn’t remember.
She took him in, fed him, locked him inside while fetching help. The village constable came, snapped a photo of his bruised face, and sent him to a children’s home.
“Sorry, lad. You’re going to a care home.”
The kids there bullied him for his memory lapses. Nights were worst—blanket beatings. He fought back, earning a reputation as a troublemaker. They called him “Tim” after the song he kept singing.
Months passed. At Christmas, sponsors visited. Staff hoarded gifts, doling out sweets. Tim gorged his in hiding, sickened himself.
The music teacher noticed his voice.
“Sing something festive,” she urged.
He refused, sticking to *Scarborough Fair.*
The matron approved. “It’s moving. Sponsors love sob stories.”
Onstage, trembling, he sang.
Then—a woman dashed in.
“Tommy!”
The matron tried to stop her. “This is Tim. He’s a problem child—”
But the woman gripped him. “I’ve searched every home… You remember the time you skinned your knee at Brighton? Or when the neighbour’s cat scratched you?”
The room held its breath.
“…Mum?”
She wept, clutching him.
Back in her arms, fragments returned—his father’s rage, the hospital.
“You’re taking me home?”
“Always.”
The matron hesitated.
“I’ll tell your sponsors everything,” his mum threatened.
Paperwork signed, they left.
“I heard a doctor say you’d die.”
“That was another patient, love.” She ruffled his hair. “We’re seeing Gran. She’s waiting.”
With each day, more memories surfaced—including his bullies. He’d make them pay.
But one fear lingered. “Will Dad come back?”
“No. We’ll leave if he tries.”
Hand in hand, Tom kept glancing up, reassuring himself she was real.
Nothing is lonelier than a child lost in a cruel world. Cruelty hardens hearts. But a mother’s love can thaw even the deepest frost.
