WHEN HUSBAND RETURNED FROM WORK, HE WASNT ALONE: IN HIS ARMS WAS A LITTLE BOY…
Emma eased a baking tray out of the oven, releasing a cloud of glorious fish pie aroma into her kitchen. Just as Tom, her husband, liked it. On the stove bubbled a fresh pot of vegetable soup, the pie was golden, and all that remained was to finish simmering the apple compote. A task shed save for the moment Tom walked in.
She placed a crisp white tea towel over the pie to keep it warm, then wandered over to the window. Their cottage squatted snuggly in the middle of their village lane, right opposite the bus stopwhere, any minute now, Toms bus would be rolling up.
Three months. Thats how long she hadnt seen Tom. He worked away up north, three months away, three months home. Emma missed him desperately. Keeping up a house was a full-time sportespecially an old country house with more quirks than the cast of EastEnders.
The house was Emmas before she and Tom tied the knot five years ago. Hed owned a flat, but after a good old British debate (over tea, naturally), they decided theyd have a better life in a house with a garden. Tom sold his flat, had a go at business with the proceedswhich promptly went sideways. So for three years, Toms been off to work contracts up north.
To be fair, Toms money wasnt bad, but it was a bit much for 28-year-old Emmathree long months of utter solitude. Sometimes shed half-forget she was married, and that thought both amused and chastened her.
They didnt have childrenToms doing. Not that he was against it, mind, he just insisted it wasnt the right time.
If Im off for three months at a stretch, love, what on earth would you do here with a baby? Let me get us a few more quid, move back down, find something steady. Then kids, perhaps.
But those few more quid never seemed to stretch far. Something always needed fixing. At present, the roof had just about thrown in the towela downpour left a glum, soggy patch on the bedroom ceiling, and Emmas trusty bucket became a permanent bedroom feature every time the British heavens opened.
Tom knewEmma called him often enough to moan about the roof and receive promises of a repair blitz upon his return. Which, as any homeowner knows, meant a wallet weeping into a pint.
Tom was solidhandy, loving, always ringing to check on her. Emma doted on her chap. For his homecomings, shed even book the day off, fill the house with comfort food and lurk longingly by the window.
Toms train had arrived hours ago, and any minute now, the familiar village bus would trundle round the bend. There it was! Emmas heart did a silly jolt. She spotted Tomwith a bag the size of Yorkshire and…
Hang on. Tom wasnt alone.
Cradled in his arms was a child. A little boy. How old? Emma hadnt a clueshe avoided children with near-military precision. Tom looked especially grim, not even the usual cheery wave. His hands were full: a luggage in one, a small child in the other.
He trudged to the crossing, and Emmas mind reeled. Whose child? Had Tom found someones kid on his way? Surely not. Who would leave a tiny boy with Tom, of all people?
Tom barged inside, dumped his bag, and gently settled the boy on the floor. The little chap clung to Toms leg, sucking a thumb, gazing at Emma with enormous, owl-like eyes. Both looked lostEmma as much as the boy. She didnt fly into Toms arms as she usually did. Instead, she froze in the hallway.
No kiss for your husband after three months? Tom tried to open his arms. But there was none of his usual humour about him. Carefully, sidestepping the boy, Emma half-hugged Tom and mustered a lifeless kiss. But the question burned her throat:
Tom… whos the boy? Whats going on?
Tom sighed, steered the child by the hand.
Come on, Alfie, lets get your shoes off and well show you round the place.
Tom sat Alfie on the bed in the guest room, handed him a model Spitfire he usually didnt let anyone touchnot even Emma. If Tom was letting a child touch the Spitfire, something dramatic was afoot.
You stay in here, mate. Aunty Emma and I need to have a word.
Tom pulled the bedroom door to.
Cup of soup, love? he gave a sorry smile.
Emma robotically dished him some steaming soup, sliced the fish pie, and sat opposite, fists clenching as she waited for an explanation.
Tom ate, eyes fixed on his bowl. At last, with that classic Tom bluntness, he delivered the bombshell:
Hes my son, he blurted. The lads mine.
Emmas breath caught. She wanted to believe this was some dreadful joke, but Toms face was desolate.
It just… happened, Tom pressed her hand desperately. Three months awaywell, you know. I had a fling with the camp cook. Only happened a couple times, then she was pregnant.
So, Emma yanked her hand away. You said we should wait on having kids, yet youve got a kid the other end of the country…
Emmas voice trembled, skirting on an outright shriek.
You think I wanted it this way? Tom pleaded. She never told me she was pregnant. Had the baby, then sprang it on me. Its definitely minehes the spitting image. Didnt you notice?
No, Emma hadnt. She hadnt really seen the boy at all. As of that moment, he became utterly repellent: a breathing testament to Toms betrayal. Yet, one thing still baffled her.
And? Why bring him here? Wheres his mum?
Well, its a grim story… Shes gone. Got killed by a wild dog, out walking after work. Poor lads got no one left. My names on his papers. What else could I do? I had to bring him.
So… what now? Emma whispered, barely audible.
No idea, love. Up to you. If you cant forgive me, well both go. If you can… youll need to accept him too. I swear, it meant nothingjust loneliness. One mistake. Ill never do it again. Youre the only one I ever wanted. Cross my heart.
Emma looked at Tom and, for all her pain, she could see his shame was genuine. She had grown accustomed to their strange rhythm of waiting and welcoming; life without Tom seemed unthinkable. She would forgive him. But this child?
And what about him? she murmured. What are you expecting me to do?
Emma, hes my boy now. If you chuck me out, well leave together. If you take me backhes part of the deal.
That was almost unbearable. How could she raise a child whod remind her daily of Toms mistake? Tom would care for his son, while Emma would nurse her resentment.
Emma wordlessly stood up and left the house. She wandered through the winding lanes under the grey drizzle until late. She even approached the arched stone bridge by the river, half entertaining dark ideas, but deep down she already knew her answer. Life without Tom wasnt an optionfor better or worse, Alfie was part of the bargain.
She trudged home at midnight. Tom was asleep in their room, and little Alfie, ghost-like, slept restlessly on the armchair in the lounge. The nightlight cast shadows over his thin, anxious face. Emma tried to summon some pitybut mostly felt a prickly discomfort. Poor boy. His life had just spun upside-down.
Alfie was two. He was painfully shy, silent as a library, and seemed to sense Emma’s discomfort even without words. Unsurprisingly, he avoided her, glued himself to Tom, who, to be fair, only did the basic bits: washed, fed, and entertained him with new toys, perhaps to keep the boy out of his hair.
Emma didnt speak to either of them for a week, drifting like a half-hearted spectre from room to room. Tom, at first sheepish, soon relaxed and got stuck into the roof. Repairs led to conversation, grudging at first, then slowly warmer. By the end of the month, Emma had almostalmostthawed, forgave Tom (well, mostly), but the boy remained a sore spot. Let Tom deal with him.
Six weeks later, Emmas nerves sparked again. Toms next work spell up north was looming. What would become of Alfie? Tom looked at her as if shed suggested sacrificing him to the Queen.
I cant take him up to those work camps! Where would he sleep, under the tools? Of course hell stay here. Ive already arranged a spot at the village nursery. Just paperwork left. Youll drop him off and collect him. Look, you dont have to love himjust make sure he eats and doesnt blow anything up. He wont bother you.
Alfie peered round the doorframe with his big pale eyes. Did he understand? He was only two. Then again, maybe he understood more than anyone guessed. When Tom left for work, Alfie turned almost invisible. He got himself ready for nursery in the mornings without a word, Emma dropped him off, picked him up, and delivered meals without as much as a smile.
One evening after nursery, Alfie quietly pushed his dinner away and padded to his little room. Emma, peering in, saw him curled up, not playing, eyes squeezed shut. She shrugged it off at first, until she spotted how red his face was. For a pale child like Alfie, it was glaring. Cautiously, Emma reached to touch his forehead. Before she made contact, the heat radiated off him.
Now she panicked. After a few jostles, Alfie stirred, but his eyes were glassy, his voice faint.
Does it hurt, darling? How long have you felt ill? Emma knelt by his bed.
A while. My head and my throat. Nursery lady said I was sick yesterday.
He deflated into the covers as Emma dashed for the thermometer and, glancing at the number (a whacking forty degrees), rang for an ambulance, tongue almost bleeding from worry.
Oh, Alfie you poor mite. Sick for days, and too frightened to say. All because of meall because your scary, chilly new mum never warmed to you…
Right, the paramedic frowned after a listen, hes in a bad way, hospital it is! Emma bundled the feverish child in blankets and rode with him to A&E.
At the hospital desk, she blurted, Hes my husbands sonIm… Im adopting him. Soon hell be mine, really mine.
Shed meant to lie, but as she said it, Emma realised: she would. By the time Alfie flung his skinny arms round her neck in the ambulance, her heart had finally broken, but not in a bad wayit had melted.
They were two weeks in hospital together. Emma, now a champion mother hen, harried the nurses with hourly temperature checks and hovered by Alfies bedside. His sleepy gaze and longing arms became her reward.
He called her Mummy for the first time after Tom came home again. It rolled out so naturally, Emma sobbed through the night. She had adopted Alfie officially by then; not just in name, but in heart.
A year and a half passed. Alfie was unrecognisableno longer the mute shadow, but a cheerful, bustling imp who trailed after Emma. He barely noticed Tom, which, truthfully, Tom seemed glad about.
And then disaster struck.
Tom left for a job, and a week later, Emma got the dreaded call: a coach carrying the work crew skidded off a frosty road and vanished into a ravine. Carnage, snow, missing bodies, and among themTom.
Emma nearly lost her mind to grief. Only Alfie kept her going; what luck, really, that she wasnt alone.
A year later, Tom was declared missing; two years on, presumed dead. Emma had adjusted to widowhoodwhen, two weeks before it became official, Tom reappeared.
It was a rainy spring evening. Emma, just back from walking Alfie, fussed over his wet socks and sent him to change. Kettle on, for tea and biscuits! she chirped, breezing into the kitchen
And there was Tom, helpfully tucking into the chicken pie Emma had baked that morning as if nothing had happened.
Dont faint, love, Im alive, Tom winked. Honestly, dont look so shockedI wasnt on that bus!
Where were you for two years, Tom? Emma dropped onto a kitchen chair, hollow.
I well, an old friend rang just as I was about to board the bus, invited me down south for a business adventure. She fancied a little villa by the coast, you know. Shes well-off, bit older, but, you knowdetails. By the time I heard about the crash, I thought, well, this is fate. Ill stay with her, let you think Im gone.
And now? Emma managed, her voice tight. Why are you here?
To get a divorce. Were getting married, this woman and me. I need Alfieshe cant have kids of her own, always wanted one. Ill take him, well do a proper family.
What? Alfie? Just like that? Emmas eyes flashed.
Tom nodded. She wants a child desperately. Since youre not my wife anymore
Emma choked on her outrage. I wont give Alfie upover my dead body! Im his legal mother, Tom! Youre not going to cart him off as some living souvenir for a midlife crisis. What if she grows tired of him, then what?
Easy, Emma, Tom eyed the fork in her shaking grip. Youre being hystericalhe means nothing to you, anyway.
Nothing? Emma growled. Lets ask Alfie who he wants to stay with!
Before Tom could object, Alfie darted in, having heard everything. He launched himself at Emma.
Mummy, dont let him take me, please!
Of course not! Emma hugged the sobbing child. Youre my son. And as for you, Tomclear off. Take your divorce, but dont ever lay a finger on my boy. I swear, Ill claw your eyes out before I let you near him!
Oh, stuff it! Tom snapped, but couldnt resist shoving the rest of his pie into his face before marching out.
Youre making a mistake, Emmano onell want you now, saddled with another blokes kid!
Emma stuck her tongue out as the door banged. Not fussed about a new husband, thanksdont fancy another lemon like you! Alfie and I will be just fine on our own, and you well, youre a fool.
And if there was any doubt before, now there was none: Emma and Alfietruly, properlywere family.
