BACK FROM HIS JOB UP NORTH, MY HUSBAND WASN’T ALONE: IN HIS ARMS HE HELD A LITTLE BOY… Lena Had Ju…

AFTER HIS SHIFT, MY HUSBAND DIDNT COME HOME ALONE: HE WAS CARRYING A LITTLE BOY

Helen pulled a steaming fish pie from the oven, suffusing the kitchen with that familiar seaside aroma. Just the way her husband, Peter, liked it. On the stove bubbled a fresh pot of vegetable stew, the pie awaited under a snowy white tea towel, and all that remained for the grand homecoming was a quick go with the compote. But that would keep until Peters boots were on the mat.

She smoothed her apron and glanced out the window. Their little detached house sat smack in the middle of a leafy cul-de-sac. Directly opposite, by the cracked pavement, stood the bus stop where Peter would soon alight, duffle bag in tow.

Helen hadnt seen Peter in three months. He worked rotational shifts way up in Northumberlandthree months there, three months at home. She missed him more than she cared to admit. Besides, a house always seemed to demand masculine fixes.

The house was Helens. Five years ago, when she and Peter married, hed had a respectable little flat in Newcastle. Theyd mulled it over and figured a spacious house suited them better. Peter sold his flat, dabbled disastrously in business, and now? Three years of blue-collar stints up North. The pay was decent, but being left to her own devices for three months at a stretch, Helen, at twenty-eight, sometimes forgot what being married felt like.

They had no children. Peter didnt object, but reckoned the timing was off. Im away for months, Helen. Howd you cope with a baby on your own? Lets save up, then Ill get a proper job here and we can talk babies. Only, no matter how much he brought home, something always needed doing. Just now, the roof had sprung a leak and after every rainy spell, a nasty damp patch loomed above their bed. Helen had started keeping a washing up bowl underneath. Each time, she cursed the British weatherand the price of roofers.

Peter knew about the leakregular catch-ups meant at least one evening a week discussing the state of the roof. He promised itd be top of his to-do list once home. She couldnt ask for a better husband: handy, caring, always calling. Helen adored him. On his homecoming day, shed always book off work, prepare a feast, and wait by the window for his bus.

His plane had landed a couple hours ago. Any moment now, Peter should appear, lumbering up the crescent. Ahthere he was! Helens heart somersaulted. Peter, as predicted, with a mammoth holdall. But this time, he wasnt alone. On his arm, he carried a small boy, perhaps two or three. Helen couldnt be sureshe didnt exactly mix with kids much. Peter looked grim, didnt wave as he usually did. Both hands were fullone suctioned to his bag, the other to the child.

He crossed the road, and Helen was rooted to the spot. Whose child was that? Some desperate colleagues? And why, for goodness sake, bring the little lad here? Who in their right mind would trust Peter, of all people, with a toddler?

Peter plonked his bag in the hallway and set the boy carefully down. Clinging to Peters shins, the child gawped at Helen, thumb in mouth, all wide eyes and nerves. Helen didnt launch herself into Peters armsnot this time. She hovered, bewildered.

Well, Helen, no welcome-home kiss after all this time? Peter reached for her, but there was a leaden weariness in his face. She carefully skirted the little boy and gave Peter a perfunctory hug and a peck. But she couldnt wait to blurt out:

Peter Whose boy is this? Whats going on?

Peter sighed, detached himself, and knelt beside the child. Come on, Charlie*, he said, lets take our shoes off and go see the back bedroom. Ive got something to show you. He guided Charlie down the hall, settled him on the bed, and handed him Peters prized model Spitfireusually polished weekly, handled only with gloves. From this alone, Helen sensed cataclysm.

You stay here, Charlie. Grown-ups need a word, Peter said, shutting the door behind him.

Youll feed me, love? he smiled wanly.

Helen jumped to action with soup and pie, then perched opposite, wracked with dread.

Peter started spooning stew, eyes down. Hes my son. This is my son.

Helens heart gave out a startled jolt. She hoped for a grin, a punchline. But Peters face was humourless.

It just happened, he rushed on, gripping her hand. Three months is a long time, love. Things escalated with the camp cook. Only twice! But she ended up expecting.

So let me get this straight! Helen jerked her hand away. You said it wasnt the right time for children, but you managed to have a son behind my back?

Peter looked desperate. It wasnt like I planned any of this! I didnt even know until after. She never said a word until she turned up with the childand theres no question hes mine. You saw himspitting image!

Helen hadnt actually noticedbut right now, face flushed, that child could have had antlers and shed still loathe him. He was walking, breathing evidence. Of all the things, though, Helen found herself stuck on logistics.

And whats he doing here, then? Wheres his mother?

Peter shuffled awkwardly. Thing is shes gone. Accident up North. Wild boar attack Went back to the canteen late, took a shortcut, caught by a boar. They shot the brute later, but it was too late for her. Officially, Im his father. Couldnt deny it. So here we are.

And now what? Helen whispered.

Peters voice was raw. Up to you. If you throw us both out, well go. Just know I only ever loved you. The affair was a stupid, lonely mistake. Itll never, ever happen again.”

Helen gazed at him, torn between revulsion and pity. Shed grown so used to his absences, so dependent on his returns, that life without him was unthinkable. Forgive? Perhaps. But the boy?

And what about him? she pressed, voice thin. What do you expect to do?

Peter flung his arms in the air. What can I do? If you forgive me, we raise him together. If you dont, I gowith him.

That, Helen thought, was almost too much. How could anyone embrace a constant reminder of betrayala child whod need daily care, cuddles, tuck-ins? With a hollow ache in her chest, she fled the house. She wandered, numb, through the streets for hours, even lingered by the river bridge in bleak reflection. But some small kernel of Helen already knew her fate. There was no life without Peter, and she would have to find room for the boy, too.

Helen returned after midnight. Peter was asleep in their room; the odd little boy snoozed restlessly on the pull-out chair, bathed in the nightlights glow. He looked wan, skittish, a small creature battered by fate. Hed lost his mum, Helen reminded herself. She tried to muster compassion, but mostly, she felt only aversion.

Charlie was two, painfully timid and eerily quiet. Helen did her best not to glower at him, but the child seemed instinctively wary; he clung to Peter, sensing the chilly atmosphere. Peter, for his part, provided only basic carebath, food, toys (mainly to keep Charlie occupied and out of his way).

Helen didnt speak to Peter for a week, nor to Charlie if she could help it. She drifted through the house like a mist, haunted by this unwanted stranger child. Peter, at first, tried to charm her, then, realising that silence meant possible forgiveness, reverted to plumbing and mending the ceiling. The routine wore Helen down, until, given time, she thawedmostly towards Peter. Her heart refused, however, to soften for Charlie.

After two months, a new anxiety gnawed at her: Peter would soon go north again. What about Charlie? When asked, Peter looked baffled. Cant take him to a building site! Hell stay here. Got him a nursery placejust needs paperwork. Drop him off in the mornings, fetch him in the evenings. Im not asking you to love himjust feed him, make sure hes safe. Hes a pretty independent little fellow.

Just then, independent Charlie, all blink and fret, appeared in the doorway. Helen doubted he understood a word, but the look in those wide eyes gnawed at her.

Turns out, little children understand plenty. After Peter left, Charlie became even more withdrawn. He dressed for nursery without a murmur, accepted Helens silent escorts and silent meals. Until, one dinner, he quietly pushed his plate away: Dont want tea, and shuffled off to his tiny room.

Helen left him be, at first. But on passing, she noticed his face unnaturally flushed against his usual paleness. Irritated, she touched his foreheadand flinched at the raging heat. Panic rushed in. Charlie took ages to rouse, his eyes glassy, body limp.

Youve been ill long? she asked, crouched at his side.

A while. It hurts here and here. He pointed weakly. Sick at nursery yesterday.

Helens hands shook as she jabbed a thermometer under his arm, dialled 999, and tasted a new and terrible fear. As she waited, she bit her lips raw.

Oh, Charlie she muttered, You didnt even tell me. Just suffered in silenceyou poor, quiet thing. All because youre scared of a grumpy, cold-hearted auntie. What did you ever do to deserve this?

Right, off we go to hospital, said the paramedic, all business.

Helen wrapped Charlie up, grabbed him tight, and barely let go the whole night. At hospital, she stumbled over the truth: Hes my husbands son. Im adopting him soon. Hell be my son. She meant to fib, but hearing it aloud, she realised it was true. That cold shell around her heart melted, dissolved by two small arms flung round her neck.

They spent two weeks together there. Helen turned into a proper nervous mother, checking Charlies temperature every hour and nagging the nurses until his fever broke. The day he first reached for her hand with bright-eyed trust, Helen wept in secret bathroom tears.

He called her mum only much laterafter Peters next trip. By then, Helen had legally adopted him. Now, Charlie was her son, in every real sense.

A year and a half passed. Charlie, once ghostly and silent, became the mischief of the lanelaughing, bounding, devoted to Helen, glued to her side. With Peter, the bond frayeda relief for Peter, frankly, as he could finally spend his evenings in peace.

Then disaster struck: Peters work bus skidded off a snowy road, tumbled into a ravine, and was buried in a drift. Half the passengers bodies were never recovered, Peters included.

Helen very nearly broke forever. Only Charlies small, stubborn presence saved her. In him, she found purpose enough to wake up each day, bake cakes, laugh again.

After a year, Peter was officially declared missing; two years, presumed dead. By then, Helen had made her peace. Two weeks before widowhood became legal, Peter returned.

It was springdreary, raining sideways, proper English weather. After returning from a soggy walk with Charlie, Helen fussed over wet socks in the hall and sent him off for dry pyjamas.

Ill pop the kettle onhow about some tea? She bustled into the kitchenand froze. At the table, chomping on leftover steak pie, sat Peter, alive and unbothered.

Dont faint, Helen, Im alive as ever! Peter winked.

Where the devil have you been these two years? she managed to breathe, all sensation deserting her knees.

Well, funny story. Was about to get on that wretched bus, when an old flame phonedwanted company on a spontaneous trip down to Devon. Shes rather well off, bit older, but thats neither here nor there. Anyway, we set up a business, and I heard the news about the crash while sipping cider on a clifftop and thoughtWell, that’s destiny, best to stay lost. Decided Id let you believe Id perished and start afresh with her.

You Helen stuttered. You utter swine do you have any idea what Ive been through? Why now?

Well, Helen, me and the ladybusiness is good, things are serious. We want to get married. But she cant have kids. So… I’ve come for a divorceand for Charlie.

Helen’s face turned crimson. For Charlie? Are you mad? Why on earth?

She wants him. She cant have her own, and shes taken a shine to the boy. With the marriage, well raise him together

Helens scream cut him off. Never! Not for all the scones in Devon! You can have your divorce, but if you try to take my boy, Ill Ill She snatched up a fork and brandished it like Joan of Arc with cutlery.

Peter blanched. Helen, put that down. Youre not thinking straighthes not really yours, anyway.

Helens eyes narrowed. Oh, am I not? Lets ask Charlie, shall we? Hes old enough to choose where he wants to live!

At that moment, Charlie burst through the kitchen door, launching himself into Helens lap and clinging with all his might, sobbing.

Mummy, please dont give me to him! he wailed.

Helen hugged him tight. Of course not, darling! Youre my son, and thats that.

You heard him! she spat at Peter. Your divorce is ready, but Charlie stays with me. Try and fight me and see how far you get in court!

Peter huffed, with as much dignity as remains to a man chewing cold steak pie. Well, suit yourself. Whod want you now, baggage and all? Nobodyll have you.

Helen shrugged. Couldnt care less. After marrying one cack-handed muppet, Im in no hurry to repeat the experience. Charlie and I get along just fine without you. Off you pop, then!

And with that, Helen snapped up the last piece of pie and, with Charlie by her side, smiled at the thought that sometimes, life took away your old achesand brought you, against all odds, a family of your own.

—

*Charlie – chosen as a typically English boys name.