up.
Ainslie couldn’t help herself. ‘He has a fever!’
‘So I keep him warm.’
‘No…’ Ainslie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I work with children, and what he needs is to cool down…’ She looked at his bemused expression and knew he didn’t have a clue. ‘He’s very hot.’ When still he didn’t seem to understand, she spoke more loudly, more slowly. ‘He might fit…have a convulsion…’ she explained.
‘I am neither deaf nor stupid! You do not have to speak pigeon English.’
‘Sorry…’ Ainslie blushed.
‘I have just seen a doctor with him, and he has been prescribed some medicine.’ He pulled a rather scruffy bag from his pocket, along with a rolled-up tie. ‘When I get him home I will give it.’
‘But they’re antibiotics—what he needs…’ Oh, what was the point? Turning on her heel, she gave a shrug. The sooner this arrogant know it all got home to his wife the sooner his boiling, ill-mannered baby could get some paracetamol in him and hopefully cool down.
‘He needs what?’
A hand grabbed her arm, and Ainslie felt her throat tighten. He had just sooo done the wrong thing. Only he didn’t let go, and even though she had a jacket on the inappropriate touch burned through the thick material, just a trickle of fear invading. But she was on a busy tube station, Ainslie reminded herself, and turned around to confront him.
‘What is it he needs?’
‘Could you remove your hand?’ Angry green eyes met his, watched as he blinked and stared down at his hand as if it didn’t even belong to him.
‘I am sorry!’ Instantly he let go—his apology absolutely genuine. ‘I am worried about him—and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Get him home…’ Ainslie’s voice was softer. ‘He needs some paracetamol. Once he’s had that he’ll settle…’
‘Paracetamol?’ He checked, and Ainslie nodded.
‘And he needs his mum.’
This time she really was going. This time she knew he wouldn’t grab her. Only he didn’t have to. His voice stilled her as she started walking, his words halting her before she disappeared for ever into the heavy crowd.
‘She died this afternoon.’
CHAPTER TWO
HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.
And it was horrible.
That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.
There were just a few days until Christmas.
The date didn’t matter—it would have been terrible on any day—but that it was so close to Christmas, that this beautiful little boy would be without his mother, that she would be without him, just made it worse somehow. And it made her own problems pale in comparison.
‘Can you help me?’ His voice was low but there was a thread of urgency.
‘Me?’
‘You said you work with children?’
‘I do, but—’
‘Then you must know how to stop his fever? How to take care of him?’ There was a plea in his rich voice, a tinge of fear, even panic for his son. ‘I don’t know what to do. I do not know children; I do not know what this boy needs…’ He dived out of his own hell just enough to glimpse her confusion, just long enough to interpret it. ‘He is not my son—he is my nephew. There was a car accident. I came from Italy this morning as soon as I hear the news.’
Heard the news. Ainslie opened her mouth to correct him, and then stopped herself—working with people who were usually under three feet tall gave her a tendency to do that! His story certainly explained his visible exhaustion. Dressed in a suit, juggling a laptop and a briefcase along with the stroller, he must have literally left in the middle of whatever it was he was doing and stepped onto a plane.
‘Where’s his father?’ The platform was full—again they were being pushed closer. Only this time they were together, sharing this appalling conversation.
Her eyes closed for a second as he answered, ‘He died instantly.’
When Ainslie opened them again, he was waiting for her, strong but desperate. His eyes held hers.
‘Can you tell me what he needs…help me with him?’
You don’t read out a list of questions when you witness someone drowning.
You don’t ask their name or age, or if they’re worthy of saving. You don’t ring for references or ask for a police check—instead you do what you can.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, because to Ainslie it was just impossible to even think of walking away, of not helping someone who so clearly needed it.
‘His home is close by—there is a pharmacy on the way.’
The platform was packed now. Another tube was pulling in and spewing out its contents. People walked fast as they left the platform, and the station was a blizzard of people, rushing to get home or to go out, stopping to buy their paper, chatting into their phones, arranging dates, parties, meetings—getting on with living.
Getting on with life.
A blast of icy December air hit them as they stepped out onto the busy street. It was the strangest walk; he took her backpack and Ainslie pushed the stroller. Christmas was everywhere—the shops ablaze with decorations, people tipsy from pre-dinner drinks heading for a work party—and it just seemed to magnify his loss. Even the chemist was full of cheery, piped music, chiming Christmas songs, and lazy shoppers were grabbing easy gifts as they stopped to buy Guido’s paracetamol.
‘Should we get nappies, wipes…or do you have plenty?’
‘I haven’t been to the house since I arrived—I have no idea what my sister would have. We’d better get them—get whatever you think he might need.’
So she did—put whatever she thought might be needed into a basket and stood trying to hush the little boy as his uncle paid, watching the checkout assistant chatting happily away to her colleague, briefly asking the man if he had had a good day, not noticing that he didn’t respond, his face a quilt of muscles as he handed over his credit card.
‘I don’t know your name.’ It was the first thing she said as he made his way back to them.
‘Elijah…’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Elijah Vanaldi. And you?’
‘Ainslie Farrell.’
And that was all they said. They walked along in silence till they came to a quieter street and stopped outside a vast four-storey residence.
But somehow, for now, it was enough.
It was surreal—Elijah working out keys as she stared at the wreath on the door, stepping into someone’s house, someone’s life, someone you didn’t even know, and being entrusted to take care of their most treasured possession. And though it was a beautiful towering white stucco home, as she stepped in, walked along polished floorboards and glimpsed the vast lounge, though her eyes took in the high ceilings and vast windows and expensive furnishings, they didn’t merit a mention. The only thing Ainslie could really notice was the collection of shoes and coats in the hall, the scent of pine in the air from the Christmas tree, and the half-cup of cold tea on the granite bench when she walked into the luxury kitchen. Sadness engulfed her when she saw the simple shopping list on the fridge and the breakfast dishes piled by the sink.
Elijah