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Lost and Found: Chapter 1: When love comes knocking
Let me start in December last year- back when life was perfect. I had everything I needed, and everything I wanted. Obviously if everything had stayed that way I wouldn’t have a story to tell. Then again, I probably wouldn’t have been the kind of person to tell stories, or the kind to ramble on about many things that don‘t really have a point. See what I’m doing right now? That’s rambling. I’ll try my best not to do that, but it happens. Afterwards I’ll usually introduce a very specific date or event to bring us back on track, like this.
On December 17th, I walked up the metal staircase to my floor of the apartment building. I lived on my own, funded by my rich birth-father. The building was an L-shape, with a lawn out in front. It looked smart, with pale, clean-cut bricks and metal stairs that where as smooth as the day they were made. Our cosy little block was free from litter and graffiti, and the most problematic neighbour in the area was the blind man who pretended not to notice when his dog had a quick pee on the lamp post by the road.
Inside was painted in a pastel shade of blue, with a darker carpet. The main room was split into a living space and kitchen, with a separate bedroom and bathroom.
To anyone else it was a setting, or a place with a settled ambience, but to me it was… something more.
With nobody to please or entertain, when I was home alone I busied myself with organising things, grooming, and cleaning. These locks of thick brown hair, with that careless cut and natural blown-back-in-the-wind look, was hardly natural. Nor was my smooth skin, or sense of fashion. Shelves so clean and carpets so fluffy really do exist only in catalogues, and nobody who has something worth owning, can actually arrange it that neatly in their living room bookshelf.
This setting, this place with a settled ambience, was the result of all these habits I used to console myself. When I was on my own with nobody to entertain, I disappeared. If you’d asked me then, I would have told you I was content with my life, quite satisfied actually. So let’s pretend I have not been rambling, you don’t know any different, and we’re back on December 17th.
I reached the second storey of our apartment building, walked along to my front door, and found something small sitting on my doorstep.
It looked up at me, with a pink, runny nose and large, glassy brown eyes. Its hair was a marmalade mess that fell from beneath a hat that had teddy-bear ears sticking out from the sides. Next to it was a battered green suitcase. I stared at it for a while, and the whole time it stared back at me expectantly.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked after I had concluded that it was, in fact, a child. She sniffled, wiped her nose with her baggy brown sleeve and held out a note. Once I took it she leant forward and started picking at the scraped edges of her pink wellies.
I read the note. Three times.
“Leon.
You may not remember me, we haven’t spoke since we where young, but my name is Maurita, your mothers’ half sister. This is my daughter, Henrietta. I understand that you probably have a lot on your mind, but I have a favour to request of you.
Please, please look after Henrietta.
For reasons I cannot disclose, I am no longer able to care for her, but I know it wouldn’t be fair to make such a request without reason. My explanation is that you have your own place, never ask for help, and always land on your feet. For this reason I chose you. You are responsible and a kind young man, and I hope that you have room for Henrietta in your life.
In her suitcase she has all that she needs, but she doesn’t have many toys. I also put a book in there that you may find helpful in a bind.
I will come back for Henrietta some time in the future. Until then, take care. Both of you.
Yours Gratefully
Aunt Maurita.”
It’s strange, actually. She seemed to think she knew me well and that’s why she sent the kid to me. In fact, anybody who really knew me well, would never, ever, have left me in charge of a child.
Perhaps you’re wondering, “why hasn’t he seen his Aunt in so long?” Or “surely he would recognise his own cousin.” If so, it might help to know that my family is huge, and dysfunctional doesn’t even cover it. You’ll understand when you meet them in Chapter 34.
I looked down at the kid.
‘How old are you?’
‘Five.’ She said. Even with a baby voice she still carried an accent. I guessed she was yet to discover her inhibitions, because she spoke with no fear of her own voice, and little concern for the volume.
I took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped over her to get inside. Rituals, rituals. First came the shoes, taken off on the doorstep and… Let’s simplify. From the bottom shelf up; shoes, then had and scarf, then wallet and phone. On the peg furthest right was where my coat got hung, and below that was the space for my schoolbag.
The kid carefully stepped onto the welcome mat, as if treading in some sacred place.
‘Wait,’ I commanded. On the kitchen worktop was a newspaper, from which I took a few pages and put them on the shelves and floor. ‘There.’ She tried to copy the ritual carefully.
I went into the kitchen and held the kettle under the tap, enjoying the loud sound of water pouring into the tank. It was familiar. It told me tea was coming. The kid just stood in the middle of the room, staring at me eerily. One cup. Two cups. Two teabags; Earl White for myself, and her, she seemed like a Lemon Ting kind of girl, extra sugar. See, I know what to do.
Once the tea was made I carried the two cups on saucers to the couch and made myself comfy. She shuffled forward with little steps in a way that reminded me of a strange character in an animated movie. She had to jump up onto the couch, where she paused for a moments thought, and tugged her sleeves over her hands before picking up the cup. After one sip she blew on it gently and proceeded to look around, unconsciously kicking her feet.
‘Henrietta.’ I said, once the tea had brought me down into my calm-self. She immediately turned to me, her large eyes frozen and expectant. That was a stare that I would have to get used to. I took another sip, thinking of what to say. ‘Where is your mum?’ She shrugged.
How difficult.
‘What about your dad?’
‘I don’t have a dad.’ She took another sip, slurping a lot to avoid the heat. ‘Where’s your mum and dad?’
‘They are in the city. I came here to study.’ The routine answer didn’t entertain her much.
After tea I washed and dried the cups. I went to a rack where I kept the clothes planned for the day, and took off my shirt. She peered over the side of the couch, looking down at my feet in slight embarrassment. I didn’t bother asking why. I’d never been ashamed of changing in front of girls before. Even though she was a child, we where related, so that made it even.
Then I went to the bathroom… Okay, another ritual. It involved hair styling, and a slight change of clothing style, and clothes. I promised not to ramble, so I wrote half an essay on fashion and added it in the ‘Deleted Chapters’ section at the back of this book. That’s where you’ll find… Nonsense, mostly.
When I zipped up my coat the kid leapt to her feet and ran to the door.
‘Wait!’ She tried to stick her feet in her wellies so fast she missed several times.
‘What?’
‘You have to wait for me to get my shoes on!’
It never occurred to me that she would come with me. Then again even I knew that it was a rule not to leave small children home alone, (though it was under the pretence that it’s because children are messy and break things.)
‘Okay.’ I smiled and helped her with her coat, which smelt like rain. She squashed her fingers into the digits of her glove and wiggled them around to fit. Then she looked up and grinned at me.
‘Ready!’
‘Ready.’ I repeated.
Outside she took my hand, and it was kind of cool. I suddenly felt considerably more mature now that there was a small child holding my hand. She was a girl. I was great at keeping girls happy.
How much different could a small child be?
