September Exclusive - "First Chance" - Part 3

Diane buys first class train tickets. She can spend money how she wants now; she’s literally holding the purse strings.

It’s a nicer carriage. Better seats, better service. Better people? Not necessarily, Diane has known plenty of wealthy idiots. But she decided to splash out for the ride back to London. First class travel for Mummy and baby.

Christopher looks the part; first-class toddler in his choo-choo train overalls. And on his best behaviour (presumably; hard to know, given it’s just his first day at being a three, maybe two-year-old boy) all smiles for the conductor when he checks the tickets on Diane’s phone.

When the trolley service arrives with free snacks and drinks, a fabulous first-class perk, Diane gets a tea with milk and two sugars, a cheese ploughman’s sandwich, and a packet of Walkers shortbread. Christopher, meanwhile, is dining exclusively with what Diane brought from the house. A carton of grape juice, cooked carrot sticks, and a jar of apple sauce.

“What a healthy boy,” says Diane as Christopher gobbles down his snacks. “All full of fruit and veggies!”

When they’ve eaten, Diane parks her little boy on the seat beside her, covering him with a blanket, stroking his hair until he falls asleep. She turns to look out the window, passing fields of wheat and barley, zipping past cows and sheep.

She thinks of showing off Christopher to her mother. A couple of hours away; Granny will meet them off the train at Victoria station.

Diane brushes crumbs from her pink jumper. She glances at Christopher, charmed by his light snoring. Asleep, he looks like an angel. He looks too good to be true.

She sighs, closes her eyes for a moment. And then she’s asleep.

Christopher counts to a hundred. And then he counts a few more. One hundred and twenty-five in all. 125, like the miles per hour of the train.

And then he opens his eyes. Looks up at Diane.

He pulls his hands out from underneath the blanket. The stupid, fleecy blanket decorated with some stupid cartoon character. He stretches his arms and legs. He had almost fallen asleep for real, full of apple sauce and carrots. He had almost fallen into dreams and darkness. He imagines missing his chance, waking up in Victoria.

Being coddled and kissed by Granny.

Christopher grimaces.

Stupid Granny. And that’s not even her name, not really. Just like Mummy isn’t really Mummy. Which is confusing. Which threatens to make Christopher’s head spin.

But it’s simple, really. Because all Christopher has to do is ask for help, first chance he gets. He had been turning the phrase over in his head ever since they left the house, Mummy (whatever her name is) pushing him in the buggy and chattering on about nothing and nonsense.

Look, there’s the park!

Look, there’s a birdie!

What a sunny day! Look at all the clouds, Christopher!

All Christopher has to is take his first chance.

It didn’t come during the walk to the train station. Mummy didn’t leave his side, of course. But Christopher didn’t lose hope. He didn’t tell Mummy what was really going on. He kept on pretending.

And even though he has forgotten things – like Mummy’s real name, like what colour car he drives – Christopher can still count up to really high numbers (like 125) and he can still remember that he’s not really a little boy. Which will be good enough when he gets help. When he spills those beans.

Christopher bundles up the blanket, slides off the seat. For a moment, he considers hiding under the table. A ridiculous idea, a babyish fantasy. He doesn’t bother trying to roll his eyes.

He looks down the carriage, in the direction of travel. That’s where the conductor went, and the snack trolley. The thought of asking them for help, looking up at their uniforms, makes Christopher feel queasy with nerves. What if they asked him too many questions? What if they thought he was lying?

But it’s okay. Christopher turns and walks in the other direction. He already knows who he’s going to tell.

He isn’t stopped by other passengers as he walks along the first-class carriage. He sees a woman listening to music, he sees a man typing on a keyboard. No one notices the little boy; for the first time today, Christopher is glad to be so small.

When he reaches the door between carriages, the door opens automatically, and Christopher is grateful he doesn’t have to reach a door handle. He passes through the doorway, past the toilet and then he sees the woman they walked past when the got on the train.

The one who winked at him. The one who gave him a fluttery little wave.

Was it because she found him adorable? Because she couldn’t resist little boys? Or because she understood; because she knew he was just pretending.

Time to find out. Time to let the kitty-cat out of the bag. Christopher climbs onto the seat opposite the woman – she looks older than Mummy, and she looks kinder as well – and waits for her to look up from her newspaper.

“Well, hello there,” says the woman. “Are you lost?” She asks the question mildly, as if it’s nothing much to worry about.

“Ran away,” whispers Christopher, twisting his lips. “From Mummy.” And then he shakes his head. “Not really Mummy.”

The woman nods. She’s wearing a sweatshirt, a circular logo on the front that makes Christopher feel a little dizzy to look at. She’s definitely older than Mummy, and Christopher is tempted to tell her, there’s a place near here where they can make you younger. But in truth, perhaps the woman is perfectly happy being the age she is. Aren’t most people? Isn’t it normal to get older? Christopher is certain that he will also be perfectly happy when he’s his proper age again. Whatever that is.

“Was Mummy being nasty? Did she make you drink prune juice?” She smiles as she says it, and so maybe it’s a joke.

“Grape,” replies Christopher. And he feels a little unfair, rather disloyal. He had enjoyed the grape juice, after all, along with the apple sauce and carrots. All things that now make his tummy rumble, make him feel that he should probably go to the toilet.

“How dreadful,” says the woman drily.

Christopher shakes his head. “She made me a baby.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “I got the feeling. Saw that look on your face early.” She nods sagely. “I can usually tell.”

Christopher smiles. He is believed. He chose the right person. “You have to help,” he says, even though, once the words are out of his mouth, he understands that the woman doesn’t have to do anything. She’s a grownup, she can do as she likes. Christopher is the one with limited choices.

The woman points at the logo on her sweatshirt. “Oh, I’ll definitely help, that’s my job. But I need you to do something first.”

“What?”

“Pick up your blankie.”

Christopher frowns. Why would he…He looks in the direction of the woman’s pointed finger and spies the fuzzy object on the floor of the carriage. He must have carried it with him like a security blanket. He blushes, wants to claim that it doesn’t belong to him, but that would be a lie.

“Trains about to come into the station,” says the woman, “you don’t want people to walk over it.”

With perfect timing, the announcer lets the passengers know that they’re about to stop in Harpenden.

Christopher scrambles off the seat and retrieves the blanket.

“That’s better,” says the woman approvingly. She takes the blanket from Christopher and examines it while he climbs back onto the seat.

“Hmm,” she says, reading the label.

“What?”

“It’s not treated.” She smiles at him. “I suppose you must just like it.”

“I don’t,” Christopher argues. He is about to ask what the woman means by ‘treated’, but then he notices that she’s wearing a pair of brown gloves. Gloves are normally for winter; Christopher is sure about that. And for wearing outside. Mittens for throwing snowballs. He blinks, a vague smile on his face.

“You did jolly well,” says the woman. “You must be very clever.”

Christopher glows from the praise, but then he frowns. “Why?”

“All that pretending,” she explains. “Fooling Mummy like that.”

“She’s not my mummy.”

He looks around as the train starts to move again. Every stop brings them closer to London. To being hugged by Granny.

The older woman shrugs. “She wants to be. As soon as I saw you get on the train at Parkdale, I knew that lady wanted to be your mummy.”

Christopher folds his arms. “I don’t wanna- “

“Shame the blanket isn’t treated,” the woman says, holding it up.

“What are you talking…hey!” He cries out in surprise when the world goes dark.

No, just fuzzy. The woman has thrown the blanket over him.

“I could just do that,” the woman says, her voice dimmer, “and the chemicals would turn your brains all mushy. You’d probably make a big mess in your nappy and then I’d take you back to your mummy. I don’t like dealing with dirty nappies.”

“Stop…” Christopher pushes at the blanket, and for a moment he is lost inside it, a ridiculous puzzle, and his heart beats hard in his chest, because he is trapped, he is lost in the fuzzy darkness.

He pushes again, and the blanket is off. It’s nothing. It’s just a silly game.

He glares at the woman.

“What?” the woman asks innocently. “Toddlers love that game. Absolute giggle-fest.”

“You’re s’posed to be helping!”

The woman nods. “I am helping.” She sighs. “You must be tired, all that pretending.” Suddenly she reaches across the table and picks Christopher up, pulling him onto her lap.

“Hey!”

“Hey nothing,” says the woman. “Trouble is, we’ve had some cutbacks. Some setbacks, actually. We’ve lost some of our best people.”

“Lemme go!” Christopher pulls at the woman’s gloved hands, but she holds on tight. And as Christopher looks around the carriage, calling out desperately, he understands what he sounds like. Not a victim, not someone in urgent need of assistance. But a whiny, squalling toddler. An annoyance. Something to be tolerated.

“Which is why,” continues the woman, turning Christopher around to face her, “Mummy had to do the work on her own. They advised her of course, but your mummy was in a hurry, and…” The woman gives another shrug. “She really didn’t know what she was doing. Which is why you got so far with some old thoughts intact.”

The woman smiles at him. “It’s not that you’re good at pretending, sweetheart. It’s that your mummy isn’t good at spotting the telltale signs of a faker.”

At this, Christopher sticks out his bottom lip. He’s not a faker, he’s real. But the idea twists in his mind until he’s not sure what the nasty old woman is accusing of.

Still, the uncertainty doesn’t last long.

“Katie would have been perfect for you,” says the woman, staring into his eyes. She nods. “It’s all such a shame.” And then she gives one more shrug. “Still, at least I have these gloves.”

With that, she releases her grip on Christopher. Time for him to lash out and scramble away. He can hide in the toilets; he can find someone else to help him. Someone who’s not crazy, someone who makes sense.

Christopher doesn’t scramble. He doesn’t lash.

Instead, he stares back at the woman as he feels the palms of her gloved hands on the sides of his head. Such gentle contact, like she is cradling his skull.

And there is a warmth, a slight tingling, and then a series of popping sensations between his ears that reminds Christopher vividly of the fun he had with the toy vacuum cleaner, until he forgets about the vacuum, he forgets about most things, as he looks at the lady’s smiling face and his own mouth drops open.

“There,” says the woman gently. “No more pretending. No more silly hiding from Mummy. We’d better get you back to first class, let Mummy know you need a clean nappy, hmm?”

Christopher nods, but it’s only in this moment that he is aware of the warm mess between his legs. He squeezes his thighs together and smiles at the sensation.

He watches as the woman removes her gloves, and then he puts his own hands around her neck as she gets up.

“Oops,” says the woman, “mustn’t forget blankie.”

Christopher nods his agreement. “Ban-kee,” he says. And now that the woman has both Christopher and his blanket in her arms, there’s surely nothing else he needs to think about. He enjoys being high up, he blinks as the carriage doors open, and then he exclaims and holds out his hands at the sight of his mother.

THE END

Chris's wife turned him into a little boy. He just has to pretend nothing’s changed long enough to get out of Parkdale – Dean