A Small Boy's Cry Read Online Free Page A

that his eyes widen in amazement.
    â€˜S’dat?’ he asks, pointing.
    â€˜It’s a banana, of course. That’s so obvious,’ Phoebe says, tutting and rolling her eyes.
    Jamie peels the fruit, looking at me.
    â€˜Can he have some, Mum?’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    Charlie sticks his finger into the fruit and it breaks in half. He picks it up and turns it over several times in his hands, looking at it with the same interest that he showed in the toothbrush. Emily, realising the significance, cocks her head on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.
    â€˜Ah, bless him, Mum,’ she says quietly, looking towards me. ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen a banana before.’
    Since Charlie had been removed from home suddenly, contact with his mother is arranged at the earliest opportunity. Tracy Smith was offered a session at 9 a.m. but she declined, pronouncing early mornings ‘difficult’. And so at a few minutes before 11 a.m. on Monday morning I walk into the contact centre with Charlie pottering along behind, so close that the soles of my feet brush his little legs with every stride. Knowing how much reassurance Charlie craves, I desperately hope that the meeting will go well.
    The receptionist smiles a welcome and tells me that Tracy is waiting for us in the Oak suite, one of the contact rooms. I tense as we pass through a large waiting area; liaising with birth parents can be tricky. Emotions, understandably, run high and sometimes foster carers bear the brunt of it.
    We pass a thin woman in her early thirties sitting on a dark-blue sofa. My attention is drawn to her because she’s wearing flip-flops, even though it’s November. She stares blankly at the wall ahead and I can’t help but notice that her eyes are glazed over with the vacant look of a toddler watching television on a loop.
    Scanning the wall opposite, I can’t work out what she’s so transfixed by. It’s bare, barring a few scratches in the paintwork and other, more dubious-looking splotches. It looks like someone has been preparing to redecorate. Apart from traces of old Blu-tack, there’s no sign of the posters that usually feature in contact centres – ‘Are You Claiming All You’re Entitled to?’ or ‘Domestic Violence Is a Crime, Report It.’
    As we near the Oak suite, Charlie runs two or three feet ahead, enticed by the sight of unfamiliar toys. I find myself absent-mindedly imagining the posters that might feature in less impoverished areas, perhaps ‘Trouble Finding Suitable Stables? Have You Considered Pony Sharing?’ or ‘Inheritance Tax a Burden? Call Us for Independent Financial Advice’. It’s only when I catch up with Charlie and see that no one else is in the playroom that I stop mid-step, some inbuilt facial-recognition program finally kicking into gear. Charlie’s already mounting a rather sickly looking rocking horse and so I leave him where he is, walking backwards from the room so that I can still keep my eye on him but check out the woman on the sofa. There’s definitely a family resemblance.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I call out, hovering midway between the playroom and the waiting area. ‘Are you Charlie’s mother?’
    There’s a prolonged pause before she turns around, as if she’s a news reporter communicating via a temperamental satellite link. Eventually she nods and stands, unsmiling, staring as she walks towards me with the same unswerving attention that she gave the blank wall. She carefully negotiates every step and as she approaches I realise why she looks like she’s being operated by remote control; she smells strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Her pale blonde hair is greasy and so is her face, like she’s coated in some sort of filmy substance. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and her thin legs, not surprisingly considering the weather, are mottled by the