15October2023
Ive always taken it for granted that a brother looking after his sister while their mother works is ordinary enough, but the past weeks have shaken that belief. It was only last month that I, Margaret Clarke, first noticed Tommy Harriss sudden absence from lessons. In midNovember his name stopped appearing on the attendance sheet. At first I thought he must have caught a coldautumn brings its share of bugs, after all. Yet a week passed, then another, and he never turned up. During breaks I found myself lingering by the empty desk by the window, expecting the familiar blue mathematics notebook to appear, only to see a space that seemed erased from the classrooms picture.
By the end of the second week my worry had become unbearable. I hadnt heard a word from his parentsno call, no note. It struck me as odd. Tommy had always been diligent, quiet but earnest, a genuine lover of maths who rarely missed a lesson and whose notebooks were always spotless. It cant just be that, I muttered, flipping through the class register.
After school I made my way to the school office.
MrsWilkinson, do you happen to know whats happened to Tommy Harris? I asked, perching on a chair by the reception desk. He hasnt been seen for ages.
The secretary looked up from her paperwork, pushed her glasses up her nose and replied with a sigh:
Nobodys called. Perhaps there are problems at home again. You know how that part of town is.
I knew the area well: rows of ageing council houses with peeling paint, courtyards where rubbish often lay against the stairwells, noisy gangs of teenagers who seemed to have claimed every bench on the corners, and endless neighbour quarrels that travelled through the thin walls.
I frowned.
But he does have a mother, doesnt he?
Mother, yes, MrsWilkinson said dryly. But what kind of mother?
I rose without a word.
Fine, Ill sort it out myself, I whispered, pulling my coat tighter.
Dont bother yourself, she muttered. If you want to look, go ahead.
I didnt answer. I strode across the schoolyard, my thoughts revolving around a single question: what had happened to Tommy?
The hallway of the Harris residence smelled of damp and stale tobacco. A flickering bulb hung over the stairwell, its light throwing jittery shadows on the grubby steps. I climbed to the third floor and knocked on the door, the paint on it flaking brown.
Is anyone home? I called, but only silence answered.
I knocked again, a little louder. After a minute the door cracked open and Tommys face appeared, his voice trembling.
MrsClarke? he whispered.
Tommy, hello. Why havent you been at school? Whats going on?
He stood there, eyes wide, cheeks hollow, dark circles under them.
Will you let me in? I asked gently.
He glanced around as if checking for anyone behind the door, then opened it wider.
Inside, the flat was cramped and untidy. In the corner of the living room a little girl, about three, was playing with a plastic spoon. Tommy shut the door behind me so the child wouldnt feel the chill from the stairwell.
Thats my sister, Lucy, he said softly.
Tommy, please tell me whats happening, I said, sitting on a chair. Wheres your mother?
Shes at work, he answered, lowering his head.
And why isnt Lucy in nursery?
Mum didnt have time to arrange it, he muttered. She said she was too busy.
I sighed.
So youre looking after her while Mum is away?
He nodded.
And school?
He hesitated, then whispered, I cant manage. I cant leave Lucy alone; shes too small.
A knot formed in my stomach. My pupils never spoke of such things.
Tommy, have you eaten today?
He shrugged. I dont know maybe this morning.
I stood.
Alright, this cant go on. Stay here; Ill be back shortly.
Where are you going? he asked, uneasy.
To get food and help, I replied, pulling my coat tighter. He wanted to protest but said nothing.
I left the flat, phone in hand, knowing I couldnt simply abandon those children.
An hour later I returned, bags heavy with groceries. Tommy opened the door again, his gaze still wary but a little less frightened.
Youre back? he asked.
Of course, I said cheerfully, stepping inside. Wheres the kitchen?
He pointed vaguely. I followed, set the bags down on the table and unpacked: a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, a bag of rice, a few apples, even a packet of biscuits. Tommy stared, eyes widened.
This is all for us? he asked.
Who else would it be for? I smiled. Wheres the frying pan?
He shuffled, looking unsure.
What are you planning to do? he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Im going to cook dinner, I said firmly. You go and play with Lucy.
He lingered in the doorway, fists clenched, and finally asked, Are you really going to do all this yourself?
I turned, rolled up my sleeves and replied, Absolutely. Who else if not me?
I cracked the eggs, melted butter in a pan, and the kitchen filled with the sizzle of frying. Tommy watched, silent, not quite sure how to react.
Tommy, why are you just standing there? I said gently. Go to your sister. Shes probably bored.
Lucy peered out from behind a doll, her eyes flickering between us.
Shes always quiet, Tommy murmured. Just sitting there.
Then lets cheer her up, I said with a grin. Dinner will be ready soon.
Reluctantly he left the kitchen, and I continued cooking. Within twenty minutes the table was set: scrambled eggs, sliced bread, mugs of tea, and a small plate of apple slices.
Everythings ready! Come and eat! I called.
Tommy and Lucy sat down. Lucy hesitated at first, but after a bite she brightened.
Its tasty, she whispered, clutching her spoon.
Of course it is, I winked. I tried my best.
Tommy ate quietly, stealing quick glances at me, then finally asked, Why are you doing all this?
I placed my fork down and looked him straight in the eye.
Because I care about you, Tommy. Youre my pupil, and I look after my students. Its only natural.
His cheeks flushed; he buried his face in his plate.
After dinner I began clearing the table. Tommy tried to help, but I stopped him.
Why dont you tidy Lucys toys? Ill manage here.
Ten minutes later I returned to the living room: the floor was spotless, toys gathered, the carpet swept.
Good job, both of you, I praised. Tomorrow Ill speak to MrsEllis, the neighbour. I think she could pop in now and then while your mums at work.
The neighbour? Auntie Jane? Tommy asked, surprised.
Yes, shes very kind. Ill arrange it, and youll come over to my house for lessons, I added.
Come to your house? Why? he asked, wary.
For tutoring, I replied. You cant keep missing school.
He thought for a moment, then nodded. Alright.
A smile spread across my face.
Perfect. Everything will settle, youll see.
Thus began our evenings together. After my teaching duties I would bring Tommy to my modest terraced house, and we would dive into maths and literature. Occasionally we set the books aside and just talked.
MrsClarke, I sometimes wonder, Tommy said once, doodling circles in his notebook, what would have happened if you hadnt shown up?
Someone else would have, I answered, smiling.
No, he shook his head earnestly. No one would have.
I looked at him thoughtfully, then changed the subject.
By the way, youre in maths, not philosophy. How are you with question three?
He blushed, then rushed back to the problems. He understood that my help was more than just checking homework.
Gradually his school performance improved. Teachers stopped nagging, neighbours noticed he no longer loitered aimlessly around the estate. Occasionally, escorting him home, I saw his mother, exhausted after a night shift, trying to carve out more time for her children.
Thank you, a neighbour said one day when she met me at the stairwell. If it werent for you, I dont know what would have happened to Tommy.
Its nothing, I waved her off. Hes a bright lad. He just needed a push.
Pride warmed my voice.
Months passed. Tommy grew more confident, no longer asking why I spent my evenings with him; he simply accepted my support and repaid it with determination.
How do you manage it all, MrsClarke? he asked once, flipping through a history book. You have your own job.
I manage because youre clever, Tommy. You pick things up quickly, I replied, laughing.
He looked away, embarrassed, yet my words lodged in his mind. He started studying even harder.
Six months later he was back in class, earning top marks. I felt a deep satisfaction watching his progress.
Time moved on. I retired from teaching years ago, settled into a quiet life in my little gardenfront house. Former colleagues visited now and then, swapping stories about the changing school system. I listened, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the children Id helped.
One sweltering summer afternoon the doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on my apron and opened it to find a tall young man holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
Good afternoon, MrsClarke, he said, his voice unmistakably familiar.
Tommy? I asked, eyes widening.
He smiled, nodding. Yes, its me. I wanted to visit.
Come in, I managed, opening the door wider.
We sat in the kitchen for ages. He spoke of university, of his mother finally landing a stable job, of his own future. Then, suddenly, his tone grew serious.
Thank you for everything you did for me, he said.
Oh, stop it, Tommy, I replied gently. I only did a little bit.
No, really, he insisted. You gave me a future. I wouldnt have made it without you.
Tears welled in my eyes.
The most important thing is that youre happy, I whispered, my voice trembling.
We talked on, reminiscing about the past. When he finally left, I sat alone, the flowers bright on the table, and realised there is perhaps no larger purpose than being there when someone truly needs you.
