The Fire House on Honeysuckle Street. Rachel Dove
looked across to see what Xander was holding, and she gave them a pointed look as if to say, ‘Mind your own beeswax,’ and turned to her husband. He looked like he was chewing a bee or two himself.
‘He needs it, for his anxiety. Airports make him nervous,’ she hissed. ‘It’s only a toy, I’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘Bloody waste of money if you ask me,’ he chuntered on, his jaunty holiday panama hat making him look all the more curmudgeonly atop his sour face. ‘Half the stuff you buy him doesn’t get used.’
Not true, but Iain had never let the truth get in the way of a good whinge and moan.
‘Really,’ she said, monotone, watching Xander watch the planes as they took off overhead. His fingers ever moving, bending and reshaping his toy. It kept him calm. She almost wished she had one herself. A large one, that she could tie around her husband and the nearest car park meter. ‘Bit like your fishing gear then, and the model airplane in the garage? Perhaps we should sell those, then we will have more money for stuff to help our son cope, eh? This toy cost less than a fancy coffee, Iain.’
He looked out of the window like a petulant child, taking a swig of his large extra hot no foam rip-off, and said nothing else till they got to the airport. The gulf between them was getting wider than ever, and she’d hated it at first. Now, she was just beginning to hate him. Where was the man she married, the one who danced around the room with her, holding a positive pee stick? That Iain was gone, replaced by this bitter, twisted, work-driven man. As they stepped down off the bus, cases in hand, she tried to stay positive and lock her own snark away. This holiday had been hard work to pay for, and she had planned everything down to the last detail, so she was going to go for it.
This holiday was more than just Xander’s first holiday abroad with his family – it might just be his last unless things improved. Make or break, as the cliché went. She was determined to save her marriage, and their father–son relationship. Here, all together, they might just pull it off.
‘Xander,’ Iain shouted, drawing attention their way. ‘Pick up your bloody toy, now!’
Lucy sighed and, putting her shiny optimistic face on, picked up the toy and took her son’s trembling hand.
The day Sam decided that he was going to be a fireman, no one in the household batted an eyelid. It was written in the stars, pretty much, and had been since he was a small dot in someone’s arms. To young Sam, though, it seemed like a revelation. That he, little orphan Sam, could one day be a hero. Someone who people would turn to on their darkest days; someone strong, sturdy. Someone who would never let you down, would always come to your aid, no matter what. The kind of person he wanted around him. The kind of people who had saved him.
When his mother tucked him into bed that night, kissing the top of his little head and smelling the shampoo scent of his baby soft brown hair, he snuggled down under the covers, and finally felt like he had a plan. Not a thing to be sniffed at, having a plan, especially at five years old. He didn’t realise it at the time of course, but he had in one day achieved what many people waited half their lives to feel. Purpose. Little five-year-old Samuel had purpose. He had a plan. That sheer bloody-mindedness fuelled his whole childhood, and never once did he detract from his mission. He had learned from an early age if you wanted something, you went for it. No excuses. His future was all down to him. Or, as his mum would say, ‘We make our own destiny in the face of fate, Sam. Fate dealt you a bad deal, but it’s not the end of your story, just the start.’
Now, as he packed up his belongings and prepared to make the journey once more to Westfield, and his new home, he had another mission in mind. One that, yet again, he had no hesitation in. No fear that he wouldn’t complete it, find what he was looking for. What he wasn’t so sure about was just what he would find, and whether he could live with his decision afterwards. Even for a man who walked into flames, with a spine of steel, the prospect was daunting, and a little scary.
Packing up his flat had been easy, and what he hadn’t got in his holdall and suitcase, he had boxed up and stacked up in a corner of his mum’s garage. Two whole boxes, mostly books. His furniture in the flat had been sparse at best, so he had sold what he had, or donated it to charity. Clothes, toiletries, a stack of paperbacks, and one photo album was all he took with him. Easy to carry, even easier to unload at the other side. He didn’t need much. So here he stood, underneath the departure boards at King’s Cross Station, waiting to board, alongside the Harry Potter fans and bored-looking commuters.
‘I’m going to miss you, my darling boy,’ Sondra said, her greying thick black curly hair tied up neatly in her trademark bandana. ‘It will be so strange not to be close to you.’
Sam felt a twinge of regret as he saw her wipe a tear from her eyes with her handkerchief.
‘It’s not forever, and it’s only a couple of hours on the train. I’ll come and see you when I get a few days off, and you can come stay with me, when you have a break between kids.’
Sondra wouldn’t take a break, but the pair of them didn’t say that to each other. Such was their relationship that a lot went unsaid. They both knew it, and so to them, that was enough. She would come if she could. Sondra had never been between kids in all the years that Sam had lived with her. He had grown up in a hectic home, one full of smells, and noise, and memories, and Sondra was always at the centre of it. The calm captain at the helm. Many kids from all kinds of life had come through those doors. Some came in the dead of night, shaky little ghosts clutching bedraggled teddy bears, traumatised by what they had seen and heard. Others came angry, aggressive, half dragged out of cars by overworked social workers, eager to get rid of their fraught charges. Sondra never batted an eyelid, and she always commanded respect. Sam had been the only child she had never let go of, and he was forever grateful for her.
The train announcement sounded, and Sam took the woman into his beefy arms, kissing the top of her head as she wrapped her arms around his middle and held him tight.
‘I love you, my boy. I’ll see you soon.’ When they finally pulled away, she pressed a thick envelope into his hand. Her trademark cream notepaper and vellum-finished stationery. He smiled, a picture of her sat at her desk popping into his head. Glasses halfway down her nose, a glass of wine on a coaster on the wooden surface of the desk, her head bent over her paper as she scribbled away. ‘Read it on the train or when you get settled. Not now. Okay?’
He nodded, not trusting himself to keep it together if he tried to speak. She raised her hands above her five foot six frame, placing them on either side of his stubbly face. He stooped to let her, savouring the warmth from her palms, the scent of her coconut hand lotion enveloping him.
She dropped a motherly kiss onto his lips, stroking his face and letting the tears fall for a moment.
‘Just you remember, my sweet little Sam, you always have a home with me. Stay safe.’
He hugged her tight once more, kissing her cheek.
‘I will, Mum, I promise.’
She nodded, smiling through her watery tears. ‘And find someone to love, okay? Grandbabies need a mother, you know. I’m not getting any younger here.’
He laughed then, a deep throaty boom, and she laughed right along with him, each of them tucking the moment into their pockets, to pull out and cherish when they needed it.
They looked back at each other till he turned the corner, and he gripped the envelope to him. It smelled of her. He pushed it into his coat pocket and hauled his baggage to the train. The conductor looked twice at him as he went to enter the train, and Sam could feel himself getting annoyed. Looking down at the man, he nodded slowly, not bothering to raise a smile. The man nodded back, clearing his throat nervously and stepping aside for him to get onto the train. Sam was used to people thinking he was a meathead, a rough and tough bruiser, but realistically, it did start to grate when he was trying to go about his day. Made his job