A Random Call
Mr. Paul Ingram? The voice on the other end of the line was icy and formal.
Yes, thats me. Who am I speaking to?
This is the manager of the Little Acorns Nursery. In a week, your daughter will turn three, and well have to move her to another facility. Are you certain you wont be coming to collect her?
Waitwhat daughter? Whose child? Ive only got a son, Charlie, I stammered in disbelief.
Nadia Pauline Simmons. Isnt that your daughter?
No, thats not right. My name is Paul Ingram. Paul Edward Ingram.
My apologies, came the tired reply, there must have been some confusion.
The dial tone echoed in my ear like a cathedral bell. What on earth?! A daughter? A nursery? What kind of mess is this? I muttered, annoyed. Their record keeping must be in tatters!
Yet the call stuck in my mind like a stubborn splinter. For some reason, I kept thinking about children living in care, with no cosy home, no loving mum, no fussing grandparents. Charlie had the whole lotgranny and grandad, uncles, auntieseven a dog.
Helen, my wife, spotted my pensive mood straight away. Its near impossible to hide anything from her; weve lived together nearly ten years now, and weve known each other since Year One at primary school.
She waited until dinner then came right out with it: Whos she, then?
Who? I blurted, startled. Had she somehow found out about the call? Did she get one too?
Nadia, I said at last. Nadia.
Oh, so its Nadia, is it? Im Helen to you, but shes Nadia?!
Yes, thats her. Nadia Pauline Simmons.
Go on then, tell me her passport number while youre at it! Helen was raising her voice now.
She hasnt got a passport, I replied, Why would she?
Is she a refugee or something? Helen dropped her tone a little.
Whos a refugee? By now, nothing was making sense.
Your Nadia, is she after a National Insurance number? Tell me the truth!
What truth?! I gaped at her, completely thrown and dinner forgotten.
Then Helen started to cry. Not dramatically, but with silent, angry tears, dotting her apron as they fell.
Im off to my mums tomorrow, she said through her sobs, and if you even think of trying to keep Charlie, just remember, hes my son too.
Helen, whats the matter with you? Why would you leave? Whats happening to you?
Did you think Id stick around to cook for you and your fancy woman, your Nadia? she snapped.
It finally dawned on me just how ridiculous this all was. I gently guided Helen to the kitchen bench, sat her down, and explained the mornings phone call from start to finish.
Now, Helen cried for that poor little girl. Womenweeping over everything and anything, and there seems to be no end to their tears! Ive never been good with Helens tears; truth told, they put the fear of God into me.
Dinner was no longer appealing. I picked at my food and left the rest.
That night, I was woken by the sensation of Helen standing just beside me, going through my phonea first in nearly a decade of marriage. Clearly, she didnt trust me and was searching for clues about some mythical lover. The feeling of being so mistrusted stung more than I could say.
She nudged me quietly and whispered, Paul? Paul?
I pretended to have just woken. Paul, was it this number? The landline?
Yes, I replied sleepily, that was it.
Alright, back to sleep. Helen left the room, my phone in hand.
Sleep, she says, I sighed, knowing full well I wouldnt. Soon enough I heard the hum of her laptop from downstairs. I waited, then crept quietly to the living room.
Helen tapped at the mouse, so engrossed she didnt notice me behind her. On-screen was a search for Little Acorns Nursery, Oxford.
In a second, the computer spat out the official site, the phone number, photosthe lot. She checked my screen and looked up. Paul, it matches!
What matches?
The phone number! Its the nursery!
Thats what I said. So youre checking up on me, then?
Im clarifying, she replied coolly.
Why?
Paul, that nurserys not far from here, she murmured, lost in thought. Why do they have your number if youre nothing to do with them?
I hadnt considered that. Maybe we ought to go and sort this out, I thought. Otherwise, who knows what other children Id be given next time.
Sleep wouldnt come after that. Just as I was drifting off, Helen nudged me again. Paul Paul
What now?
Youre sure theres nothing? Even just once maybe with your first love, after all these years? Perhaps you saw her again, old feelings and she just didnt tell you, left the baby in hospital? Paul! Paul?
Helen, for heavens sake. Ive only ever sat with you, same desk, since Year One. Four years ago, remember? Charlie was turning three, always ill, youd just gone back to work. Who looked after him? Me! I shifted to work remotely, spent all day with himcalpol, antibiotics, endless check-ups. I could barely keep my eyes open, much less have an affair!
Then how did they get your number? she persisted.
That question bothered me, too. I dredged up every old acquaintance, all the women Id ever known, but nothing made senseone was happily married, another had emigrated years ago, and so on.
Still, there are things in life that happen, even when they absolutely shouldnt. So, I decided, tomorrow Id visit the nursery and get to the bottom of this.
We arrived early, only to find a thin, nervous fellow already waiting outside the managers door. Dressed decently, but with a shabby aireyes darting, hands trembling slightly as they clutched some papers. Hangover, maybe, or nerves.
Youll be after me, he rumbled in a surprisingly deep voice.
He was called in before us, and we could hear a steady, official-sounding conversation inside, interrupted now and then by his bassy muttering. After a quarter hour, he shuffled out, hair in disarray and pockets empty.
We were invited in next.
Good morning, said the dark-haired lady standing at the window, glasses perched on her lip. How can I help?
Were here about the call yesterday, I joked nervously.
She sat at her desk, unimpressed. Please state your business clearly. Im very busy.
I explained about the call (the voice was unmistakable).
Oh, that. She gave a tired smile. My apologies, I rang the wrong number. I was trying for a 728 prefix, and accidentally dialled 738. That youre also Paul Ingram was pure coincidence. It happens.
That man before us? I started, already suspecting the answer.
Yes. Paul Ingram Simmons. Father of the little girl.
One more thing, Helen asked, her voice uncertain, Will he be taking her home?
The manager, Ms. Tessa Mumsden, as her name badge read, paused and sat down again.
No, regrettably. Her mum passed away. Simmons has seven children by different women, and in three years hes barely visited twice. Nadia means nothing to him. Now, if theres nothing else, I really must get on.
Shell-shocked, we left the nursery. Out in the yard the older children were playingsome on the swings, others sliding or setting up little racing tracks on a bench. I watched them and realised something was off. It was quiet. Whenever Charlie was at the park, the air was full of laughter and excited chatter. Not here. These children barely whispered, their voices muted, faces solemn. They looked like tiny old men and women. Theyd had to grow up too soonchildhood stolen before it began.
Thered been cold winters and missed meals, no teddy bears or clean clothes, and worst of all, a world of grown-ups who didnt care, or worse, who were unkind.
I glanced at Helen; her eyes brimming with tearsagain! Always tears!
We walked slowly towards the gate, but the silence was broken by a sudden, desperate cry, Mum! Every head turned to us. A little girl in a bobble hat raced straight for Helen, arms wide, shouting, Mum, mum! Im here!
She threw herself at Helens legs, crying so hard her sobs rattled through both of us. From behind, a carer came rushing up, chocolate bar in hand. Nadia, Nadi, darling! She managed to soothe her and gently untangled her from Helens legs.
We hurried away, barely speaking, both of us trembling. I pulled over by the kerb to collect myself. Helen nodded towards a little shop Early Yearsbarely two steps away.
Without a word, we got out, holding hands tightly, and went inside to buy a doll and a pink dress.
Our daughter Nadia would be the prettiest of them all.
Sometimes a wrong number can remind you just how right compassion isthere are countless children in need of kindness, and everyone deserves to be loved and remembered.
