There were guests at home. There were almost always guests.
Everyone was drinking, drinking, bottles everywhere, and hardly a crumb to eat. At least a piece of bread… but on the table, only cigarette butts and an empty tin of pilchards. Oliver scanned the table again, seeing nothing to eat.
“Alright, Mum, Im off,” said the boy, slowly pulling on his battered old shoes.
He still hoped his mother would stop him, perhaps say,
“Where are you off to, love, with nothing in your belly and its freezing outside? Stay in, Ill cook up some porridge and shoo the guests out and mop the floors.”
He always yearned for a gentle word from his mum, but she didnt fancy kindness. Her words were bristly, and Oliver felt like curling up and hiding away.
This time, he decided he was leaving for good. Oliver was six years old and reckoned himself quite grown up. First order of business: earn some money and buy a bun, maybe even two buns, his stomach rumbling like an old radiator needing fixing.
How to make money, he hadnt a clue. But passing by the newsagencies and shops, he spotted a lonely bottle poking out of the slush, tucked it in his coat, then found a discarded carrier bag and spent half the day gathering up more bottles.
His bag clinked with a promising handful now. Oliver dreamed of buying a soft, warm bun, dusted with poppy seeds or plumped with currants, perhaps even topped with icing, though he doubted he had enough bottles for that, and decided to keep hunting.
He ventured close to the suburban train platform where men linger for the next service, drinking beer. Oliver set his heavy bag near a kiosk, then dashed after a freshly abandoned bottle. While he was chasing about, a dirty, cross man appeared, took his bag of bottles, and stared at Oliver so grimly the boy just turned away and left.
The dream of a sweet bun faded to mist.
“Gathering bottleshard graft too,” thought Oliver, as he shuffled down snowy lanes.
The snow had turned chunky and clingy. His feet soaked through and grew numb. Night fell. He couldnt say how he wandered into some block of flats, tumbled onto the stairwell, curled nearer the radiator, and sank into a deep, steamy sleep.
Waking, he half thought he must still be dreamingit was warm, and soft, and smelled delicious, delicious!
A woman entered, with the kindest smile.
“Well now, lad,” she said, her voice gentle, “warmed up? Had a good kip? Lets have some breakfast, I saw you curled up on the stairs like a stray puppy when I got in last night, so I brought you home.”
“Is this my home now?” Oliver asked, hardly daring to believe his luck.
“If you havent a home, then this will be,” she replied.
From then on it was all fairy tale and wonder. The kind lady fed him, cared for him, bought new clothes. Bit by bit, Oliver poured out his story of living with his mother.
The generous lady had a magical name: Rosemary. To Oliver, the name sounded like something only a fairy godmother might carry, and it was the first time hed heard it in his short life.
“Would you like me to be your mum?” she asked one day, hugging him close, just like a real, loving mother.
Of course he wanted that…but happiness proved fleeting. Within a week, his birth mother appeared.
She was nearly sober and shouted terribly at Rosemary, “They havent taken my rights away yet, Im still his mum!”
As she led Oliver away, snowflakes tumbled from the sky, and it seemed to him that the house where the kind lady lived was a white castle.
Life grew bleaker. His mother drank, and he ran away often, sleeping at train stations, gathering bottles, buying bread. He kept to himself and asked no one for help.
Eventually, his mother lost custody, and Oliver was sent to an orphanage.
For Oliver, the saddest part was not being able to remember where the castle-like house stood, where the gentle woman with her magical name lived.
Three years passed.
Oliver lived at the childrens home. Always quiet, always withdrawn. His favourite thing was to draw in peace: always the same picturea white house beneath drifting snowflakes.
One day, a journalist visited the home. The matron led her through the rooms, introducing her to the children. They approached Oliver.
“Oliver is such a thoughtful, lovely boy, but hes still struggling to fit in with the others. Were working on finding him a family,” the matron explained.
“Hello, Im Rosemary,” said the journalist, reaching out to Oliver.
He sat up, sparked with life, and began to speak! He rhapsodised about the other kind Rosemary, his words thawing his spirit sentence by sentence. His eyes shone, his cheeks grew red. The matron watched in amazement.
The name Rosemary proved a golden key to Olivers heart.
Rosemary, the journalist, couldnt help but cry, listening to Olivers tale, and promised him shed write his story in the local papermaybe that kind woman would read it and know Oliver longed to see her.
She kept her wordand a miracle happened.
The original Rosemary didnt buy the paper, but on her birthday, colleagues at work gave her flowers, wrapped in newspaper because it was a wintry day. At home, unwrapping the blooms, she noticed a headline: Kind Hearted RosemaryA Young Boy is Searching for You.
She read it and realised that the boy waiting for her was the same one shed carried home from the cold stairwell and hoped to adopt.
Oliver recognised her at once. He rushed to her. They hugged tightly. Everyone cried: Oliver, Rosemary, the carers who witnessed the meeting.
“Ive waited so long for you,” said the boy.
It took some persuading before Oliver would let Rosemary go home. She couldnt adopt him right awaythere were proceduresbut from then on, she visited every single day.
P.S.
After that, Olivers life bloomed. Hes twenty-six now. He earned a degree from Gloucester Technical College, planning to marry a wonderful girl. Hes cheerful, sociable, and dearly loves his mum Rosemary, to whom he owes everything.
Later, as an adult, Rosemary shared her own story: Her husband had left because she couldnt have children, and she felt adrift, unloved. That was the very moment she found Oliver on the stairwell, warming him with her love.
After his birth mother reclaimed him, Rosemary thought sadly, “It wasnt meant to be, I suppose.” And she was endlessly joyous when she found him again in the childrens home.
Oliver tried to learn about his birth mothers fate. He found that shed rented a flat in town, but many years ago, shed left with a man recently released from prison, destination unknown. He never searched further. What more needed to be done?
