Tom had an ordinary family. His parents loved him, and he loved them back. On weekends, they’d go to the cinema or the theatre, ice skating in winter, and take holidays down to Brighton in the summer. They’d collect seashells, and his dad taught him to swim… Then the company his father worked for went bankrupt. And his dad started drinking. Drunk, he’d rant about the government, the prime minister, the laws—everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When Mum, tired of his drunken rants, asked him to go to bed, he’d snap at her. Lately, he’d pick fights the moment he walked in. She’d send Tom to his room, but he’d still hear everything—the shouting, the sound of smashed plates. What could he do?
Once his father finally passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stench of booze, Mum would slip into Tom’s room, sometimes falling asleep beside him on his narrow bed. Tom noticed bruises on her arms—sometimes even her face. In the morning, Dad would apologise, swearing he’d never lay a finger on her again…
By morning, Mum would tiptoe out. When Dad sobered up, he’d leave too, off “job hunting,” as he called it. Tom stayed behind, doing his schoolwork. He was in Year 4, afternoon classes. He’d heat up his own lunch, eat, then walk to school.
Evenings, it all started over.
“Your dad at it again last night?” asked Mrs. Thompson from next door, peering over the fence.
“Yeah,” Tom muttered.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“Gotta go, I’ll be late,” Tom hurried off.
“Go on, then,” Mrs. Thompson sighed, watching him scurry away.
When Tom got home from school, Mum was making dinner in the kitchen. Dad wasn’t there—a relief. He sat at the table, chattering about school until he blurted out that it was better without Dad, that maybe he shouldn’t come back at all.
Mum shot him a disapproving look.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he finds work, things’ll go back to normal.”
But Dad came home, noisily shedding his coat in the hallway, dropping things, grumbling. Mum stiffened, peering out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging Tom toward the stairs.
He sat upstairs, listening. But tonight was different—quieter. Then Mum let out a sharp cry, something heavy thudded on the floor. Tom crept out, peered into the kitchen. Dad stood with his legs wide apart, glaring down at Mum sprawled on the tiles. Tom gasped. Dad turned, his eyes bloodshot.
“Son.”
Tom bolted out the front door, banging on Mrs. Thompson’s. He was trembling too hard to make sense, but she called the police and an ambulance. They arrived almost together—Dad hauled away, Mum taken to hospital. Tom slept at the neighbour’s that night.
Next morning, he and Mrs. Thompson went to the hospital. Mum lay alone, tubes snaking around her. She didn’t wake, even when he shook her arm. A doctor led Mrs. Thompson out to the corridor, leaving Tom alone with Mum.
He kept trying to wake her. Bored, with no sign of Mrs. Thompson, he wandered out. A door was slightly ajar—inside, he heard the doctor telling someone, *She’s in a coma, unlikely to wake, but we have to hope…* Terrified, he ran out of the hospital.
Mrs. Thompson found him on a bench in the hospital garden. He cried all the way home while she tried to calm him. At her house, she asked if he had any family outside his mum.
“My nan, up in the countryside,” he said.
“Far from here?”
“Two-hour bus, then a mile’s walk.”
“D’you remember the way?”
“I’m not stupid,” Tom snapped.
“I’ll take you to your nan’s tomorrow,” she promised.
But in the morning, a call came—a friend’s daughter, saying her mum was dying. Mrs. Thompson flustered.
“I’ll put you on the bus, love. Sorry I can’t go with you. You’re a big lad now.”
At the station, she asked the driver to keep an eye on him. Tom dozed off to the bus’s hum, jolting awake when a woman nudged him. “Oi, we’re here.”
He stumbled out. The other passengers scattered. The lane leading out of the village was empty—just him. His stomach twisted, but the sun was out, crisp autumn leaves crunching underfoot. *You’re not a baby,* he told himself. *Just keep going.* He hummed his favourite song for courage: *Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda…* Mum used to sing it with him.
Past one sleepy hamlet, then a bigger one with a shop—next would be Nan’s. But as he cleared the first village, a sharp whistle cut the air. Two lads lounged on a fallen tree off the path.
“Who’re you, then?” the taller one sneered. “Never seen you ‘round.”
“Visiting my nan.”
“Skiving off school?”
“Nah, just—just gotta go.”
“Got any fags?” piped the other.
“Mum says smoking stunts your growth,” Tom said before he could stop himself.
They howled with laughter. “Listen to ‘im! ‘Mum says’—what else she say?” The big one yanked Tom’s rucksack off, dumping clothes, a book, sandwiches onto the grass.
“Right laugh, this. Bet your mum sent you off so she could have some bloke ‘round, eh?” They cackled, crude words hanging in the air.
Tom saw red. Mum was in hospital, and these— He lunged, but they were bigger. A shove to his chest, a trip from behind, and he was flat on his back, pain shooting through him. A rock dug into his spine.
“Mum give you dosh for the bus? Hand it over.”
Tom scrambled up, but the big lad pinned him down while the other rifled through his pockets. “Twenty quid! Loaded, this one!”
Tom thrashed—no use. The taller boy flung him off, sending him crashing into the tree’s jagged edge…
A wrinkled face hovered above. “Oh, love, look what they’ve done to you. What’s your name? Not from ‘round here, are you?”
Tom sat up, head pounding. He couldn’t remember—why he was here, his name, anything. His shirt was torn, his rucksack gone.
“Come with me, get cleaned up.”
At her cottage, the old woman—Mrs. Wilkins—fed him, then went to fetch the parish councillor. Tom didn’t try to run. Where would he go?
The councillor, a wiry man, scratched his head. “Keep him tonight, Doris. Copper’ll sort it tomorrow.”
That night, Tom finally cried.
Next day, a young PC arrived, took his photo (“for identification”), and drove him to the station. No one had reported him missing.
“Sorry, lad. You’ll have to go to a children’s home.”
He didn’t care.
At the home, the other kids picked on him when they realized he remembered nothing. Nights were the worst—blanket over his head, fists flying. He stopped sleeping, fought back first, earned a reputation as a troublemaker.
But he did well in school. Even with no memory, the knowledge was there. They named him Billy after the song he hummed—Billy Cooper. Found near Cooper’s Lane, see. It didn’t feel like his name, but it stuck.
Months passed. Before Christmas, sponsors came with presents—most of which the staff pocketed, handing out a few sweets. Billy stuffed his in his mouth under the stairs so no one could take them. Made himself sick.
“You’re singing in the concert. Don’t embarrass us,” the matron scolded, forcing strong tea down him.
The music teacher saw his talent. “Sing something festive!” she urged. But he’d only sing *Waltzing Matilda*. The headmistress allowed it—”It’s moving. Might loosen the sponsors’ wallets.”
The hall was decked with tinsel, a tree on stage. Kids performed skits, recited poems. Then Billy’s turn. Shaky at first, his voice grew stronger. By the last verse, even the matron wiped her eyes. Applause erupted—then a woman burst in, gasping. “Tom!”
The headmistress chased her. “This is Billy Cooper! A violent little—”
The woman ignored her, gripping Billy’s shoulders. “Tom, love, it’s me—Mum! I’ve searched every home… Remember the beach? The kitten that ran off? The dog that bit you when you were five?”
Kids sniffled. *Lucky sod,* some muttered.
In the office, Mum showed scars, birthmarks—things only she’As Tom clung to her hand, the weight of those lost months finally lifting, he knew—no matter how much the world had hurt him, home was wherever she was.
