The Only Man in the Family
At breakfast, Molly, the elder daughter, was absorbed in her smartphone when she suddenly piped up, “Dad, have you seen todays date?”
“No, whats so special about it?”
Without another word, she angled her phone his way. On the screen, in bold digital numbers: 11.11.1111th November 2011.
“Thats your lucky number, Dadeleven! Three elevens in a row. Todays going to be a brilliant day for you.”
“If only you could eat honey with your words,” grinned Geoffrey.
“Yes, Daddy,” chimed in little Alice, her own gaze fixed on her phone. “It says Scorpios today will meet someone special and receive a gift for life.”
“Excellent. Probably some distant relative weve never heard of has snuffed it somewhere in Europe or America, and were the only heirsmillionaires overnight, of course.”
“Billionaires, Dad,” Molly continued the joke. “A million would be pocket change for you.”
“Just what I thought. What on earth would we do with all that loot? Fancy buying a manor in the Cotswolds, or perhaps a villa in Cornwall? Then a yacht…”
“And a helicopter, Dad,” Alice joined in dreamily. “I want my very own helicopter.”
“No problem. Youll have your helicopter. What about you, Molly?”
“I want to star in a film in Londons West End, with Hugh Grant.”
“Piece of cake. Ill ring Judi Dench, have a word… Right, you dreamers, finish your breakfast; well be late.”
“Oh, just when Im getting started,” sighed Alice.
“No reason not to dreamone must, in fact,” Geoffrey drained his tea and stood. “But dont forget about school…”
The memory of that surreal morning chat flashed through Geoffreys mind hours later, as he stacked groceries into bags at Tesco. The day was nearly over, and it had been anything but luckywork had only grown, hed stayed late, and felt worn to shreds. No magical encounters, no gifts for life.
“Happiness whizzed over my head like a biscuit tin in the wind,” he grumbled, pushing out into the car park.
Outside his long-suffering, ancient Morris Minor, a scruffy boy circled with fox-like curiosity. The boy looked a waif, as if assembled from odds and endsan unwashed mop of orange hair poking from a battered tweed cap, clothes that could have been rescued from a hedge, feet encased in a mismatched pair: a muddy trainer on one, a scuffed Wellington boot on the other, blue twine for laces. One ear of the cap was burnt around the edge, a silent badge of misadventures.
“Mister, Im… Im hungry. Please… bread?” the boy stammered as Geoffrey approached.
The words, awkward and strange, sounded like something from an old black-and-white film. Yet it was the boys pauseso genuine or so brilliantly stagedthat struck Geoffrey. Nearly thirty years ago, in a local drama group, hed been taught that little halts in speech revealed more than words. Was it real, or was the boy acting?
Hes pretending, thought Geoffrey. Everything felt like stagecrafta scene set up just for him. Why? Theres meant to be a lesson here, some test hes not even aware hes failed.
Alright, mate, Geoffrey smirked inwardly. Lets play your game. My girls will love thisthey adore playing detective.
“Bread isnt enough. How does a bowl of stew, a proper jacket potato with pickled herring, followed by rhubarb crumble and hot scones sound?” he offered lightly.
The boy hesitated, clearly surprised, then frowned defensively.
Goodless acting, more real, Geoffrey thought, egging him on. “Well, yes or no?”
“Yes,” the boy whispered.
“Brilliant. Hold this for me, will you?”
It was an old test. Real runaways, given a bag full of food, would scarper instantlylegs pumping, the bag awkward and too heavy, always forgetting how slow hunger made them. Geoffrey knew, having chased down plenty before and doling out a soft clip on the ear: “Don’t be a wild animal, son. Youre a human child”
He dawdled, searching endlessly for his car keys, then phoned home, back turned.
“Molly, have you put the potatoes on? Salad ready? Good girls. Can you warm up a bit of stewtwenty minutes and Im there. Cheers, love.”
He glanced; the boy still clung to the groceries, head down, scuffing a shoe on the tarmac.
Thank goodness, no need for a sprint, Geoffrey thought with relief.
Keys found, he loaded the boot. “Hop in, my good man,” gesturing to the front seat with mock formality. “Coach awaits. Potatoes bubbling, stew on.”
The boy climbed in nervously, emitting a peculiar sigh that seemed too old for someone so small.
The drive was silent. For over a decade, Geoffrey and his girls had lived in a tiny Hampshire village, a good stretch from the market town where Geoffrey worked as a council emergency welder. An orphanage kid himself, hed grown up without family, but now cherished his daughters beyond words, and they, in turn, adored him. Geoffrey hurt for lost children; he knew their world, and wherever possible, took one home for a meal, sometimes finding them new families. If not for the blasted regulationshousing standards, money, single parent ruleshed have adopted the whole lost tribe. Impossible, too poor, too crowded, youre a single father As if a council home was better. Nonsense. Love was rare as a hens tooth in a childrens home. In Geoffreys househowever imperfectany lonely child would have been loved fully.
He sneaked a look at his companion. The boy sat hunched, head shoved between nervous shoulders. The cap tilted forward, hiding his face. He only sighed and sniffed occasionallya wasps nest of thoughts, perhaps, just like Geoffreys.
Strange lad. Not a seasoned runaway; too shy, too lost. Probably away from home only days, not toughened by the streets.
Maybe I was too quick to call him a liar, Geoffrey silently admitted. Maybe hes in shock, not used to how life spins him about.
Never mind, ladwell get you bathed, fed, swaddled with warmth. Youll have a sleep and spill all. Everything will be splendid.
The girls, on the front step, dashed down to meet them. They flung open the car doors, grabbing at shopping bags.
“And whos this, Dad?” Only then, spotting the boy.
“This? Why, this is your promised special acquaintance and gift for life from this morning,” Geoffrey grinned.
“Brilliant, Dad,” Alice said, peering under the cap. “What a presentyou sure you grabbed the right one?”
“He clung to my leg, shrieking, Im your gift! Yours!” Geoffrey played along.
“What do you call this present?” asked Molly, arms full of groceries.
“Hes nameless.”
“No label, no price tag?”
“None.”
Alice sighed melodramatically. “Youve been had, Dad. Youve been given a faulty presentneeds to go back.”
The boy visibly tensed, as if ready to bolt on a hair-trigger. Sensing it, Alice clamped a hand on his shoulder and rapped his cap: “Hello? Who lives in the cottage?”
The boy retreated further, turtle-like.
“Wrong number,” Molly shrugged. “Receptions bad. Best try indoors.”
Years together had rendered Geoffrey and the girls fluent in silent signals. Now Molly shot him a look: quiet type, hard nut to crack, not like the others. Time for the good cop/bad cop act theyd honed many times. Geoffrey signalled back: five minutes, max. He showed his handspread wide.
Three minutes, Molly winked; well sort him out.
“Alice, bring the present. Time for an investigation of the Unknown Walking Object.”
In a swoosh, Alice lifted the boy from the seat as if he were a cosied ragdoll. He squirmed, growling.
“Dad, he rattles inside,” Alice said, still holding the present tight.
“Maybe hes lost a bolt, or a wires come loose,” Molly joked. “Dad, when you leave the garage, fetch some pliers and a soldering iron. Well crack him open, see whats what.”
Bag-laden, the girls herded the boy into the house like prison guards. Geoffrey set about the evening ritualtucking his Morris Minor in the garage, ensuring it would start at a turn, checking, cleaning. Three sets of five minutes ticked by.
Suddenly Alice burst back into the garage. “Dad, hes lying!”
“How do you know?”
“Elementary, dear Watson,” Alice replied. “He doesnt smell like a street kidhe reeks of home.”
“You smelled him?”
“Of course. Guess what he smells of?”
“No idea. Scones? Imperial Leather? Warmed milk?”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong. Here.” She offered her hand, black with smudges.
“Soot?”
“Not quite,” she said triumphantly. Sniff.
Geoffrey did, and scraped off a flake with his nail.
“Greasepaint?”
“Bingo! The boys caked himself in stage makeupwanted us to think he was a poor waif.”
“A waif?”
“Says his name is Oxley. Sounds like a street nickname. Wikipedia confirms: Oxley is a working bull…”
“Well fatten him up and sell him,” Geoffrey winked.
“Dad, stop jokingthis is serious. I swear, he targeted you on purpose. Dressed in rags, painted up, went on stage, one-man show.”
“Why?”
“Thats just ithe wont tell. But dont worry, Mollys about to break him. He wont hold out.”
Molly appeared on the doorstep, shouting, “Do we still have sulphuric acid?”
“Half a canister left,” Alice yelled, swooping through the garage and grabbing a random jug. “Coming with it! These days we dissolve all evidence in acid….”
“Fiends,” Geoffrey muttered.
“Fiendesses,” Alice corrected, dashing off.
“Dad, wash your handsfoods ready!” Molly called as he came in.
“Were ravenouscould eat our Oxley raw,” Molly teased.
“Young beef, Id crunch the bones,” Alice agreed.
Piglets, thought Geoffrey fondly, heading for the wash. Theyll have flattened the poor boy.
The boy sat quietly on a stool in the centre of the kitchen, drying his hair with a towel, while Molly and Alice laid the table, whispering conspiratorially. Now, with the grime scrubbed off and hair drying, Geoffrey could seeten, maybe eleven, with hair nearly the colour of ginger nuts. He wore a red-and-black striped vest, torn blue jeans, nothing on his feet, legs curled under him.
“Shift to the table, Oxley,” Alice called. “Or do you just eat hay?”
“Or shall we brew up some mash for you?” Molly played along.
“Enough, girls,” Geoffrey said, serious now. “Eyes on your plates, lets eat.”
“Okay,” the sisters chimed, glancing sidelong at the boy as he tidied himself self-consciously, now sitting straight, looking for all the world like a boy content at his own family table, not a strays lost shadow. The sisters threw confused glances at each other.
Whats going on here, lad? Geoffrey mused. Your whole act was meant to get you here on purpose. But why? Alice was rightyoure clearly a home-grown kid. Youre not casing the place for a break-in. If anything, youre just… observing. Whats your real motive?
“Dad, earth to Dad,” Mollys voice and earnest hand on his sleeve jolted him. “You off in a trance? More food?”
“Thanks, Im done. Compliments to the chefs.” He mustered a smile. “How long was I out?”
Ages! Alice exclaimed. Weve grown up, got marriedhello, Grandad, were your granddaughters now!
“And is that your boyfriend?” Geoffrey nodded at the boy as he took his tea.
“No, Grandad, hes our house bull, see? Were fattening him for the summer rush,” Alice patted Oxleys head.
“Beef will be dear by summer,” Molly agreed.
“Beefsteak,” Alice corrected, twisting a lock of the boys hair.
“Alright, enough!” The boy leapt up, then, gulping, spoke in a trembling voice, “Molly, Aliceplease… I give up. Mr. Higgins, Im sorry I did it this way…”
“Sit down, calm yourself, and tell us, in order,” Geoffrey said gently.
“Only the truth,” Alice warned. “Lie, and Ill know.”
“I wontlying feels horrible”
The honest truth shocked the Higginses. Theyd imagined wild scenarios, but not this.
Oxleys real name was Adam Oxley (he even showed his birth certificate). His father died in Afghanistan; his mother, pregnant at the time, went into labour early from the sorrowa little sister was saved, also called Alice. Left almost alone, the four siblings managed, their elder sister barely of age. The council had wanted to take the children away, but she fought, and they were allowed to stay together. Growing up quickly, Adam and his sister “Sophie” acted as parents to little Alice and Lucy.
In early October, Adam noticed Sophie was odddistracted, unwell. He was terrifiedif she left too, what then? Turns out, Sophie was in love, utterly, hopelessly, with a man she hadnt dared mention. After prodding, she confessed: his name was Geoffrey Higgins, council welder, divorced for ten years. He never drank or smoked, raised two daughters after his wife ran off to Spain with a lover. Adam also heard Geoffrey sometimes took in orphans, found them familiesas he himself was once an orphan. That fact gave Adam an idea: to pose as a stray and get a close look at Geoffrey and his daughters, to judge if this was a good family for Sophie. He hadnt expected to run straight into good cop/bad cop sisters whod uncover his ruse in record time.
“I really do like you all, very much. Molly, Aliceyoure wonderful. Mr. Higgins, please take my sister as your wife. Youd be so happy. Shes lovely and kind, just like Mum was She wanted to tell you herself but was scared”
“Of what?” Molly prompted.
“That you wouldnt want her, knowing shes got all us kids”
“Rubbish! That needs sorting,” Alice said firmly.
“Quite right,” Geoffrey said, hiding a smile. “So, what do you say, shall I go a-courting? Or are you refusing my hand?”
“Sophies twenty-three now,” Adam blurted.
“Dad,” Alice grinned, “Youre just ten years older. Thats nothing.”
“Youre experienced, youll helpMolly and I will too, right Adam?”
“We will!”
Geoffreys daughters surrounded him, eager faces peering up. “Say yes, Dad?”
“Yes…but lets ask the lady”
“Sophie agrees!” Adam came round, hand out. “As the only man in our family, Im giving Sophie to you, Mr. Higgins.”
Geoffrey shook the boys hand, then embraced him warmly. Tears stung his eyes. Molly sniffled too.
“Dad,” Alice spoke briskly, sensing the moment teetered on the edge of tears. “You didnt believe it this morning, but lookheres your special acquaintance: Adam Oxley, and your life-long gifta big, happy family. Its what you always wanted, Dad. And you finally got it.”
