There were guests at home again. There seemed to be a never-ending parade of visitors. They all drank and drankbottles everywherebut hardly any food in sight. I would have been grateful for even a crust of bread but the kitchen table only held cigarette stubs and an empty tin of sardines. I looked over the table once more, just to be sure. Nothing.
“Alright, Mum, Im off,” I said, tugging on my battered old shoes.
I still hoped she might stop me, might finally say, “Where are you off to, love, without even a bite to eat? And its freezing out. Stay in, Ill make porridge, tell the guests to clear off, give the place a good scrub.”
But Mum never spoke kindly; her words were always sharp, the sort that made me want to curl inwards and disappear.
This time, I decided I was leaving for good. At the grand age of six, I considered myself quite the grown-up. First things first, Id make some money and buy a bun, maybe even twomy stomach rumbled its support for the plan.
I had no idea how to earn any money, but as I wandered past the corner shops, I spotted an empty bottle poking out of the slush. I scooped it up and dropped it into my pocket. Not long after, I found a discarded carrier bag, and then spent half the day searching for more bottles.
Soon, I had a decent stash, the bottles clinking in their bag. I imagined handing over all my loot and getting in return a warm, soft bun speckled with currantsor maybe even one glazed with icing, though I suspected I didnt have quite enough bottles for that extra luxury. Determined, I kept hunting a bit longer.
I got closer to the railway platform where men often drank pints as they waited for the next train to Paddington. Setting my bag down by the kiosk, I ran off after a freshly abandoned bottle. While I was away, a mean-looking, grimy bloke appeared. He grabbed my bottles, glared down at me so fiercely I had no choice but to walk quietly away.
The dream of a bakery treat vanished like fog.
Collecting bottles is hard graft too, I thought, trudging through the sticky, wet snow.
My feet were soaked and cold. Evening crept in. I dont recall how I ended up in an unfamiliar stairwell, curled up on a landing, inching closer to a radiator, slipping into a hot, dreamless sleep.
When I woke, I thought it must all be a dreamthe warmth, the sense of safety, and the gentle smell of something delicious wafting through the air.
A lady with the kindest smile walked in.
Well now, lad, she asked in a gentle, motherly tone, Are you warm enough? Had a good rest? Come now, lets have some breakfast. Last night I found you sleeping like a little lost puppy in the stairwell, so I brought you home.
Is this my home now? I asked, scarcely daring to believe my luck.
If you havent another home, then yes, it can be yours, she replied.
Everything afterwards felt like a fairy tale. The kind lady fed me, cared for me, and even bought me new clothes. As the days passed, I told her all about my life with Mum.
Her name was Daisyan ordinary name, really, but Id never heard it before and it sounded magical to me. It seemed only a fairy godmother could possibly have such a lovely name.
Would you like me to be your mum? she asked one day, pulling me close, hugging me with the warmth only real, loving mums have.
Of course I wanted that but happiness has a way of ending quickly in my world. After a week, my mother came for me.
She was nearly sober and shouted at Daisy for taking me in. Im still his mother, I still have all my rights. When she dragged me away, snowflakes fluttered down and I thought the house I was leaving was a white castle, and Daisy was a queen.
Life got worse after that. Mum drank, and I ran away from home as often as I could. I slept at the stations, collected bottles, and bought bread with what little I earned. I never got to know anyone, or ask anything from anyone.
In time, Mum lost her rights as a parent, and I was placed in a childrens home.
The worst pain for me was that I could no longer remember where Daisys white-castle house stood, where she lived with her magical name.
Three years passed.
I lived at the childrens home, quiet and withdrawn, rarely speaking to anyone. My favourite pastime was to find a quiet corner and draw the same picture over and over againa white house with snow falling from the sky.
One day, a journalist came to visit the home. The house matron led her through the rooms, introducing her to all the children. When they reached me, she explained, Leos a good lad, very interesting, but he struggles to fit in with the others. Even after three years. Were working to find him a family.
Lets say hello, Im Daisy, the journalist said, introducing herself.
At that, I started to come alive, talking excitedly about the other kind Daisy. It was as if my very soul thawed with every word. My eyes shone, and my cheeks turned pinksomething the matron had never seen before. The name Daisy turned out to be the golden key to my heart.
The journalist, Daisy, was moved to tears by my story. She promised to write about me in the local paper, hoping maybe the real Daisy would see and know that I was still waiting for her.
She kept her promise. Miraculously, everything changed.
The real Daisy didnt subscribe to the paper, but for her birthday, her colleagues gave her a bouquet of flowers wrapped in newspaperit was winter, after all. At home, unwrapping the flowers, a headline caught her attention: “Kind-hearted DaisyA Boy Called Leo is Looking for You!”
She read the article and knew immediately it was methe very same boy shed found on her stairwell all those years ago.
I recognised her at once. I ran up and hugged her tightly. Everyone criedme, Daisy, the carers at the home.
I waited for you, I managed to say.
They barely convinced me to let Daisy go home that evening. She couldnt adopt me straight awaythere was still a process to followbut she promised to visit me every day.
P.S.
The rest of my story is a happy one. Im twenty-six now, a graduate from the University of Technology. Im planning to marry a wonderful woman. Im sociable, cheerful and I dearly love my mum Daisy, to whom I owe everything.
Only when I was older, did Daisy tell me her husband had left her because she couldnt have children. Shed felt hopeless and unwanted, and that was exactly when she found me on that cold stairwell and took me in, warming me back to life with love.
When Mum took me away again, Daisy thought sadly, “It just wasnt meant to be.” She was overjoyed when she found me again in the childrens home.
Later, as an adult, I tried to discover what happened to my birth mother. It turned out we were just renting that flat in Birmingham. Years ago, she left for parts unknown with some man just out of prison. I never looked for her again. Why would I?
