Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Lance
“Dad!” Hannah’s shrill voice echoes through the house. “Dad. Come here, quick.”
I hobble as fast as my false leg allows. Things are getting easier, but sprinting on command isn’t possible.
“I’m coming. I’m coming. What’s all the shouting about?”
At the front door, she stands frozen, holding it wide open, staring at something on the doorstep, her eyes on stalks.
A silver pram sits at the bottom of our steps.
“Dad,” she whispers. “Someone left a baby in the garden. A whole baby.”
On instinct, my military brain goes into assessment mode.
The parents are nowhere to be seen. No passing cars. No voices.
The child, I presume is a boy, must only be weeks old. A tiny thing wrapped in blue blankets, sleeping soundly with his thumb securely fixed in his mouth.
“Just keep an eye on him, Hannah. His mother can’t be far away,” I command.
When I return, Hannah’s puzzled eyes search my face.
“There’s a note,” she says. “It was tucked into his blanket. It has Dog’s name on it.”
“Dog’s name?” I repeat, confused.
She hands over the folded paper with Dog scribbled on the front in blue pen. I look at it, perplexed, unsure what to say. On opening the note, my heart cracks wide. No one could have envisoned this.
Dog,
Our holiday romance in Ibiza has had unexpected consequences.
This is your son.
I haven’t named him. He was born on the 16th of March.
He needs to be registered by 27th April, before he’s 42 days old.
I can’t cope. My life is complicated enough.
I have no room for a child.
Please take care of him. Don’t try to find me.
Amber
I look from the note to the tiny child in the pram.
Dog’s son. Or suspected son, as the case may be.
But, nonetheless, an innocent child with no parents to care for him sits here on my front path.
“Dad?” Hannah’s voice interrupts the panic. “Whose baby is it? Where’s his mum?”
Her eyes are like saucers, completely confused by the strange turn of events.
“She’s gone.” My voice is low, shocked. “She says he’s Dog’s son.”
What do you do when a baby is left on your doorstep? It’s happened in movies or even reported in the local paper, but you never imagine it could happen to you.
“What?” Hannah screeches, mouth dropping open, her inner drama queen striding on stage.
“Shhh, Hannah,” I hush her. “I don’t know. I’ll need to work out the dates. But possibly, he could be. Let’s get him inside, then we can call the authorities and see what happens next.”
Underneath the pram is a canvas bag filled with baby milk, nappies, and an envelope.
Pulling the paperwork from the bag, I scan the contents.
It’s only a single sheet of paper, meant to look professional but clearly copied off the internet.
Termination of Parental Responsibilities is the heading of the document, and it’s dated yesterday.
She only uses her first name, Amber, and doesn’t give any further details.
Clearly, she’s not wanting to be found.
I look from the little boy to my daughter and back to the letter.
What do we do now?
***
“So, you believe your friend is the father, sir?” the social worker, Beth, asks for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Yes. The timing works. He did have a brief romance with a woman called Amber in Ibiza. Accidents happen. They did swap numbers, but neither of them had any intention of carrying on the relationship,” I explain.
“Do you remember anything else she told you about herself? Her surname? Where she lived or worked?”
Cringing, embarrassed by his promiscuousness, I say, “I’m sorry. It was casual. He never expected to hear from her again. I’ll try to remember anything useful.”
Beth nods, but she’s unimpressed. Abandoned baby. Missing mother. Late father. It can’t be an easy way to start her working week.
“What happens now?” I ask her.
“Well, he’ll be taken to a foster family for the time being. We’ll arrange a paternity test to confirm David is the biological father. Then we’ll need to discuss guardianship as he‘s deceased.”
My chest tightens. Her professionalism makes my friend’s death cut deeper, like he’s no more than a fact on her form. One monotone word following the next.
“Are you aware of any family?”
I shake my head. “All I know is he grew up in care and joined the army. The rest, he rarely spoke of.”
“I see,” she mumbles, pen scribbling on her notebook. “Well, it will be foster, then hopefully adoption.”
Everything spins fast and hard. My mouth opens before my brain catches up. Dog’s gone. His son is here. If this baby has no safety net…
“I’ll take responsibility,” I say firmly. “Whatever Dog needed me to do, I’ll do it for his boy.”
“There’s a process,” she warns. “And you have to be sure you’re capable of not only caring for him now, but for eighteen years at least.”
“I’m already a father.” My tone comes out sharp, the insinuation I don’t know what raising a child entails, raising my hackles. “Dog was family. Perhaps not by blood, but by love. His son is our family now. There will always be room for him here.”
“Very well, we’ll move quickly,” Beth says. “I don’t want him in foster care longer than necessary.”
“What about his mother?”
“The police will be searching for her. There isn’t much to go on, but hopefully we can track her down safe and well. Anyone who leaves their child on a relative stranger’s doorstep can’t be in a good place.”
We shake hands, and Beth pushes Dog’s possible son’s pram down my path. A sadness surfaces. Now I’ve seen him, I want him safe. I want him home. He already feels like mine.
Hannah’s in her bedroom, tears streaming down her face. My guilt that my daughter has had to witness this fiasco unfold is rising by the second. She’s been through enough already. I walk over and sit beside my daughter on her bed as I’ve done dozens of times before.
“Do you want to talk about this, Hannah? Do you have any questions?” I ask. She continues to cry but says nothing. We sit in silence; both our minds lost in the shock of the situation.
Finally, she speaks. “If he’s Dog’s son, and you keep him, that means he’s your son.”
“I suppose,” I say, my voice soft. Ownership hadn’t really crossed my mind, what he would call me, even less so. All I knew was I wanted to ensure he wasn’t lost in a system I couldn’t control. Not the way his father was.
She looks up from her pillow. “Will you love me less?”
My heart breaks in that instant for my little girl.
She’s dealt with so much over the past few years.
The breakdown of our family, the loss of her uncle, me losing my leg, and now this.
Wrapping her in my arms, I hold her tight, trying to glue all the broken pieces back together.
I bury my face in her hair as my tears start to fall in synchronization.
“Don’t you ever think I will love you less, Hannah. You’re the most important person in the world to me. If this little boy is Dog’s son, then I’ll love you both with all my heart. We can all live here together. It won’t be easy, but we will get there. There’s plenty of love to go around.”
We both sit back, staring at each other. The fear in her eyes seeps away with my words. The confidence that ebbs and flows in a teenage girl returning.
“Who’s his mum?” she asks. “I didn’t know Dog had a girlfriend.”
My little girl may only be young, but she’s shrewd. There’s no pulling the wool over her eyes. She’s been like that since ever she started talking, asking the awkward but logical questions that make adults flinch.
“He didn’t.” Honesty is the best policy. It’s what I tell my daughter all the time. And it’s what I’ve learned she needs to hear. “He had a holiday fling.”
She chuckles, almost silent, but there’s a smile on her lips all the same. The swift change in her mood surprising me.
“What is it?” I prompt, missing the joke.
“It’s just Uncle Dog causing chaos.” She laughs again, harder this time. “Only he could give me a brother and be dead.”
My jaw drops, her bluntness hitting me square in the ribs. “Hannah…”
It feels like I should be scolding her. I trap the laugh threatening behind my teeth. It barely stays locked away.
“Chill, Dad, that’s what Dog would say anyway. It will all sort itself out.”
Hannah moved in with me the day I got home from the hospital.
She refuses to go back to her mother’s house.
I’ve tried to get her to split her week, but the most she will do is visit for a day.
She says she needs to be here with me to support me, but the truth is, she doesn’t feel comfortable in our old home.
There are too many memories that Ainsley is trying to blot out with new ones.
After Hamish moved in, the house was redecorated, and all the family photos were boxed up for the attic. Hannah sobbed down the phone to me as she told me what her mother’s answer was to her being upset.
“Hannah, today is the start of our new life. Everything else is to be left in the past.”
That night was her night with me; she arrived with a bulging suitcase. I’ve tried to talk to Ainsley about it, but it just ends in a slagging match. A truce or compromise unable to be met.
My daughter will remain here with me until she decides otherwise. In all honesty, her mother is so caught up in her relationship that she doesn’t seem to notice. It probably suits her. That smashes my heart and infuriates me in equal measure.
“I wish I could drive you to school, sweetheart. Once I’ve passed my disability driving test, it’ll be easier. It’s only a few more months away. Rehabilitation is going well. My therapists are delighted with my progress.”
“I know, Dad. Why do they have to be so nasty? I don’t understand,” she murmurs, switching topic mid-sentence the way only kids can.
Some girls on the bus have been throwing insults, calling her names.
I want to speak to the teacher; Hannah wants to hide in the bathroom.
Again, compromise is proving hard to come by.
“Tell you what,” I say, “just this once I’ll call you a taxi.” She breaks into a relieved smile.
“Thank you, Dad. I love you.”
After seeing Hannah off, I return to the kitchen to clear the breakfast plates.
The bullying is getting worse. Every night this week, I’ve heard her crying through her bedroom door; I feel completely lost about what to do for the best. A visit to the school is needed.
Ainsley’s response was telling her that all girls go through it, and Hannah needs to toughen up.
It’s like being the sole parent a lot of the time.
My phone rings, distracting me.
“Major McDonald?” The caller is polite and professional. “This is Sacha from Aviemore Health Clinic. Would you be able to attend today so we can collect samples for the paternity test? Bring whatever personal items of Mr. Jameson you have. A hairbrush or toothbrush perhaps.”
“Yes, no problem,” I respond. “What time?”
“Twelve noon?”
“Okay. And how can you be sure the sample I give you is Dog’s?” I clear my throat, stumbling, using my friend’s nickname. “Mr. Jameson’s, I mean.”
“We’ve requested samples from his medical records too,” she replies, kindly. “If your sample matches, then we can double check with the official records. This way just helps speed the process along. Your caseworker asked us to process this as a matter of urgency.”
The social worker, Beth, said it would be quick, but I wasn’t expecting a call today. It’s good to think they have our unexpected arrival’s best interests in their focus too. A swift outcome will be best for all of us—one way or the other.
So today, I do have plans after all.