Amelia Oxborrow

Amelia was the competition winner for Kirsty Logan's masterclass 'What Next? Developing Your Stories Further' with 'Daddy's Home'

"I am a law student and single mum to a one-year-old baby girl. My short story was inspired by a mix of Shirley Jackson’s domestic horror stories and my own experiences of feeling the fear of a lie catching up with you. The best thing about the competition was having positive feedback on something I’d written as I never usually share my writing. I’ve written a few novel manuscripts but nothing I’ve been happy to share… yet!"

Daddy's Home

Amy was always dreading the day her son would learn to talk. Does that make me a terrible parent? She knocks on a bungalow door. Either way, I’m running out of time. She turns back to the pushchair waiting on the sunny garden path. Maybe they won’t be in. But she hears sounds from inside. It’s getting too risky; I’ve got to stop.

“Look! Look! Mummy, mummy! Cat! Cat! Eeeeoow!” a fat, dimpled hand jabs out from the pushchair. Maybe I can still turn around and go home, walk away from this mess. When Amy gives no sign she’s heard him, the baby grows irate.

“MUMMY! CAAAT! CAAAT!” he kicks his feet so the whole chair shudders. Amy looks at the empty space where he is pointing

“Sorry, Harry, yes, what a lovely cat,” Amy says, words sticking in her dry mouth. I can’t do this anymore. But it’s too late. The door opens and a woman in her seventies, wrapped in a thick cardigan comes bustling out and scoops Harry out of the pram.

“Hello, my gorgeous grandson,” the woman beams and Harry beams back, “That’s right, you know where you are don’t you? Granny and grandpa’s house! Can you say granny and grandpa?”

“Granny and grandpa!” Harry obliges, to exaggerated delight from the elderly man who has joined them at the door. Amy’s heart sinks and her face must betray her because the woman stares.

“Are you alright Amy? You look glum.”

“Sorry Carol, mind on other things. Lovely to see you. And you Paul.” But the elderly couple have already disappeared into the house taking Harry with them.

Amy struggles to manoeuvre the pram into the hallway. She slips off her shoes and coat, listening to the low mumble of muttering voices in the next room. She tries to avoid looking at the photos hanging on the wall – all taken of the same pale man with dark hair and black eyes.

When she enters the sweltering living room Carol and Paul have already assumed their regular position in sagging armchairs, with Harry perched in Carol’s knee. Amy crosses the room and sinks into the sofa. More photos of the thin man with dark hair are dotted around the room. Dozens of pairs of black eyes stare down at Amy.

“Guess what I dug out?” Carol says, pulling a thick black album onto her lap, “Baby photos of Jack and he was just the spit of Harry.”

“Identical,” Paul agrees, “Like looking at a ghost.”

Without warning Carol breaks out into violent sobs.

“Oh Amy,” she gasps, “I can’t thank you enough for reaching out to us when you were pregnant with Harry. Losing a son is so hard but having Harry, it’s like getting a piece of my baby back.”

Amy tries to look away but everywhere she looks black eyes glare at her, so she closes her eyes instead.

“I’m so sorry Harry,” Carol dabs at her cheeks, “Granny’s just being silly. I just, oh goodness, I just miss your daddy so much.”

Harry gazes up into her wrinkled, wet face. His soft hands cup her cheeks.

“See daddy soon,” he says gently.

Amy’s blood runs cold. No, Harry, not now. Her eyes flicker towards Carol’s expression – wide eyed and open mouthed.

“I’m so sorry-,” Amy begins, but Carol interrupts.

“What do you mean Harry?” Carol presses, “You think I’m going to see your daddy again soon?”

“See daddy soon,” Harry repeats, “Daddy home. Bedtime see daddy.”

Carol and Paul exchange glances. Oh God, I should never have come back here. I don’t want to do this anymore.

“Really,” Amy pleads weakly, “It’s just something he must’ve got from the TV.”

“Oh, don’t be so cynical Amy!” Carol’s voice is shrill, “Children can see things we can’t. Harry, do you see your daddy sometimes?”

Harry nods enthusiastically, “Bedtime. See daddy bedtime.”

Now Paul is up out of his chair and kneeling beside Carol’s armrest, gazing into Harry’s round face. Amy’s heartbeat hammers in her ears. Surely everyone else in the room can hear it too. But all eyes are on Harry.

“What does he say?” Paul asks, “When you see Daddy, does he say anything?”

Harry looks between the two hope filled faces gazing at him and frowns. He looks over at his mother with uncertainty in his eyes. But Paul moves until he’s blocking Harry’s view of Amy. Amy can see Paul’s scalp beneath strands of greasy grey hair.

“What does Daddy say?” Paul asks again, moving closer to Harry, “What does Daddy say?”

“Come on Harry,” Carol joins in, “Tell us what Daddy says?”

The elderly couple move in tighter and tighter until Amy can’t even see Harry anymore. Please just leave him alone. She wants to shout. He doesn’t understand. But she can’t get the words out. She tries to stand but she’s sinking into the sofa.

“Night, night, Harry, love you,” Harry says in a singsong voice, then he wriggles and squirms from Carol’s lap and waddles towards Amy, “Night, night, Harry, love you.”

Amy stands up.

“I’m sorry, we should be going,” she says, pulling her bag up on her shoulder.

Carol and Paul, gazing into each other’s eyes and stroking each other’s hands, appear not to hear her at first. After another moment, they both stand up and wipe at their eyes. Carol hurries to open the door for Amy while Paul grabs a slip of paper from the wooden desk.

Out in the hallway Amy clips Harry into the pushchair. Putting on her coat and shoes, she avoids eye contact with Carol and the photos on the wall.

“Here you go,” Paul hands Amy the paper, a cheque. Eight hundred pounds! Maybe a few more visits wouldn’t hurt…

“Oh, no, really, it’s too kind,” Amy blushes, although they go through this routine every week.

“Don’t be silly, Amy,” Carol says firmly, “It’s the least we can do to help out with the cost of our grandson what with Jack not being around to help.”

“He’d want to know we were looking after you,” Paul agrees pressing the cheque into Amy’s hand.

“It really does make all the difference,” Amy smiles, slipping the cheque into her purse, “With my own parents gone too… I can’t tell you how grateful I am for these.” At least that part isn’t a lie.

“Don’t even mention it,” Carol waves Amy’s words away, “As long as we keep getting to see our lovely grandson.”

Amy’s smile falters slightly. Can you even be a good parent if you’re already a terrible person? She forces another smile that turns into a grimace, which disappears as soon as she is out of the house, out of sight.

Harry falls asleep on the bus ride home and Amy leaves him dozing in the hallway in his pram while she starts cooking supper. As the clock ticks towards six she hears him stirring and lifts him into the sitting room and plonks him on the sofa with the TV on before returning to the kitchen.

A few minutes later she hears the front door open and the sounds of jangling keys and footsteps heading towards the sitting room.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Harry’s voice rings out.

Amy gets some wine from the fridge and pours herself a glass. Wine sploshes over the rim and soaks the worktop. Amy grabs one of Harry’s muslins and wipes up the mess. She turns when a tall, bearded man with warm brown eyes walks into the kitchen.

“Did my parents call from their cruise?” the man frowns.

“No,” Amy says, “Why?”

“Oh,” the man replies, “I just asked Harry what he’s done today, and he said, ‘Granny and Grandpa.’”

Amy turns around and refills her glass.

“Must be something he got from the TV,” she says.

© Amelia Oxborrow, 2021