he couldn’t. The angry little bundle continued kicking and thumping.
Just as Ainslie had decided to let him do just that and deal with her own problems, Guido caught them both by surprise…
Staring at his father, his screams stopped for a second, a second that allowed him to draw breath, and Ainslie stood open mouthed as the little boy, very deliberately, very angrily and very directly, spat in the face of his father.
‘Puh!’
It was no accident—he even added sound—and Ainslie’s eyes widened in horror, staring at the shocked expression of the man, who didn’t look as if he’d take too well to being spat on. Then he did the most unexpected thing and grinned; that crabby, exhausted, haughty face was actually breaking into a laugh, and it caught the little boy by surprise, because he relaxed just long enough for the pushchair strap to be clicked into place.
The man stood up and, still grinning, pulled out a very smart navy silk handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘Little gypsy tramp—just like his father!’
Which wasn’t the best of introductions!
‘Oh…’ Ainslie nodded.
The last remnants of his smile were fading, and, after wrapping the child in a blanket, he took off his coat and wrapped that around the little boy too. But even though it was freezing outside, it was way, way too much for a little boy who was boiling up.
Ainslie couldn’t help herself. ‘He has a fever!’
‘So I keep him warm.’
‘No…’ Ainslie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I work with children, and what he needs is to cool down…’ She looked at his bemused expression and knew he didn’t have a clue. ‘He’s very hot.’ When still he didn’t seem to understand, she spoke more loudly, more slowly. ‘He might fit…have a convulsion…’ she explained.
‘I am neither deaf nor stupid! You do not have to speak pigeon English.’
‘Sorry…’ Ainslie blushed.
‘I have just seen a doctor with him, and he has been prescribed some medicine.’ He pulled a rather scruffy bag from his pocket, along with a rolled-up tie. ‘When I get him home I will give it.’
‘But they’re antibiotics—what he needs…’ Oh, what was the point? Turning on her heel, she gave a shrug. The sooner this arrogant know it all got home to his wife the sooner his boiling, ill-mannered baby could get some paracetamol in him and hopefully cool down.
‘He needs what?’
A hand grabbed her arm, and Ainslie felt her throat tighten. He had just sooo done the wrong thing. Only he didn’t let go, and even though she had a jacket on the inappropriate touch burned through the thick material, just a trickle of fear invading. But she was on a busy tube station, Ainslie reminded herself, and turned around to confront him.
‘What is it he needs?’
‘Could you remove your hand?’ Angry green eyes met his, watched as he blinked and stared down at his hand as if it didn’t even belong to him.
‘I am sorry!’ Instantly he let go—his apology absolutely genuine. ‘I am worried about him—and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Get him home…’ Ainslie’s voice was softer. ‘He needs some paracetamol. Once he’s had that he’ll settle…’
‘Paracetamol?’ He checked, and Ainslie nodded.
‘And he needs his mum.’
This time she really was going. This time she knew he wouldn’t grab her. Only he didn’t have to. His voice stilled her as she started walking, his words halting her before she disappeared for ever into the heavy crowd.
‘She died this afternoon.’
CHAPTER TWO
HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.
And it was horrible.
That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.
There were just a few days until Christmas.
The date didn’t matter—it would have been terrible on any day—but that it was so close to Christmas, that this beautiful little boy would be without his mother, that she would be without him, just made it worse somehow. And it made her own problems pale in comparison.
‘Can you help me?’ His voice was low but there was a thread of urgency.
‘Me?’
‘You said you work with children?’
‘I do, but—’
‘Then you must know how to stop his fever? How to take care of him?’ There was a plea in his rich voice, a tinge of fear, even panic for his son. ‘I don’t know what to do. I do not know children; I do not know what this boy needs…’ He dived out of his own hell just enough to glimpse her confusion, just long enough to interpret it. ‘He is not my son—he is my nephew. There was a car accident. I came from Italy this morning as soon as I hear the news.’
Heard the news. Ainslie opened her mouth to correct him, and then stopped herself—working with people who were usually under three feet tall gave her a tendency to do that! His story certainly explained his visible exhaustion. Dressed in a suit, juggling a laptop and a briefcase along with the stroller, he must have literally left in the middle of whatever it was he was doing and stepped onto a plane.
‘Where’s his father?’ The platform was full—again they were being pushed closer. Only this time they were together, sharing this appalling conversation.
Her eyes closed for a second as he answered, ‘He died instantly.’
When Ainslie opened them again, he was waiting for her, strong but desperate. His eyes held hers.
‘Can you tell me what he needs…help me with him?’
You don’t read out a list of questions when you witness someone drowning.
You don’t ask their name or age, or if they’re worthy of saving. You don’t ring for references or ask for a police check—instead you do what you can.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, because to Ainslie it was just impossible to even think of walking away, of not helping someone who so clearly needed it.
‘His home is close by—there is a pharmacy on the way.’
The platform was packed now. Another tube was pulling in and spewing out its contents. People walked fast as they left the platform, and the station was a blizzard of people, rushing to get home or to go out, stopping to buy their paper,
