Henry’s legs were aching by the time he got to the end of his road, but his troubles didn’t really start until he reached home. His mother must have heard the sound of the key in the door, for she met him in the hall. She was dressed for work in one of her hideous tweedy suits, but her blouse was rumpled and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in months, but that did nothing to dampen her fury.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she demanded. ‘We were worried sick. Anais rang round all the hospitals and I’ve just reported you missing to the police. For heaven’s sake, Henry, couldn’t you just have rung? Why on earth do you think we got you a mobile phone? Don’t you ever, for a minute, think about anybody else but yourself in your whole… selfish… life?’ Then, to his intense embarrassment, she threw her arms around him and burst into tears. ‘Oh, Henry, we thought you’d been killed!’
He’d never seen his mother cry before and he didn’t know how to cope with it. She was holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe and he could feel her tears dripping from his jaw to run down the side of his neck.
‘Where were you?’ she sobbed. ‘Where have you been?’
He couldn’t answer that one either. At least not any way that was going to satisfy her. Where had he been? Walking all night and most of the morning, by the look of it. She was going to ask him why and he didn’t know why. He might have been hit by a car, but he didn’t feel like he’d been hit by a car. No bones broken, no headache, not so much as a bruise. His mind went back to an earlier thought. Maybe this blank in his memory was all part of his nervous breakdown, the business about seeing fairies and visiting fairyland.
‘Mum…’ Henry said.
He’d been talking to Charlie about his nervous breakdown. And Charlie had said something about it, but he couldn’t remember what.
‘Mum…’ Henry said again, struggling a little.
Actually he didn’t know why she was going on like this. He’d stayed out overnight before. Usually at Charlie’s, where arrangements were often last-minute. He’d always rung, of course, but there’d been times when Mum and Dad had gone to bed – how worried could they be? – and he’d had to leave a message on the answerphone, for cripe’s sake!
Henry suddenly remembered he had left a message on the answerphone the night before. He hadn’t planned to stay out – he’d wanted a lift home. But nobody took his call, so he left a message. He could remember that quite clearly. Mum, I’ve missed my bus. Any chance you could come and get me? If you don’t pick up this message I’ll be walking home.
It suddenly occurred to him why she was so upset! She hadn’t picked up the message. Not until this morning. And then she’d checked his bed and found he still wasn’t home. She wasn’t worried, she was guilty! That was so typical. She could never admit anything was actually her fault. She hadn’t been worried about him at all. She’d gone to bed and didn’t even think of him until this morning. Now she was making a fuss to cover up.
‘Mum,’ Henry said. He took her arms firmly and pulled away. ‘Mum, you don’t give a damn where I was.’
Then, with his own welling tears, he ran upstairs to his room and locked the door.
In its own small way, Henry’s room looked much like Mr Fogarty’s shed, except that strewn clothes took the place of tools and models of one sort or another stood in for the machinery. Henry sat on the edge of the bed thinking how childish those models looked. More than half the ships he’d made were plastic, could you believe that? And then there was that stupid cardboard model of a flying pig. Incredible to think that was the last model he’d made, and just a few weeks ago. Incredible to think how proud he’d been of it.
She knocked on his door almost at once.
‘Go away, Mum,’ Henry said dully.
A voice said, ‘It’s not Martha, Henry – it’s Anais.’
After a long moment, Henry got up and unlocked the door.