Mummy

Mr. Christopher Evans was a hermit. He minded his own business, and let others mind theirs. He read books, he drew comics, and, most importantly, he didn't interact with others. He was not quite old, but too wise to be considered young. His sight was just poor enough to require squinting, but not glasses. He had brown hair that was more pepper than salt and had started to fade at the hairline, just a bit. 

Christopher lived alone in a small cottage just outside the town of Alton, Hampshire, in the South of England. There was a lovely brook just outside his house, and it was surrounded by beautifully hanging willow trees. That brook was one of Christopher’s favorite places, especially in the early hours of the morning when the sunbeams would dance through the branches and fall on his nose and eyelids. There lived a family of geese that had just welcomed five new goslings. Sometimes, if Christopher was quiet enough, and still enough, they would come out, and splash in the water. He would often be there when the goslings learned to swim for the first time. 

Christopher didn’t mind his life; in fact, it quite suited him. Every morning was the same, followed by an identical afternoon and a parallel night. That morning was starting out just the same as every other one had started, as long as Christopher could remember. He was awakened by the blissful humming of the whippoorwill and the sunlight glowing through his curtain. He placed his feet on the carpet, feeling around until he found his slippers, and stepped into them. In the same motion, he pulled his bathrobe off the hook on his door and swept it over his shoulders. After shuffling groggily to the door whilst rubbing the tiresome remnants of sleep out of his heavy eyes, he walked to the kitchen and opened the shutters. 

“Hmmm.” Christopher sighed contentedly. No longer did he miss the sounds of his beautiful Evelyn playing the piano, nor the laughing of his children. Sentiment and nostalgia wouldn’t change his situation. He hummed a tune to himself while putting the kettle on the stove and placing a bag of Earl Grey tea into a flowered teacup. Christopher rubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the beginnings of a beard. He didn’t mind whether he had one or not. There was no company to critique his looks. He stared out the window as he waited for the water to boil. It was a nice day. The morning dew still spotted the grass and the flowers, and the sun hadn’t quite risen yet, so the sky was painted with a lovely array of pinks and oranges. Resting his chin on his hand, he thought about picking up a paintbrush and painting the scene before it melted away into a cloudy, blue sky. 

A sound startled Christopher out of his reverie. Cocking his head toward the noise, Christopher blinked and listened hard. Nothing. Nothing- oh wait! There it was again. It was an odd sort of choking sound. That mixed with a whimper, and a low-pitched squealing. With a jolt, Christopher realized what the sound was. It was crying! And not just your average, moist-eyed, soft crying over a failed exam. Whoever it was, and it sounded like a child, they were bawling. Now, it had been so long since Christopher had heard that sort of sound that for a good minute, he had no clue what to do. He sat, deep in unfamiliar thought for a while. Then he vaguely remembered comforting a nephew, or someone like that, a long time ago and thought that he had better see who it was and why they were crying. It was then that Christopher realized that this would be a very different sort of day. 

He was already half-way out the door when he began to feel nervous. And really, Christopher thought rather condescendingly, he should’ve felt nervous when he made up his mind to talk to somebody. But he was already out the door, and the crying wasn’t sounding like it would cease, so he felt he must do something. The grass had grown long and the bushes wild, so it was like wandering through a maze. A complicated, twisting maze of hydrangeas and ferns. Christopher was still in his slippers and bathrobe, too, so it was all the more difficult. 

“Mummy!” The sobbing voice wailed, very suddenly. It caught Christopher off guard and he almost stumbled. A good thing about this outburst, however, was that it gave further direction to the voice’s location. Christopher now knew exactly where to look. He stepped over a strawberry bush and behind an oak tree and saw exactly what he thought he’d find. There was a girl, very small, perhaps only three or four, huddled on the ground in a tight ball. Her hair was matted and her cheeks smudged with dirt, so Christopher assumed she’d walked a long way. She wore a tattered yellow dress with sewn-on daisies. More surprising than any of this, however, was that she had no idea of Christopher’s presence. And a good thing, too, because Christopher wasn’t yet sure how he felt about hers. 

“He-Hello?” He finally managed, speaking very softly. She didn’t respond, simply continued with her sobbing, so he tried again. “Hello?” He spoke slightly louder. Her cries stopped instantly, though tears continued streaming down her face. She looked up, big blue eyes rimmed with red. 

“Yes?” She asked meekly. Christopher knelt down next to her, not sure where to begin. It had been so long since he’d spoken to a person, let alone a small child. What if she was scared of him?

“You were crying.” Wiping her eyes off with her fists, the girl shook her head. 

“Not anymore.” She announced, wiping her hands on her dress. Christopher was grateful for the fact that she didn’t want to know who he was, or why he was there. 

“Well, are you alright?” he asked, and the girl's face crumpled again. 

“I can’t find my Mum.” Christopher rubbed his chin. 

“Well, that’s not very good, now is it?” The girl shook her head, then brightened and jumped to her feet, taking hold of Christopher’s hand. Startled, he stood up next to her, matching her height two times over. 

“You can help me find her!” She pulled him out of the bushes, and might’ve marched all the way to Buckingham Palace, had Christopher not stopped her. Instead of saying anything, he took her small, tear-stained hand in his and led her inside the house. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the old trunk of toys and faintly considered bringing it out. But he pushed the thought aside, replacing it with the far more pressing matter of finding her Mother. Upon thinking that, he realized that there was another, even more, urgent problem at hand, and he was shocked to not have thought of it by now. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. The girl looked up at him, a tiny smile on her face, clearly having not expected that question. 

“Elsie,” she announced, proud of her name in the way little kids often are. “And I’m four.” Christopher felt the only suitable response was to nod in a very impressed manner and was glad he did so when Elsie seemed very pleased. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and lifted Elsie into it after watching several botched attempts of her trying to climb in herself. He sat next to her, tapping his fingers on the table as he tried to figure what to do. 

“I’m Christopher.” Elsie held out her hand, and Christopher took it, half-worried he’d break her tiny arm. 

“Hello!” She announced, shaking his hand firmly. Christopher smiled at her before he shook his head, remembering his task. 

“What was the last place you saw her?” He asked, and Elsie frowned, eyes moistening at the mention of her mother. 

“I don’t remember.” She said, and those three words were to most crestfallen Christopher had ever heard them. “I miss Mummy.” Now, it was quite possible that the girl’s mother was simply in one of the houses past the brook, but Christopher had quite forgotten about those houses in his years of seclusion. 

“Would you like some tea?” Was all he thought to offer. Elsie nodded dejectedly, and he hurried to get some. He was in the midst of pouring hot water into two floral teacups when a second sound of the day startled him. This one was different, although still not part of Christopher’s daily routine. Knocking. Frantic, urgent, knocking, that could only be the famed “Mummy”. Christopher rushed over to the door and opened it cautiously. He was very pleased to see a very tired, very worried young woman standing there. 

“Darling!” She cried, and Christopher was startled until he realized she was talking to Elsie. She ran past Christopher to lift her daughter into her arms, who hugged her tightly in return. 

“Where have you been, Mum?” Elsie asked, and her mother laughed. 

“You got lost in the woods last night, remember?” She didn’t seem to really care whether or not Elsie did remember, choosing to hug her tighter instead of letting her answer. After several blissful moments of reunion, the pair turned to Christopher, who was standing awkwardly as most third-wheelers do. 

“Mummy, this is Christopher!” She exclaimed, and with a red face, Christopher shook her hand. He was glad that she didn’t seem to think of the fact that her daughter was alone in a house with a strange man. But all Elsie’s mother did was say a grateful thank-you and give a tearful hug. 

Then they were gone, in a blur of curly blonde hair and flower-scented perfume. The door was shut, and Christopher was alone. 

The teapot was whistling, and the birds were singing, and Christopher found himself feeling more satisfied than he had in years.