We Went to Visit Mum.
We went to visit my mother. As we entered the building, we found a five-year-old boy weeping uncontrollably.
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
He sniffled, “I came to see my nan. I went to play in the garden, and when I came back, she wouldnt open the door.”
I said, “Dont worry, shes probably just popped to the shops. Shell be back soon.”
But he wouldnt stop crying, poor thing.
“Whats your name?”
“Ja-a-me-s”
“And which flat is yours?”
“Num-ber twe-e-nty”
The residents of flat twenty were new, and I hadnt met them yet. I rang the bell, but no one answered. I couldnt leave the boy there on the stairs.
“Come on, James, youll be my guest. Ill leave a note on your nans door.”
Back in our flat, while my husband kept him company, I scribbled a note: *James is in flat 42.* I went down and slipped it under the door.
By the time I returned, James was already playing with my son, racing toy cars across the floor. Everything was fine.
I wiped his face and asked, “Would you like some vegetable soup?”
“Yes, please.”
He polished off a bowl in seconds.
“And for the next course, there are meatballs. Fancy some?”
“Yes, please.”
He had a ravenous appetitedevoured two meatballs in one go.
“Would you like jam or juice?”
“Tea.”
I was surprisedat five years old, Id only have drunk tea if there was no jam left.
We sat sipping tea with digestives while James and my husband debated important matters like car brands and their top speeds.
Mum arrived home. I explained about our little guest.
“Thats odd,” she said. “Flat twenty is rented by a woman about your age.”
I didnt think it strange at all. A woman in her forties could easily be a grandmother to a five-year-old.
Mum accepted my reasoning and joined in entertaining him. She brought out the toy box, which made the whole affair even livelier.
About an hour later, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to a woman my age standing there.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I just got home from work and found this note. There must be some mix-up with the flats?”
It struck me as oddcoming home from work, and the name James meaning nothing to her.
“You havent lost a grandson?” I asked.
“I dont have any grandchildren yet,” she replied.
Something wasnt adding up.
Back in the living room, everyone was busyMum stacking blocks onto a toy lorry, my husband tying a string to a toy, while James, the foreman of the operation, barked orders.
“James,” I said, sitting beside him, “where exactly did you come from to visit your nan?”
“From Manchester.”
“Do you know your home address?”
He rattled it offstreet, number, flat.
“And your nans address?”
He gave the street name, and suddenly it all made sense.
In his games, hed wandered from one courtyard to another. When the other children left, he thought he should go home too. The buildings looked identical. Instead of his nans block, he ended up at ours.
He knocked, but no one answered, so he panicked and burst into tears.
I gave him a toy car as a gift, scooped him into my arms, and we went to find his nan, who mustve been frantic.
In the next courtyard, we heard someone calling:
“James! James!”
We hurried toward the voice and saw a woman my age, clearly distressed.
“Is this your grandson?”
“Yes!”
With relief, she hugged us.
We explained what had happened, and everyone laughedthough the nans laughter was a bit shaky, as shed clearly been terrified.
For James, it was all an adventurehe had a new toy car.
As she thanked us profusely, we slipped away before the tears could start again.
We were halfway back when we heard:
“James, come for lunch, you must be starving!”
“I already ate,” he answered, sliding the car along the pavement.
“He already ate,” I called over my shoulder, “soup, meatballs, and tea.”
“What a surprise!” she remarked. “He never has an appetitewe can barely get him to touch soup.”
I raised an eyebrow, remembering how much hed eaten at ours. He waved his new car and shouted:
“See you tomorrow! Ill be back!”
