Dear Diary,
This afternoon I spied a ginger kitten while we were out for a walk, but Miss Margaret Clarke swooped in and organised a round of Duck, Duck, Goose, so I never got the chance to get any nearer.
The kitten was the same shade of orange as the little cat I used to call Marmalade. Its whiskers were bright, though I could never tell if it even had eyelashes the thought of a cat with lashes made me smile. Mother used to say the sunshine had kissed the little beast, and she herself pressed a kiss to its head before she passed away. Since then, nobody has brushed a kiss onto my cheek. Father is always rushed, and Grandmother Ethel seems to have no affection for my little self.
If the sun really did kiss him, does that make me a son of the sun? Could the ginger kitten have been kissed by the same warm light? I wondered about all this during the quiet hour, my mind buzzing with halfformed questions.
Lenny, why arent you sleeping? Miss Clarke tucked my blanket tighter. Close your eyes, love. I obeyed, but sleep slipped through my fingers. I lay listening as Miss Clarke whispered in the staff room:
How long can we keep this going? One assistant for two groups is absurd with the number of children we have. Who would agree to such a pittance?
A voice replied, Thank heavens Annas gone. She was terrible with the children; better we have no nanny at all.
Speaking of Anna, I was terrified of the former nanny, Miss Poppy Bell. She barked at the children, and if any of us refused the lumpy porridge, she would shove a spoon so hard that our tongues throbbed. Once she thrust the spoon into my mouth with such force that the porridge burst out onto the table. I was terrified, and Miss Clarke hurried to wash my face and change my shirt, while she sternly warned Miss Bell to stop. Soon enough, someone complained, and she never returned to the childrens centre.
Later, during the evening stroll, I caught only a flash of a ginger tail darting behind the shrubbery at the end of the garden gazebo. Then Father appeared. Since Mothers death, he barely speaks to me and seems not to notice me at all. He picks me up from the centre and drops me off in my room to play. One day I overheard Grandmother snapping at Father:
Simon, Im telling you again, youre raising a child that isnt yours. He looks nothing like you, cant you see?
Mother, Father muttered, the boy looks a bit like Nadine.
She retorted, He doesnt even resemble Nadine. Why not do a DNA test? Its easier than dealing with a strangers child.
Ive been looking after him for four years now, almost five, Father sighed. But it feels like a false family, a wife who vanished withwho knows whats left to claim.
Her angry tones were a constant background, and I began to tune them out.
The next morning a new caregiver arrived Miss Irene Smith. She was nothing like Miss Bell. She spoke softly, never raised her voice, and the children seemed to eat their meals without protest.
I set my spoon down and watched her closely. She smiled and asked, Whats your name, love? Lenny? Im Irene. Why arent you eating?
I dont like the lumps in the porridge, I admitted.
Ill tell you a secret, she whispered, I dont like them either, and I never force anyone to eat them. If you find a lump, just leave it on the plate. Well see who ends up with the most later.
That tiny challenge fascinated me. I started hunting for lumps, only to discover there were hardly any. In the process I ate most of the porridge without even noticing, and Irene praised me, Well done, Lenny! Youve done a splendid job. No one had ever praised me like that before, and my heart swelled with pride.
From then on I loved going to the centre even more. Irene helped the headteacher wherever she could, and the little ones quickly grew fond of her.
One quiet morning Miss Clarke asked Irene to stay with the children while she slipped into the office to speak with the headmistress. The children whispered and nudged each other, but I still couldnt fall asleep.
Lenny, why are you still awake? Irene stroked my hair gently.
Do you know, Miss, that my mother is in heaven? I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Her throat tightened. She had instantly taken a liking to this shy, gingerhaired boy. Shed noticed that I was often whisked away by a hurried father or a grumbling old woman, but never by my mother.
No, love, I didnt know, she replied softly. And the sun kissed you too?
Yes, I said, the sun kissed me.
And do kittens have eyelashes? I asked, halflaughing.
Probably, she smiled. Why do you ask?
I told her, in a hushed tone, about the ginger kitten that lived in the bushes, about how I imagined the sun might have kissed it too, and how perhaps it was my brother. I wanted a brother even a kitten because nobody kisses me any more since Mother died.
Do kittens actually kiss children? I asked, my eyes glistening.
She brushed my tousled hair once more and nodded, They do, love. Their tongues are a bit rough, though. Now get some rest, alright?
Later, the headteacher, Mrs. Hughes, mentioned to Irene that my mother had come from a childrens home and had only recently passed away. My stepgrandmother never accepted my stepmother, insisting the child wasnt the fathers. My fathers world had become a mess of accusations, and I had stopped smiling, though once I shone like the sun itself.
A few weeks later I didnt turn up at the centre. A nasty flu swept through the town, even though summer was just beginning, and I stayed in bed for weeks. Miss Clarke announced to Irene that my father had placed me in an orphanage. The paperwork was endless. It turned out my father had taken a DNA test with Grandmother; the results showed he wasnt my biological parent. For five years Id lived with people who werent truly mine, and now I was being sent away.
I walked home in a fog, the image of a trusting ginger boy flickering in my mind: Do kittens have eyelashes?
Suddenly, a bright bundle of fur leapt from behind the gate of the childrens centre. I grabbed it, trembling, and realised it was a kitten the very ginger one Lenny had spoken of. It wasnt a tiny newborn but a scrappy adolescent, its fur bright orange and dirty, yet cleanable. As I examined it, I learned that kittens, indeed, have no eyelashes.
That night, when my stepdad Simon came back from work, the clean, wellfed kitten darted straight into his arms.
Oh, weve got a new addition! Irene, will it ruin the furniture? he joked, spotting my worried face.
I dont mind, I replied, I just heard the kids say cats are little troublemakers.
He laughed, Anything happened with Mother? At work?
We talked until the early hours. Eventually Simon asked, Irene, are you sure this isnt just a stray we picked up?
I was certain. Id taken the job at the centre because I had no children of my own, so caring for others felt right. Simon tried to reassure me that everything would sort itself out, that doctors were doing their best, though I wasnt sure of anything. All I knew was that Lenny could not end up in a childrens home, just like the stray kitten.
Soon a mountain of paperwork adoption forms, school registrations, psychologist reports piled up. Thank heavens our flat is spacious and Simons salary in pounds is decent, even if he jokes about not needing to send me to work. The headmistress helped through her contacts. My mothers spirit seemed to smile, and my grandparents from the north called, shouting that they wanted the grandchild to visit soon.
When the day finally came for Lenny to return to the centre, he smiled shyly, still bewildered that a bit of patience would bring him back to a life with Irene and the ginger kitten. At home the cat curled up, purring each night.
Look, everyone! Lennys back! the children cheered as he entered the playroom.
Good morning, Lenny! Did you know kittens have no eyelashes and their tongues are rough? Miss Clarke laughed.
In two years time Lenny will be starting Year1. Hell be escorted by his father, two grandmothers, a grandfather and his little sister, all beaming with hope.
It feels strange to write all this down, but perhaps putting the words on paper will help the memories settle, like a soft blanket on a cold night.
Lenny.
