I nearly didnt pause.
Just another lad, I thought to myself. Another tale Id never know, another moment to pass by briskly.
Im hungry please, could you help me? His voice floated up, thin in the drizzle beneath Charing Cross.
I gave him some money regardless.
But for some reason, I lingered.
Then I spotted it a locket.
It was battered, metal worn away by years an object that clearly had its own history.
May I have a look at that? I asked.
He handed it over straightaway, no hesitation.
I opened it slowly and suddenly everything slipped away from beneath me.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
Cradling a tiny baby I could never forget.
My voice faltered, rough with old pain.
Where did you find this?
The lad responded without a seconds thought.
Whatever he said it rooted me to the pavement.
Just then, a voice rang out behind me, calling his name.
Rain beaded along the stone steps of the Underground, while London hustled past in its oblivious rhythm.
Black cabs sloshed through puddles, tyres hissing on wet tarmac.
People pressed on beneath umbrellas.
Neon lights shimmered in watery mirrors fragments of some other life.
I almost kept going.
Why not? I was just another face, and he just another child, slumped against St Martins stone with a battered bit of cardboard and eyes that looked far too old for sixteen.
Im hungry please, could you help me?
Id heard it countless times before.
Most Londoners master the art of not hearing at all.
But somehow, something in his tone held me.
Perhaps it was the weariness.
The quiet dignity.
The way he didnt reach for me as I stopped.
Elizabeth Rowan thats me found herself halted beside him, digging in her bag for her purse.
Two crisp twenty-pound notes.
Enough for a hot meal.
A hostel for the night.
Even new trainers, if he was careful.
I handed the money out.
He took it gingerly, blinking at my generosity.
Thank you, he whispered.
Not out of habit sincerely.
I nodded, already turning.
Then I noticed the chain slipping from beneath his oversized coat.
A locket, silver once, now dulled by time.
Something about it cut through me.
Not a memory at first just a gut feeling.
I looked again.
Scratched at the edge, a tiny dent near the clasp. Impossible.
I choked on a breath.
Hang on.
He looked up.
That locket
His hand hovered protectively, touched it as if not to lose some part of himself.
My mum gave it to me.
My heart thumped, sharp and ragged.
Could I see it?
He hesitated, only briefly.
Then he nodded, trusting me.
Far too trusting.
As the cold metal settled into my palm, my hands began to shake.
Familiar. Known.
Suddenly, the citys rush faded into silence.
I thumbed the locket open.
And time stopped.
Inside a photo, old and creased.
But beyond any doubt, it was me.
Younger, beaming with pride.
Holding a newborn bundled in a blue blanket.
My legs weakened.
No.
No, surely not
My hand covered my mouth.
I knew that photograph; Id clung to it the day they told me in St Thomas all those years ago.
The day I was handed a stillborn son, or so Id been told.
The day the nurses would no longer meet my eyes.
The day something inside me shattered.
I could barely get the words out.
How did you where did it come from?
He didnt hesitate.
My mum always said that if I ever met my real mother, shed know.
I stood there, utterly numb.
Every sound in central London disappeared.
The rain.
Traffic.
Footsteps.
All gone.
Real mother.
It hollowed out my insides.
At last, I truly looked at him.
His eyes.
The cut of his jaw.
A small scar near his eyebrow
exactly where my late husband had one.
My chest kept stuttering.
How old are you? My voice barely a whisper.
Sixteen, he replied.
Impossible.
Yet utterly possible.
I curled my fingers round the locket till my knuckles ached.
Whats your mums name?
He parted his lips
And then, from behind me: JACK!
We both turned.
Across the rain-slicked road stood a woman by a parked car.
Mid-forties, hair plaited back, a smart navy coat.
Her face tight with panic.
Recognition jolted through me like an electric shock.
It was Margaret Fisher. Sister Margaret from the ward all those years ago, the woman whod carried my child from the delivery room.
The same nurse whose voice cracked as shed said: Im so sorry, Lizzie we did all we could.
Margarets cheeks drained of all colour.
Jack looked between us, bewildered.
Mum?
I couldnt breathe.
She wasnt looking at the locket.
She was staring straight at me, like shed just been confronted by a ghost standing there in the London rain.