I felt Ellie’s fingers loosely holding my hand. Her excited chatter echoed in the woods when a hunch made me look behind me. There was nothing, only trees rustling in the summer breeze.
I grabbed her hand tighter than was comfortable for a two-year-old. I looked left and right and searched behind the giant chestnut trees.
My skin felt clammy. An iron hand squeezed my stomach, and rivulets of cold sweat chilled my spine. Ellie’s babbling drifted in the wind, but my leg felt her squeeze.
Where were they? I thought to myself. Why didn’t Laura and Frederick call back when I shouted their names?
Semi-convinced they must have been hiding, reluctant to reveal their vantage point, I thought finding them was still in my grasp — if I’d check behind every tree and shrub. They had only gone for a minute.
Hadn’t they?
. . .
A figure hurrying past stopped; a concerned middle-aged woman clocked my ashen face and warned me a flasher had bothered some teens only two days ago. Close to where we stood. “What happened?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. She didn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t tell me.
“I’d love to help, but I have an urgent errand, sorry love,” she declared, while striding off into her carefree life, leaving me in my nightmare, a now speechless toddler in tow.
. . .
I had felt the crunch of a twig underfoot only minutes before while strolling through the sun-soaked forest with my three charges for the day, four-year-olds Frederick and Laura, and Ellie, an adorable but high-drama toddler. The day was full of promise with a visit to the fun fair.
The older pair were chattering behind me, young voices high, punctuated with excitement. Ellie trundled beside me, chubby fingers squeezing mine.
I had been on the job for three short weeks. The position hadn’t turned out to be the glamorously independent London life in my teenage imagination. Running a social life on 35 pounds a week wasn’t easy for an eighteen-year-old desperate to leave her childhood behind.
And minding two under-fives full-time was more challenging than I expected. In hindsight, I don’t think I was responsible enough to do the job well.
Also, I wasn’t exactly living independently in my box room with employers barely able to afford live-in childcare. My arrival timed with a recession causing the freelancer dad of the family, Juan, to swap his family saloon for a clapped-out Fiat Panda. My ‘family’ was friendly but not minted.
However, my friend, Celine, blessed with German self-possession, had landed a position, and Frederick, in an imposing red brick with a large kitchen — obligatory black and white tiles on the floor — backed out to the forest. True, she spent most of her day mopping immaculate tiles, but then she was number nine in a long list of short-lived au pairs.
. . .
That afternoon, Celine had entrusted me with Frederick while she took off to English class. I had long spent my enrolment fee on a pair of eye-wateringly expensive black Levis and a maroon top, so I volunteered to bring him on our fateful trip.
Big mistake.
. . .
Before leaving, Celine promised me she had locked Frederick’s kitchen door. Off we went. The two four-year-olds were close, and listening to them giggle was heartwarming while I dragged Ellie along.
Then the laughter stopped.
I realized I had lost Laura and Frederick. I had no cell phone, and Celine was long gone. The only other person in the vicinity was a toddler with limited language skills.
The older woman scared me with her revelation and left us alone again. Just me and Ellie, now teary with foreboding.
. . .
In a quest to improve my English, I had read Juan’s morning paper- the Daily Mail, a newspaper that doesn’t let the truth get in the way of a good story. I couldn’t think straight with lurid headlines of evil predators kidnapping angelic toddlers clouding my judgment.
What if the flasher took them? Would he murder them? How would I explain this to the kids’ parents and Celine? Their lives would be over.
. . .
In my panic, I hoisted Ellie and ran to Cambridge street, sweatily climbing and cursing the hill of our terraced house. I accosted a neighbor, the no-nonsense woman next door, tripping over words in the hope she understood my heavily accented English.
“My kids are gone, in the forest. I don’t know where they are!”
“You poor thing. I can call the police for you, or we can return to the house. They may have hidden in the garden.” She took charge and raced a distraught Ellie and me in her blazing red Mini Cooper straight to the house.
. . .
We ran around the red brick, past the generous kitchen, breathless and panting, limbs nearly tripping over fat tree stumps. I hoped the lady was right, but the pessimist in me warned me she was wrong. Someone had taken them.
Like a marathon runner at the finish line, I couldn’t feel my legs when Ellie shouted and gestured towards the kitchen window.
I hugged Ellie tight. She had heard her sister and Frederick. I heard someone shout when I realized it was me.
Celine hadn’t locked the door. We opened it to a scene straight out of Enid Blyton; the pals sat nonchalantly on the kitchen floor, jam jar open, surrounded by broken biscuits — happily unaware of my darkest fears. I imagined the gleaming tiles sticky with marmalade.
My body relaxed. In a matter of seconds, I have moved from my worst nightmare back into a summer’s day.
. . .
My employers heard the story and hugged me. Celine’s family wasn’t so understanding; she lost her job.
. . .
Years of life experience haven’t dulled this memory; instead, it’s etched onto my retina.
It informs every outing I undertake with kids and teaches me to stay calm and not panic.
While I wouldn’t wish this gut-wrenching experience on anyone, the happy ending shows not every story ends in Daily Mail horror.
Also, children are mercurial; they love wandering off in search of excitement.
I now keep vigilant, so their adventures, like Laura and Frederick’s, are more Enid Blyton, less Stephen King.
—
This post was previously published on Inspired Writer.
***
From The Good Men Project on Medium
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