1
Every maternal instinct Nat Davies owned roared to the surface at the downcast head and the dark curly hair. There was something about the slump to the little boy’s shoulders and the less than enthusiastic way he was colouring in a rather dapper looking frog with a jaunty hat. He seemed separate from the other children laughing and playing around him, and it roused her inner mother lion.
He was the only stationary object in a room full of movement. And he seemed so… forlorn.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked her boss, bumping the other woman’s hip to get her attention.
Sharyn, her long bright pink hair framing her face, stopped chopping fruit and followed Nat’s gaze. ‘Julian. It’s his second day. Four years old. Father is ooh-la-la handsome. Italian. Perfect English. Just moved from London. Widower. Recent, I think. Doesn’t smile much.’
Nat nodded, well used to Sharyn’s staccato style of speech. ‘Poor darling.’ No wonder he looked so bereft. ‘How awful to lose your mother at such a young age.’ Not that it mattered at any age really. She’d been eight when her father had left and it still hurt.
Sharyn nodded. ‘He’s very quiet. Very withdrawn.’
Nat’s heartstrings gave another tug. She’d always had a soft spot for loners. She knew how it felt to have your perfect world turned upside down while life continued around you. How alienating it could be. How it separated you from the bustle of life.
‘Well, let’s see if I can fix that,’ she murmured.
Nat made a beeline for the lonely little boy, stopping only to grab a copy ofPossum Magicoff the bookshelf. In her experience she found there was very little a book couldn’t fix, if only for a short while.
‘Juliano.’ Nat called his name softly as she approached, smiling gently.
The little boy looked up from his lacklustre attempt at colouring the frog. His mouth dropped open and he stared at Nat with eyes that grew visibly rounder. She suppressed the frown that was itching to crease her forehead at the unexpected response. Surely he was used to hearing his name spoken in Italian?
He was looking at her with a mix of confusion and wonder, like he was trying to figure out if he should run into her arms or burst into tears.
She kept her smile in place. ‘Ciao, Juliano. Come sta?’
Nat had learned Italian at school and spent a year in Milan on a student exchange after completing year twelve. Given that she was now thirty-three, it had been a while since she’d spoken it but she had been reasonably fluent at one stage.
Julian’s grave little face eked out a tentative smile and Nat relaxed. ‘Posso sedermi?’ she asked.
Julian nodded at the request and moved over so Nat could share the bench seat with him.
‘Thanks, Juliano,’ she said with a smile. ‘My name’s Nat.’
The boy’s smile slipped a little. ‘Papa likes me to be called Julian,’ he said quietly.
The formality in his voice was heartbreaking and Nat wanted to reach out and give him a fierce hug. Four-year-olds shouldn’t be so buttoned up. If this hadn’t been the crèche for the children of staff at St Auburn’s Hospital, she might have wondered if Julian’s father had a military background.
Captain Von Trapp in need of a Maria.
‘Julian it is,’ she said, and held out her hand for a shake. He shook it like a good little soldier and the urge to tickle him until his giggles filled the room was almost overwhelming.
Battling uncharitable thoughts towards the boy’s father, Nat had to remind herself that the man had not long lost his wife and was no doubt grieving heavily. But his son had also lost his mother. Surely he could see his son was miserable? And so tightly wound he’d probably be the first four-year-old in history to develop an ulcer.
Just because Julian was a child, didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of profound grief.
‘Would you like me to read you a story?’ Nat pointed to the book. ‘It’s about a possum and has lots of wonderful Australian animals in it.’
Julian nodded. ‘I like animals.’
‘Have you got a pet?’
He shook his head forlornly. ‘I had a cat. Pinocchio. But we had to leave him behind. Papa promised me another one but… he’s been too busy…’
Nat ground her teeth. ‘I have a cat. Her name’s Flo. After Florence Nightingale. She loves fish and makes a noise like this.’
Nat mimicked the low rumbling of her five-year-old tortoiseshell, embellishing slightly. Julian giggled and it was such a beautiful sound she did it again. ‘She’s a purringmachine.’ Nat laughed and repeated the noise, delighted to once again hear Julian’s giggle.
