The Night the Angels Came. Cathy Glass

of his condition,’ the priest said as we arrived outside another massive wooden door with a brass plaque announcing ‘Head Teacher’. ‘He and Michael are in our prayers.’

      I nodded.

      The priest opened the door and we entered a spacious but cluttered room, which looked as though it hadn’t changed since the Victorian era. Beneath the one window was a huge oak desk; the chair behind it was empty, but over to the right, lost in the centre of a large leather captain’s chair, sat Michael. As he turned to face us our eyes met. He looked so lonely and afraid I could have wept.

       Chapter Seven Comfortable

      I wanted to rush over and take Michael in my arms and comfort him, but I felt inhibited by the presence of the priest and the formality of the head teacher’s office. Instead I said, ‘Are you all right, love?’ I crossed the room to where Michael sat, so alone.

      He gave a small nod and I touched his shoulder reassuringly.

      ‘You’re going home with Cathy,’ the priest said, remaining by the door.

      ‘How’s my dad?’ Michael asked me.

      ‘He’s being well looked after in hospital,’ I said. ‘I’m expecting to hear more soon, love. Try not to worry.’

      ‘Can I go and see him now?’ Michael asked. I wasn’t sure. Jill had told me to collect Michael from school and take him home. I didn’t know if it was appropriate to take Michael to the hospital now.

      ‘Not straight from school,’ I said, ‘but I’ll find out when you can visit.’ Michael nodded.

      ‘Don’t forget your bag,’ the priest said.

      Michael picked up his school bag, which was propped beside the chair, and slowly stood.

      ‘Will you be bringing Michael to school tomorrow?’ the priest asked. ‘I think it’s better for him to be in school than moping around.’

      ‘I’ll have to wait until I hear from Michael’s social worker,’ I said, ‘but I think she’ll probably say Michael should come to school if he feels up to it. What time does school start?’

      ‘The doors open at eight a.m. and registration is at eight fifteen sharp.’ Which meant I would have time to bring Michael to school before taking Adrian to his school for its 8.50 a.m. start, and then continue as usual to Paula’s nursery for 9.00.

      Michael heaved his school bag on to one shoulder and the four of us crossed the room to where the priest waited by the door. We went out of the head’s office and then followed the priest down the corridor to the main entrance. He opened the inner and outer doors. ‘Take care, Michael,’ he said as we passed through the dark lobby and into the light and air. ‘I’ll visit your dad when I get a chance. He is in our prayers.’

      ‘Thank you, Father,’ Michael said respectfully. Adrian and Paula glanced at me and I knew I would have to explain later that priests in the Catholic Church were referred to as ‘father’.

      ‘When will I be able to see my dad?’ Michael asked as we crossed the playground.

      ‘I’m not sure yet. I’m waiting to hear from your social worker and I’ll tell you as soon as I do.’ I was hoping Jill or Stella would phone before too long so that I could reassure Michael, and I also needed to know what arrangements would be made to collect the clothes Michael needed for the weekend.

      ‘If you can’t take me I could go to the hospital on the bus,’ Michael offered.

      I gave a small smile. ‘There’s no need for that, love. I’ll take you just as soon as I hear from Stella about visiting times.’ Of course I also needed confirmation that it was advisable for Michael to visit tonight – that Patrick was well enough – although I wasn’t going to alarm Michael by saying so.

      ‘You don’t have to keep to visiting times when someone is terminally ill,’ Michael said, and I was saddened that an eight-year-old knew this.

      ‘What’s a terminal?’ Paula asked innocently.

      ‘Terminally ill is when someone is very ill,’ I said. I guessed Michael probably knew the full definition but he didn’t say.

      ‘Have you visited your dad before in hospital?’ Adrian asked.

      Michael shook his head. ‘Dad had to go to the hospital for chemo but he always came home again afterwards. Sometimes he was sick and I held his hand and got him a glass of water.’

      My heart ached at the touching image of Michael caring for his father. ‘Chemo can make you sick,’ I said, and I wondered how long it would be before Paula asked what chemo was.

      ‘What’s a chemo?’ she said a second later.

      ‘It’s a very strong medicine that can help people get better,’ I said.

      ‘It hasn’t helped my dad,’ Michael said quietly.

      I didn’t say anything and Paula and Adrian fell quiet too, and I thought how much Michael had had to cope with in his short life compared to the average child.

      We arrived at the car and I opened the rear door and the children climbed in. The children were quiet on the journey home and I was deep in thought. Not only was I concerned and sad for Michael but I was also thinking about Patrick. How ill was he? Jill had said he’d collapsed and a neighbour had found him, which could mean anything from a faint to a coma. Would he be able to leave hospital after the weekend, as Jill’s comment had suggested, or was he going to need a longer stay? Patrick had been doing so well on the two occasions I’d met him and should have been coming to dinner on Saturday instead of being rushed to hospital. I knew I was going to have to be very strong for Michael, for if I was worrying goodness knew what Michael must be thinking as he sat silently next to Adrian staring through the side window.

      It would be nice to say that when we arrived home Adrian’s and Paula’s naturally happy disposition took over and we all brightened up, but that didn’t happen. As I unlocked the front door and we filed into the house the cloud of Michael’s sadness came with us. Michael stood in the hall with his bag on one shoulder looking so very sad, lost and alone, while Adrian and Paula, who usually ran off playing before I’d closed the front door, stood subdued on either side of him.

      ‘Take your shoes and coats off,’ I encouraged. ‘Michael, you can leave your school bag here in the hall, love, or take it up to your room. It’s up to you.’

      He dropped it where I pointed, in the recess in the hall; then he took off his shoes and jacket, which I hung on the coat stand. Adrian and Paula took off their shoes and coats and the three of them looked at me.

      ‘Adrian, would you like to get a game from the cupboard while I make dinner?’ I suggested.

      He shrugged. ‘Can’t we watch television?’

      ‘Yes, if that’s what you’d all like to do.’

      They nodded. ‘Does anyone want a drink and a snack first?’

      They looked at each other and shrugged again; then Adrian led the way into the sitting room to watch television while I went to the kitchen to make dinner.

      Not having any news of Patrick was in some ways worse than having bad news because my thoughts went into overdrive and I kept imagining the worst. I could hear the television in the background as I worked in the kitchen and I assumed the children’s thoughts were safely occupied with the programme. But after fifteen minutes as I was peeling potatoes Adrian rushed in.

      ‘Mum, come quickly,’ he said. ‘Michael and Paula are crying.’

      I left what I was doing and flew into the sitting room. Michael was sitting on the sofa, staring blindly at the television, with tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Paula sat next to him, her little arms looped around his shoulders, trying to comfort him but also in tears.

      ‘Adrian,