Lost in Translation
The centre was crowded with shoppers, some unhurried, others weaving agitatedly between the dawdlers. A typical day approaching Christmas, no doubt, where wallets saw far more light and action than usual. How he noticed the little girl, he would never know. Nevertheless, in amongst the press of bodies, one hesitant presence caught his attention. Head raised, eyebrows puckered, the child stood solitary and rigid. She reminded him of his granddaughter, a stab of concern crinkling his forehead.
He watched on for a moment, keeping an eye on the pink clad figure, whilst scouring the crowd for a suitable parent. Several men and women came towards her but they either failed to stop, showed no sign of concern, or seemed an unlikely pairing for the child. By now, the furrow on her brow had deepened. He stepped forward.
‘You look like you’ve lost someone. Can I help?’
The girl bit her lip, her body freezing.
‘Who did you come here with? Mummy? Daddy?’
She stood silent, then, ‘Mummy.’
‘Shall I wait here until she comes back? I’m sure she’s nearby, looking for you.’
Still frowning, she gave a small nod.
‘Don’t worry. It’s just so busy. I bet she’s looking everywhere for you. If we stay here, she’ll find us.’
The little head began swivelling again, eyes wide.
‘What’s your name? Mine’s Bob.’ No response. ‘Can you remember what she was wearing?’
‘Can I hold your hand?’
‘Sure.’ He took hers and shook it gently. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’
A well-dressed woman stepped out of the melee, stern, harried. ‘There you are. Come on. Let’s go.’ The woman’s preoccupation with matters other, it seemed, than the whereabouts and safety of her child, found a new focus. Furious eyes darted between the clasped hands and his face, grilling into him, challenging, accusing.
He began to speak, to say he was glad she had arrived. To comment, even, on how easy it was to lose sight of a little one in a large crowd.
‘And you,’ she spat. ‘You can crawl back under your rock. Paedo!’
It was loud. Heads turned. He could feel heat rising on his cheeks.
She yanked the child sideways breaking contact between them. ‘Take your filthy hands off her. I’ll call the police!’
He felt a tug on his other hand and looked down to see his own purple clad version of the lost child, head titled, brow creased in question. ‘Grandad? Is something worng?’
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Where’s your mum?’
His granddaughter’s face lit up. ‘Right here, silly.’
‘Everything OK, Dad?’
He looked up to see two retreating figures, the older pulling on the arm of the much smaller, younger one who trotted awkwardly to keep pace. He shook his head. ‘I always thought I was supposed to protect the little ones. Turns out, that’s not true. Annabelle, here, protected me. ’