Lost

Losing a child in the forest

Losing a child in the forest

At the weekend, we went out with a few friends to visit Major Oak. According to local legend, the tree provided shelter for Robin Hood in the days of yore — whenever that was. Its branches stretch out upon metal supports and its gnarled trunk and exposed roots are protected behind an iron fence, which stretches out far beyond the reach of the reach of the old creature’s branches. It is, without a doubt, an excellent honeypot site: There is a cafe, good toilets and a gift shop. The paths around the area are well worn and clearly marked. It is the perfect place for a small group of families to spend a bright Sunday afternoon. As we made our way to the picnic area, I called out to my wife and asked The Question. This Question is one parents ask all the time: and one where the answer we receive back is so well worn, so very expected that sometimes it is a wonder we ask it at all; yet still I asked, anticipating that same, practised reply. Where’s Oscar? The unquestionable inevitability of The Response has always seemed so very certain that it took me a moment to realise that my wife must have misheard me. Instead of referring to the exact location of our three-year-old, she had somehow got confused and her voice had echoed back to me the very same question I had only just asked. Where’s Oscar? Silly you! That’s what I just said. Ha ha! I thought I would try again. I made sure my words were carefully enunciated to reduce the chances of any further misunderstanding. Where’s Oscar? And then I saw the look on her face. Coincidently, I have never experienced the ground below me open up into a 30ft sink hole with only cold, dark, unforgiving air between me and its depths. But if I ever do have that particular misfortune, I am sure it will now be accompanied with an eerie sensation of deja vu. I ran one way, back along the path, and she ran the other to check if he was ahead with the rest of our party. Somehow it all felt unreal. Ridiculous. This sort of thing didn’t happen to us. Not to us. I clattered into the clearing where we had been only a minute or two before. I felt the eyes of every day-tripper upon me as they made their way between cafe and shop and restroom. I tried my very best to appear like somebody who knew what they were doing; like somebody who was calm and in control of the situation. There was no denying it: they all knew. They were just waiting for me to raise my arms and start screaming his name: out of control and ineffective. Three paths lead out from the clearing. I peered down each as far as I could to try to spot him. Perhaps he had wandered along one, trying to retrace his own steps in an attempt to find us. I was about to choose the one along which we had walked earlier that afternoon, clinging to the hope that he would have somehow wandered back along one of them, when something inside me told me to stop. This panic; it wasn’t me. This wasn’t the way I wanted to think. We are capable of so much evil: Murder, kidnapping, deception. Every week the news provides us with more horror stories to fuel our negative perceptions of humanity. And yet by its very definition, evil is something undesirable. It is something abnormal. We are so much better than the sum of our worst parts. Instead of suspicion and fear and nefarious panic, I decided to trust. I decided to trust that if someone saw a small child wandering about on their own that they would want to help. I decided to trust that my son had enough wits about him to go and wait where he would be with other people and where he would be safe. And then I saw him. He was inside the gift shop, held by one of the till staff with his hands pressed up against the glass. Reaching for me. I no longer cared what anyone there might think, how they might judge me or what they might say after I had gone. I ran inside, took him in my arms, and held on.