‘'Hood off.'
'What?' Tom looked at the bus driver in surprise.
'Take your hood off, son. I like to see who's getting on my bus. You don't need a hood in this weather, anyway.'
Oh, yes I do, thought Tom. What if someone recognises me, and they go and mention to Dad that they've seen me getting on the bus to Alsford?
That would be a disaster. Dad thought he was on his way to the coast with his friend Matt's family. Tom pushed his hood off, paid quickly, hurried to the back of the bus and pulled the hood on again. For the next ten minutes he glanced nervously down the bus every time someone got on. After that he was out of the danger zone, out of the town, dawdling through villages where no-one knew him. The driver was right. It was too warm for a hood. He took it off.
Thirty-seven miles at this speed. It was going to take for ever. Tom dipped his hand carefully into the outside pocket of his rucksack and pulled out his envelope of newspaper cuttings. They were fragile, thin with wear. Dad refused to talk about Mum, but he must have thought about her, because he'd obviously looked at these cuttings over and over again.
Tom had only taken a couple of cuttings, afraid that Dad would notice some were missing if he looked in his box over the weekend. The contents of the box were a closely guarded secret and Tom wouldn't have had the cuttings now if Dad hadn't been unexpectedly called out last night to deal with a fire at work. There had been no time to arrange a baby-sitter and Tom had grabbed his chance. In the box he'd found everything he'd ever wanted to know about his mother, except for one thing. How and why had she disappeared?
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