Colin ‘Corky’ Yates lived alone; alone enough for a ten-year-old boy. Since his mother’s death two years earlier, dinner was prepared by the housekeeper, and he spent his evenings doing homework, listening to the radio, and waiting for his father.
Corky didn’t mind. He just missed his mum.
One evening, while doing his homework with the radio on, he paused as the announcer signed off, “If you have a problem, get in touch with Doctor Parkham, on …”
He jotted the number down.
The next night, he rang, and another voice answered the call.
“City Radio Advice Line,” she said.
“I’ve got a homework problem, and need some help.”
“Oh, honey, we don’t do that sort of advice,” she said. “Can’t your parents help you?”
“My mum died in an accident, and my dad works long hours.”
“Oh dear. Tell you what, I’ll call back. My name’s Helen Adams.”
“Would you? That would be great.”
The phone rang.
They talked for an hour, working through his homework.
Helen’s calls carried him into his teens, even advising on icepacks for bruises, comfort for grief, and, latterly, advice on girls.
“Never take the easy way out,” she’d say. “Keep digging until you find the answer.”
His father remarried, and Corky moved to a new town, excelling at school and eventually studying medicine at a university hospital in the capital.
He established a career as a surgeon and never returned to the village until one day, he attended a conference in a nearby city. Getting off the train, he walked to his hotel and passed by the offices of City Radio.
He decided, “Yes, why not?”
At reception, he slid his card across the desk. The words “Doctor Colin Yates” always drew a better response.
“May I speak to Helen Adams? It’s a personal matter.”
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “She’s no longer with us. Unfortunately, she passed two weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he gasped. “You should be proud of Mrs Adams; she helped me when I was a boy. Without her, I would not be where I am now.”
“It’s Miss Adams. Never married,” the receptionist replied. “Wait a minute, are you Corky?”
“Yes, I am, well, I was.”
“She left this,” she said, reaching into her drawer and handing him an envelope.
The letter said:
“I knew you’d be back. You’re that sort of boy. Thank you for those years on the telephone. We never met, but you gave me something I never had—someone to love. It’s too late now; my illness has progressed past the point of no return.
I’ve followed your career, and I’m incredibly proud of you. Regrettably, I must go against my own advice and take the easy way out; it has become too much to bear. Take care, my only ‘son’.
Helen.”
Choking, Corky pocketed the letter, stepped into the sunlight, and wiped his tears away, joy and despair weaving through him, a fragile tapestry of release.
