I’m looking at every pair of feet that pass me as I wait outside the school entrance, searching for bare ankles. I shake my head to myself, thinking it’s really not acceptable for so many kids to go out in public without matching socks. So what if my boy wants to remedy that. He’s doing them a favour.
Standing by the door, my hands resting lightly in my trouser pockets, I can’t even be bothered to return the smiles of the many women who pass with their kids in tow. Smiling would be engaging with these strangers. It would be inviting them in to talk, ask questions, get to know me. No thank you. So I maintain my stoic expression and only allow my facial muscles to kick in when I see him coming. I smile, watching him traipse out of the doors with his rucksack on his back, his little Ralph shirt tucked haphazardly into his grey shorts and lovely navy striped socks pulled up his shins. His cute little feet are graced in grey Converse high-tops, laces undone and trailing behind him, and his dark waves are a tangle of locks, falling to his ears. My little man.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I say, dropping to my haunches when he makes it to me and tying his laces. ‘Have you had a good day?’
His eyes, a carbon copy of the Taylor girls, all navy and sparkling, are irritated. ‘Five pairs, Daddy,’ he tells me. ‘It’s unacceptable.’
‘Five?’ I sound shocked, which is fine because I am. He must have been in a right pickle. I narrow questioning eyes on him as I finish securing his laces. ‘And what did you do, Harry?’
‘Told them to put socks on their Christmas lists.’
I chuckle to myself, taking his hand. ‘We have a date with Great-Nana.’
He squeals his excitement, making me smile.
‘Let’s go.’ I claim his little hand and start leading him away, but I pull up short when I hear the distant calling of my name.
‘Mr Hart!’
Looking down at my boy, I cock him a questioning look, but his little face remains deadpan and he shrugs. ‘I couldn’t concentrate on my drawing.’
‘So you told them to put socks on their Christmas list and also made them remove the odd ones they had on?’
‘Correct.’
I can’t help it. I smile down at my little lad and bright light explodes around me when he returns my amusement.
‘Mr Hart!’
I turn, taking my boy with me, and see his teacher scurrying towards us, her floral skirt swishing around her ankles. She’s creased beyond creased. ‘Ms Phillips,’ I sigh, demonstrating my tiredness before she gets into her stride.
‘Mr Hart, I know you’re a busy man—’
‘Correct,’ I interrupt, just for clarification.
She shifts nervously. Is she blushing? My probing eyes study her for a few moments, my lips pouting in contemplation. She’s definitely blushing, and now she’s fidgeting madly. ‘Yes, well.’ She lifts one of her hands, and I look down to see a bunch of mix-matched material bunched in her grasp. Socks. ‘I found these in the boys’ bathroom. In the bin.’
Looking down out of the corner of my eye, I catch my boy regarding the pile of material with utter disgust. ‘I see,’ I muse.
‘Mr Hart, this really is becoming quite an issue.’
‘I’m being intuitive here,’ I begin thoughtfully, ripping my eyes away from Harry’s twisted face. ‘And I’m going to suggest you mean that it’s becoming a nuisance.’
‘Yes.’ She nods decisively, looking down at my boy. I’m not surprised when her frustration drifts into a tender smile as she regards him. ‘Harry, darling, it’s not nice to steal the other children’s socks.’
Harry’s face takes on an edge of sulkiness, but I intervene before he’s forced to explain himself . . . again. He has one compulsion. Just one. Matching socks. My relief that there’s not so many more refuses to let me take that away from him. It’s his thing. I had nothing to fear. Olivia’s beautiful soul really has eclipsed all of my darkness.
‘Ms Phillips, Harry likes matching socks. I’ve told you before and despite hating repeating myself, I’ll make an exception this one time. Ask their parents to do the decent thing and put their children in a matching pair. It’s not hard. And why they’re happy to let them leave the house in odd socks is a mystery, anyway. Problem solved.’
‘Mr Hart, I’m in no position to dictate what the parents of my children dress them in.’
‘No, but you’re happy to dictate to me what my son should endure during his school day.’
‘But—’
‘I’m not finished,’ I cut her off with my harsh words and the appearance of a silencing finger. ‘Everyone is overthinking this. Matching socks. It’s that simple.’ I wrap my arm around Harry’s shoulder and lead him away. ‘And we’ll be leaving that line of conversation just there.’
‘I concur,’ Harry adds, coiling his little arm around the backs of my thighs and hugging into my side. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’
‘Never thank me, sweet boy,’ I say quietly, wondering if Harry’s little thing is now becoming my obsession. I often find myself checking out people’s ankles on my son’s behalf, even when he’s not with me. The world needs ridding of odd socks.
‘Where’s my boy?’ Josephine’s happy voice creeps down the hallway as I let us in, and I immediately take a glimpse at Harry, seeing him removing his Converse and placing them neatly by the coat stand.
‘I’m here, Great-Nana!’ he replies, laying his rucksack beside his shoes.