Im 47 and Im just an ordinary woman a plainlooking, middleaged mouse with no striking figure. Ive never married and I have no plans to, because I reckon most men are the same lazy beasts who only want to stuff themselves and lounge on the sofa. No one has ever asked me out, so Im single and happy with that. My elderly parents live in York, up in the north. Im an only child, no brothers or sisters, and I keep out of touch with the few cousins I have.
Ive been living and working in London for fifteen years, commuting from a modest block of flats in a quiet suburb. My job is in a municipal office, and every day I go from work straight home. Im bitter, cynical and I dont care for anyone, especially not children.
Every NewYear I travel up to York to see my parents, usually just once a year. This year Im here again. I decide to clean out the freezer all the old dumplings and meat patties that were bought once, never liked, and have been sitting there for ages. I pack everything into a box and head for the communal waste chute. In the lift I see a boy of about seven, the same one Ive spotted a few times with his mum and a newborn sibling. He looks at my box, his eyes fixed on it.
When the doors open I walk toward the bin, and the boy shyly asks, Can I have any? I tell him its all old food, but then I think, why not its not rotten. As Im about to walk away, he carefully gathers the small packets, folds them and clutches them to his chest.
Wheres your mum? I ask.
Shes ill, and her sister too, he says, his voice trembling. She cant even get up.
I turn and head back to my flat, put a kettle on for dinner and sit down, trying to push the boys face from my thoughts. Ive never been the charitable type, but something nudges me. I quickly grab whatever is left to eat at home a few slices of ham, some cheese, a carton of milk, biscuits, a potato, an onion, even a chunk of meat from the freezer.
I realize I have no idea which floor they live on, only that its above me. I start climbing the stairs, hoping for luck. Two floors up the door opens and the boy lets me in. The flat is sparse but very clean.
A young woman lies curled up on the bed, a baby beside her. A basin of water and rags sit on a table, evidence of a fever thats been running her down. The little girl in the crib is breathing hard.
Do you have any tablets? I ask the boy. He rummages and pulls out a few old, expired pills.
I go over to the woman, touch her forehead its hot. She opens her eyes, looks at me with confusion, then sits up abruptly.
Wheres Mark? she asks. I tell her Im a neighbour. I ask about their symptoms and call an ambulance. While they wait, I pour tea and slice some ham for her, watching her eat greedily shes clearly starving.
The paramedics arrive, examine the baby, write a long list of prescriptions and arrange injections. I rush to the pharmacy, buy everything, then to a supermarket for milk, baby formula and other essentials. On a whim I also pick up a ridiculous lemoncoloured stuffed monkey Ive never bought gifts for children before.
Her name is Emily, 26, and she grew up on the outskirts of Swindon. Her mother and grandmother are from London; her mother married a man from Swindon and moved there to work in a factory, while her father was a technician. When Emily was born, her father died in an electrical accident at work. Her mother was left alone with a newborn, no job and no money. Friends tried to help, but her mother fell into heavy drinking within three years. Eventually a neighbour found Emilys grandmother in London, who took the baby in. When Emily turned fifteen, her grandmother told her that her mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandmother was tightfisted, smoked a lot and spoke little.
At sixteen Emily started work at a local shop, first as a packer then as a cashier. A year later her grandmother passed away, leaving Emily on her own. At eighteen she dated a boy who promised marriage, but when she became pregnant he vanished. She kept working, saving every penny because there was no one to support her. After the baby was born she left the child alone in the flat for a month while she cleaned the hallways. The shop owner, who rehired her, later assaulted her repeatedly, threatening to fire her if she spoke out. When he learned she was pregnant, he gave her £120 and told her never to return.
Emily tells me all this that evening, thanks me for my help and says shell repay me with household chores. I pause, thank her and leave. I cant sleep the whole night, turning over questions about why I live the way I do, why Im detached from my own parents, why I hoard money I have no one to spend it on. Yet heres this strangers desperate life, a child who cant eat, a mother who cant get treatment.
In the morning Mark shows up with a plate of fresh pancakes and darts off. I stand on the doorstep, holding the steaming pancakes, feeling their warmth melt the frost inside me. I suddenly want to cry, laugh and eat all at once.
A short walk from my building is a small shopping centre. The owner of a tiny childrens boutique, after hearing my story, offers to go with me to pick out clothes, perhaps because she sees Ill be buying a lot or because shes touched by my concern. Within an hour we have four large bags of outfits for a boy and a girl, a blanket, pillows, bedding, groceries and even vitamins. I feel useful for the first time in years.
Ten days later Emily calls me Aunt Rita. Shes a clever seamstress, and my flat feels cozier now. I start phoning my parents, sending text messages with kind wishes to sick kids. I cant believe how I lived before. Every evening after work I race home, knowing someone is waiting.
This spring were all heading back to York together tickets are already booked.
