It was the day before New Year’s Eve when Mum and I popped into Hamleys. We only planned to buy something smallmaybe some fairy lights or a bit of tinsel for the tree. But once inside, I was completely taken by a dress. It was a knitted, red dress with bright blue trim around the sleeves and hem. I simply couldnt take my eyes off it.
I pestered Mum to let me try it on. Honestly, I was determined, refusing to give in as she tried to move me along. When I finally put it on, it fitted me perfectly, as if it were made just for me. That was itmy imagination ran wild. There was a boy at school I quite liked, and I couldnt help but picture him seeing me in this dress at the class party.
I stood there in the changing room, nearly in tears, not wanting to take the dress off again. Mum noticed and said, “Well, I get paid soonlets get it then.” I was over the moon all the way home.
That evening, we dressed up the flat, decorated the Christmas tree. But there was hardly anything left in the fridgejust a bit of butter and a thin layer of ice. We waited eagerly for Mums wages to come through. Back then, in the old days, even the 31st December was a working day, though people were let out earlier for the holiday.
Mum came home from work, looking shattered. The pay didnt come throughdelayed until after New Year. Her voice trembled, disappointment shining in her eyes. But more than anything, she seemed ashamed that Id have to go without a proper feast.
Honestly, I remember clearly that I wasnt sad about the food at all. The flat still felt festive. I sat in front of the telly, happily watching the special New Years films. Back then we only had two channels, and during the holidays, they finally aired something worth watching.
Mum boiled up some potatoes, mashed in the last of the butter, grated some carrots, and sprinkled them with sugar. That was all we had. We sat together at the kitchen table, and Mum burst into tears. I tried to comfort her, and before I knew it, I was sobbing toonot because of the food, but because I just felt so terribly sorry for her. My throat ached with it.
Later, we snuggled up together under a blanket on the sofa, watched the New Years concert, and listened for midnight. When twelve oclock struck, neighbours poured out onto the landing with glasses of bubbly, cheering and singing songs. Only we stayed in.
Then someone pressed the doorbelllong and impatient. Mum went to the door, and on the other side was Mrs. Wilson, our neighbour who always had something to grumble about, whether Id missed my turn cleaning the stairwell or was making too much noise. She was a tough old birdthe local kids avoided her, always getting told off for being too loud outside.
Mrs. Wilson was already well into her New Years celebrations. I couldnt quite hear what she and Mum talked about, but I watched her squeeze past and glance at our potato dinner in the middle of the table before leaving again without a word.
About twenty minutes later, we were startled by loud banging on the front doorsomeone was practically kicking it in. Naturally, Mum told me to stay put, and she went to see who was making the racket. Suddenly, in marched Mrs. Wilson, arms full of shopping bags, a bottle of champagne poking out from under her arm. She barked at Mum to stop standing about and give her a hand, then started laying out salads, cold meat, jars of pickled onions, half a roast chicken, a stash of sweets, and even a couple of satsumas on our kitchen table.
Mum burst into tears again, but this time it felt different. Mrs. Wilson called her a daft thing, wiped her nose with the sleeve of her massive old jumper, and marched off back to her own flat as quick as she’d come.
After that night, Mrs. Wilson went right on ruling over the block, never mentioning that New Year again. Years later, when we saw her off at her funeral, it turned out every family on our landing felt the same: everyone, at some point, had been helped by our so-called cantankerous old neighbourand we all realised how much wed come to love her.
