Aunt Rita
I am 47. An ordinary woman. You could say a bit of a nobodya plain Jane, nothing remarkable about my looks or figure. Alone. Ive never married, nor do I care to, since men seem much the same to mecreatures concerned only with their bellies and the comfort of a battered sofa. In truth, Ive never even been asked out, not for marriage nor for a simple date. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child. No sisters, no brothers. There are a slew of cousins, but I keep away from them. I prefer it that way. For fifteen years Ive been in London, working and livingevery day just work and home. I live in a typical block of flats in a quiet suburb.
I am bitter, cynical, fond of no one. Children irritate me. This past Christmas, as usual, I took the train to Newcastle for the annual visit to my parentsa duty, nothing more. Same as every year, I returned to my flat and set about cleaning out the fridge. Decided to toss all the old bits from the freezersausages, fish fingers, some ghastly pies Id bought and never liked. Threw it all in a box. Called the lift, and inside was a little boy, about seven. Id seen him with his mum before, and theres a baby in tow as well. Id thought, what a messran wild and now two children. He stared at the box in my hands as if it glowed. We got out, and I walked toward the bins, but he followed quietly behind. Then, in a shy, small voice, he asked, Can I have those? I said, Its all old! But then thought, well, if he wants it, it’s not gone off. As I walked away from the bins, something made me turn back. He was carefully gathering the packets, clutching them close, closing the lid as if hiding treasure. I asked about his mother. He said, Shes ill. Sos my sister. They cant get up. I turned on my heel and went home. Put the kettle on, started dinner.
Sat down. Couldnt get the boy out of my mind. Im not known for compassion, never had the urge to help anyonebut something nagged at me. Suddenly I was filling a bag with what I had to spare: ham, cheddar, a bottle of milk, some biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a bit of roast from the freezer. Left my flat, only to realise by the lifts I didnt know which floor they lived onjust that it was above mine. Began climbing, floor by floor, when suddenly the boy opened a door two flights up. At first, he looked puzzled, but then stood aside, letting me in wordlessly. The flat was poor but spotless.
His mother lay curled up on the bed, the baby sleeping beside her. A basin of water and some flannels sat on the tabletrying to bring down a fever, I guessed. The baby’s breath rattled in her chest. Do you have any medicine? I asked him. He showed me a mangled box of expired tablets. I went to the woman, felt her browburning hot. She blinked awake and looked at me, startled. Wheres Tommy? she blurted. I explained I was the neighbour. Asked about her and her daughter’s symptoms, and called for an ambulance. While we waited, I gave her tea and some ham. She ate greedily, barely said a wordstarving, no doubt, yet still feeding a baby.
The doctors came, gave the little one prescriptions and even arranged a few injections. Off I went to the chemist, fetched all the medicines. Popped into the corner shop and bought milk, baby food, andon a whimsome ridiculous lemon-yellow monkey toy. Ive never bought a toy before.
Her name is Alice, 26 years old. Shed grown up in some drab town outside Reading, moving there when her mother married a local man. After Alice was born, her father was killed at work, electrocution. Her mother lost her job, the friends that came around soon only brought trouble. Within three years, her mother drank herself to death. Somehow, neighbours tracked down her London grandmother, who took Alice in. Fifteen years passed, and her gran explained it allabout her mother, about the tuberculosis. Her gran was miserly, taciturn, a chain-smoker, but cared for her. At sixteen, Alice started packing groceries at a Sainsburys, later moving to the till. At seventeen her gran died, and there she wasalone. She dated a lad who promised her the world, but bolted the moment she fell pregnant. She worked right up until birth, saving every penny, knowing there was no one to help. When her son arrived, she left him by himself during the days to clean stairwells for the landlord. The baby girl? Alices boss at the shopafter one assault, he kept at it every week, threatening her job. When she fell pregnant, he shoved a hundred quid at her and told her never to come back.
She told me all of this that night. She thanked me for my help and said shed pay me back with cleaning and cooking. I stopped her, and went home. Couldnt sleep a wink. I thought long and hardwhat was I living for? Why was I like this? I never cared for my parents. I never called, never loved. Saved every bit of money, not for anything in particular, just because. And here was someone with nothingnothing to eat, nothing for medicine, not even hope.
The next morning, little Tommy stood outside my door with a plate of pancakes, pressed it into my hands, and darted away. Standing there with that warm plate, I felt something thawing inside methe heat from those pancakes seemed to bring me back to life. It made me want to laugh, cry, and eat, all at once.
Theres a little shopping centre not far from our flats. The lady who runs the childrens boutique, baffled by my stumbling over sizes, actually came with me back to the flat. Perhaps she saw Id be buying plenty, or maybe just moved by the story. An hour later, the corridor was full of four massive bags of clothes for the children. I bought quilts, pillows, bed linenfood by the armful. Even vitamins. I wanted to buy everything. I finally felt useful.
Ten days on. They call me Aunt Rita now. Alice is clever with her handsmy flat looks cosier than ever. I am ringing my parents. I text donations to a sick childrens charity. I cant recall how I lived before. Now, after work, I hurry home. I know theyll be waiting for me. And this spring, were going up north to Newcastle, all of us together. The train tickets are already sorted.
