Im 47 now, an ordinary woman who could be called a grey mouse not pretty, not curvy, and definitely single. Ive never married and I have no intention of doing so; I reckon men are all the same beasts, just keen to stuff their bellies and flop on the sofa. No ones ever proposed to me, either. My elderly parents live in Newcastle, up in the north, and Im their only child no brothers, no sisters, and I keep out of touch with the distant cousins I do have.
For the past fifteen years Ive been living and working in London. My job is at a midsize organisation, so every day blurs into a workhome routine. I rent a flat in a typical block of flats in a quiet residential suburb. Im bitter, cynical and I dont care for anyone, especially children. Every New Year I drive up to Newcastle to see my parents; thats the one trip a year I make. This year I did the same, arrived, and decided to give the fridge a good clean. I started pulling out old frozen meals dumplings, meat patties things Id bought once, never liked, and left to sit. I packed them into a cardboard box and called the lift.
A boy of about seven hopped in with his mum and a baby sibling. I glanced at him, thought what a mess, and as the doors opened he stared at the box. When we stepped out, he trailed behind me and, in a shy voice, asked, Can I have it? I told him it was just old food, but then thought, why not? It wasnt rotten. As I turned toward the communal bin, he carefully gathered the packets, tucked them close to his chest, and whispered that his mother was ill and his sister couldnt get up either. I left the lift, went back to my flat and set a simple dinner on the stove.
I sit down, and the boys face keeps looping in my mind. Ive never been a softie, yet something nudges me. I dash to the kitchen, grab whatever I have sliced ham, cheese, a splash of milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a piece of frozen meat and head back toward the lift, realizing I dont even know which floor they live on. I know theyre above me, thats all.
I start climbing floor by floor. Two floors up the door opens and the same boy lets me in, almost speechless at first, then stepping aside. The flat is sparsely furnished but spotless. A girl lies curled up on the bed beside a tiny child. A basin of water and a rag sit on the table; the air smells of fever. The girls eyes flutter open, confused, then she snaps, Wheres Anthony? I explain Im the neighbour. She asks about the symptoms for her and the baby, and I call an ambulance. While we wait, I hand her a mug of tea with a slice of ham, she eats without hesitation shes clearly famished. Shes still nursing the baby.
Paramedics arrive, examine them, and prescribe a stack of medicines and injections for the infant. I rush to the chemist, buy everything, then pop into a supermarket to stock up on milk, baby formula, and other supplies. On impulse I also pick up a brightyellow plastic monkey toy Ive never bought a child a present before.
The girl introduces herself as Emily, twentysix, originally from Reading, though not the town centre but a suburb on the edge. Her mother and grandmother were Londoners; her mother married a man from Reading and moved there, working at a factory while her husband was a technician. When Emily was born, her father was electrocuted on the job. Her mother was left alone, child in arms, jobless, penniless. Friends and neighbours helped for a while, but the money ran out within three years. Eventually a relative in London traced the grandmother, who took Emily in. When Emily turned fifteen, her grandmother told her that her mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandmother was tightfisted, smoked constantly, and spoke little.
At sixteen Emily got a job at the local corner shop first as a packer, then as a cashier. A year later her grandmother died, leaving her on her own. At eighteen she started dating a boy who promised marriage, but after she got pregnant he vanished. She kept working, squirreling away whatever she could, because there was no one else to rely on. When the baby arrived, she began leaving the child alone at home for a month at a time while she washed the stairwells. The shop owner, the same man shed returned to work for, assaulted her one night and then repeatedly threatened her, saying hed fire her if she complained. When he learned she was pregnant, he handed her a tenpound note and told her not to show up again.
Emily told me all this that evening, thanked me, and offered to repay me with cleaning or cooking. I brushed off her gratitude and left. I lie awake all night, wondering why I exist, why Im so detached. I dont call my parents, I love no one, I feel no remorse. Ive saved a tidy sum, but have no one to spend it on. Yet here is a strangers hopeless life, people with nothing to eat, nothing to heal with.
In the morning Anthony arrives, slams a plate of pancakes on the table and darts off. I stand in the hallway, holding the hot pancakes, feeling the warmth seep into me as if Im thawing from a long winter. Suddenly I want to cry, laugh, and eat all at once.
A small shopping centre a few minutes from my flat houses a tiny childrens boutique. The shopkeeper, unsure of what size I need, insists on coming with me to pick out clothes. Im not sure if shes hoping for a big sale or is moved by my sudden generosity. Within an hour were loading four massive bags of clothes for a girl and a boy, plus a blanket, pillows, sheets, extra food, and even vitamins. I feel useful for the first time in years.
Ten days have passed. The children now call me Aunt Ruth. Emily is a crafty, resourceful woman. My flat looks cozier, my phone rings with messages to my parents, and Im sending good wishes texts to sick kids. I cant believe how I used to live. After work each day I race home, knowing someones waiting. In spring well all head back to Newcastle together tickets are already booked.
