Aunt Margaret
I am 47 now. An ordinary Englishwoman, really. You might even call me a wallflowerplain, nothing remarkable about my figure. Alone. Never married and dont wish to be; the men Ive known seem cut from much the same cloth, intent only on filling their bellies and sprawling across the sofa. Not that anyones ever asked me for moreno proposals, no courtships. My elderly parents remain up in Newcastle. Im their only child, no siblings about. There are some cousins, but we have no contactand honestly, I prefer it that way.
For the last fifteen years, Londons been my home. I work at a firm in the city; my days are a steady rhythm: office, home. Ive a modest flat in one of those tower blocks nestled in the suburbs.
Id grown cynical, bitter, admitting no affection for anyone. Children didnt bring me joy. My only trip home each year came at Christmas, when I would call on my parents. So it was once more this year: I returned, and upon my return to London, decided to give the fridge its yearly clean-out. As I tossed out old frozen pies, fish fingers, sausagesbits Id bought, disliked, and let lieI thought it best to clear the lot. Piling everything into a box, I called the lift. In it, I found a boy of about seven, one Id glimpsed before with his mother and a baby. Id judged her, thinking, Another one, burdened with too many. The lad stared at my box, watching. We left together, me heading for the bins, him trailing behind. Then, in a small voice: May I have that? I told him, rather gruffly, that it was all old, and yet something stopped me. It wasnt spoiled, after all. I shrugged, If youd like. I walked away, but glanced back. He was carefully gathering the packets, holding them close to his chest. Wheres your mother? I asked. He said she and the baby were ill, couldnt get up. I turned and went back to my flat, set my kettle on, and started my tea.
Yet I could not settle. That boy haunted me, tugged at some long-frozen part of myself. Id never been one for charity, but in a sudden rush, I bundled up everything ediblesliced ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a joint from the freezer. Once at the lifts, it dawned on me that I didnt know their floorjust that it was above my ownand so I climbed floor by floor. Fortunate for me, as after only two stories, the boy himself opened the door. He looked confused, then quietly stepped aside. Within, the flat was spare, yet spotless.
His mother lay curled on the settee, the baby at her side. Bowls of water and cloths littered the tablefever, by the look of it. The little girl, wheezing in her sleep. Have you any medicine? I asked the boy. He showed me a pitiful gatheringout-of-date pills ready for the tip. I touched the womans brow, burning with fever. She woke and looked at me, baffled. When she spied her son, she shot upright. Wheres Jacob? she cried. I explained that I lived below. I asked about her and the babys illness, then rang for the doctor. While we waited, I made her tea and set out ham. She ate in silence, famished. I wondered how she managed, still breastfeeding.
The doctors came, prescribed a handful of medicines and some injections for her daughter. I hurried to the chemists, bought the lot, then on to the corner shop for milk, tinned fruit, supplies for children. For some strange reason, I even bought a ludicrously yellow toy monkeya gentle foolishness, a gift for someones child, something Id never done.
Her name was Alicejust 26. She had started life on the outskirts of Reading. Her mother and grandmother were Londoners until her mother, having married a man from Reading, moved there with him. Alices father, a factory engineer, died in a workplace accident soon after she was born. Her mother, now alone with baby Alice, slipped into hard times. Friends came and went; drink soon took her. Within three years, she was gone. Somehow, neighbours traced Alices grandmother in London, who took the girl in. At fifteen, Alice was told of her mothers fateconsumption, the old stories said. The grandmother, terse and miserly, smoked heavily and showed little warmth.
Alice began working at the local shop at sixteen; first bagging up produce, then at the till. A year on, her grandmother died, leaving her wholly alone. At eighteen, she had a brief romancehe promised much but vanished once she was carrying his child. Alice worked through her pregnancy, socking away every penny, knowing she had no one. She would leave her son alone in the flat as a newborn, scrubbing the stairs for extra change. The girl, her daughter, had come later. When Alice returned to the shopher son older by thenher employer took advantage of her one night; after that, it became regular, always under threat of dismissal. When he found her expecting, he threw her a hundred pounds and told her never to come back.
That was how her life unfolded, as she recounted to me that evening, still shyly thanking me, promising to repay me with cleaning or cooking. I brushed her gratitude aside and took my leave. Yet I slept not at all. My mind raced: what purpose had I found in my life? Why had I grown so coldunmoved by parents I rarely called, by kindness I never showed, by money hoarded with no one to spend it on? Here, right above me, was a life so differentneed and hunger where I had plenty.
Early the next morning, Jacob came tumbling up to my door, pressing a plate of warm crumpets into my hands before darting away. I stood in the doorway, the heat of fresh crumpets seeping into my palms, and for a moment, it was like my heart itself began to thawpart longing to weep, part laughter, part hunger for life itself.
Not far from our flats stood a small shopping arcade. The kind proprietor of a little childrens shop, uncertain what sizes I needed, agreed to come with me up to Alices flat! Whether out of pity, business sense, or a genuine wish to help, I cannot say. An hour later, four great sacksclothes for little ones, bedding for warmthsat in their passage. I bought more food, vitamins, and even more than that, unwilling to stop. For the first time, I felt what it was to be needed.
Time passeda full ten days since our meeting. They call me Aunt Margaret now. Alice is remarkable with her hands. My own flat, once bare, is now tidy and inviting. Ive begun to call my parents again, to send HOPE texts for ill little children on the telly. I scarcely recognise who I used to be. Each workday, I rush home, eager for the warmth waiting for me. And now, this spring, well all journey to Newcastle togetherthe tickets already bought, the future suddenly holding the promise of family.
