Lucy, love, would you mind popping down to the shop for a loaf of bread? My mums bleary, unfocused gaze drifted past my seven-year-old daughter as she greedily swallowed at the mention of bread.
Of course, Mum, she answered, dutiful as ever.
Lucy waited quietly for some coins, which my mum always dug out for her. At the little corner shop, Mrs Harris, the round-the-clock shopkeeper, would fuss and tut while she handed over the loaf, sometimes slipping a chocolate bar or a handful of sweets into Lucys tiny, hungry hands.
Poor little mite. Such a sweetheart, growing up with those boozy parents, Mrs Harris would sigh into her instant coffee as Lucy hurried off, trying not to breathe in the intoxicating aroma of fresh, crusty bread.
If she behaved, Mum would always tear off the crust for Lucy, and top it with a couple of glossy sardines, dripping delicious oil into the soft middle. Lucy ate her treat slowly, savouring every bite, chewing carefully. Judging by the stack of empty bottles, it looked like Mum and Dad were having guests tonight, so any chance of a proper dinner was gone. The main thing now was to slip out of the house unnoticed getting caught meant trouble. Last time, Dad had slapped her so hard that her head ached for two days, and her nose bled on and off.
Lucy slipped out the front door. She still had a quarter slice and a whole sardine left. It was a warm spring evening, unusually quiet. Only a handful of people about; somewhere, cheerful music played faintly. Two chocolate sweets waited in her pocket for later. Life felt almost good. It wasnt too cold to be out, and, if things got rough at home, she could always nip in to see Mrs Harris, whod ply her with milky tea and sugar. Lucy wandered along, staring dreamily at the glow in the evening windows, wishing for a friend of her own. Someone to whisper dreams to and to wander alongside when going home wasnt an option.
But a faint, mournful mew from the bushes by the bins made Lucy pause. Cautiously, she lifted a bundle of smelly old rags and spotted a tiny tabby kitten in a battered shoe box, mewing softly. Lucy reached out her hand and the kitten sniffed her fingers, lured by the smell of sardines, then started licking them with its rough little tongue, making Luc laugh.
Oh, youre a hungry one, arent you? Well, just look what Ive got! She placed the whole sardine before the kitten and stuffed the rest of the bread in her mouth.
There you go tuck in.
The future little hunter gobbled greedily, purring between gulps and hissing defensively when Lucy reached closer.
Easy now, dont rush it! Youll get a tummy ache Id know, she whispered, smiling at her new friend. How about you come home with me? Ill call you Stripe and Ill share all my food with you, I promise. She lifted the feather-light kitten and nestled him inside her coat.
The street lamps shone golden as Lucy skipped home, chatting excitedly to the purring bundle peeking from her collar.
***
The flat was silent, only empty bottles, dirty plates, and an overflowing ashtray lay scattered about. The boiler rumbled on and the clock ticked lazily. Lucy perched on a chair and plonked Stripe on the table. He sniffed cautiously at a sticky glass.
No, Stripe, dont! Thats nasty stuff. If you start wanting that every day youll end up just like them, and then we couldnt be friends! She scooped him up and cuddled him close. The kitten just purred, pushing his soft paws to her nose, as if to reassure: Its alright. Weve got each other.
That night, Lucy slept more deeply than she could remember, dreams sweet as banana ice cream and cherry pies. Stripe curled up by her side, purring soothing lullabies.
In the morning, her father spotted Stripe and started yelling, ordering the bloody thing out of the house. Mum just sat smoking, pressing a damp flannel to her brow and, in her hoarse crackling voice, asked Lucy to get rid of the cat before theres any more trouble.
Bitter tears stinging her eyes, Lucy sat on the steps outside, Stripe in her arms. She had no idea where to take him, but she couldnt bear to leave her friend by the bins. Sobbing, she ran to Mrs Harris at the shop. Through hiccuped explanations, Lucy begged her to take Stripe in, promising to visit every day, to feed and care for him. The kind-hearted women in the shop couldnt refuse, so Stripe made his new home in the little back room, given a tatty old jumper and a cut-down plastic bucket for a bed.
Throughout spring and summer, Lucy visited Stripe daily, always breaking off a chunk of bread for him from her loaf for which, at home, shed get more than a fair share of beatings. But what did it matter when you had a real friend? Lucy would chat away, telling Stripe everything about her day. Hed settle on her skinny knees, purring contentedly, his violet eyes glowing. Mrs Harris, tipping leftovers into his dish, stopped one afternoon and exclaimed, Well, I never! Ive never seen a cat like this. Just look at those eyes! She and her colleague, Mrs White, marvelled at the bottomless warmth within Stripes gaze, and hed just blink and purr all the louder.
By autumn, Stripe had grown into a magnificent tomcat, fluffy and proud, with those fairytale eyes. Some customers tried to take him home but hed go to no one but Lucy.
One day, Lucy didnt come for several days not for bread, not to see Stripe. Mrs Harris grew worried perhaps shed fallen ill. Eventually, Lucy appeared, her cheeks pale beneath yellowing bruises, a scab marring her lip. At the shopkeepers concerned glances, all she muttered was, I fell.
Behind the shop, face pressed to Stripes soft fur, Lucy whispered her distress, weeping until she finally fell asleep with Stripe in her arms. Mrs Harris quietly carried her to the worn old sofa in the storeroom, covering her with a tatty blanket. Later, she rang the local bobby, Mr Turner, who only sighed, Hard to prove, that sort of thing, and you dont want to get mixed up with that lot. Mrs Harris wept, powerless to help the little girl shed grown to love. She had no children of her own and often wished Lucy could be hers.
Stripe prowled nervously around the sofa, nuzzling Lucys face, then disappeared entirely. No one came looking for Lucy that night, and she slept soundly in the shop. In the morning, Mrs Harris made her buttery toast and sweet tea, asking Mrs White to mind the counter while she went off on important business. Lucy happily agreed, and Mrs Harris, heart pounding, marched round to her parents block only to be stopped on the way by PC Turner.
Whoa there, Harris. Where you off to? Theres been a murder in the flats. Best not to get involved. You seen the young Aitken girl last night?
Lucy? Whos dead? Mrs Harris scanned the blocks windows anxiously.
Her folks. By all accounts, they finished each other off. Were looking for the lass some family may have taken her.
She slept in the shop storeroom last night shes with me, safe and sound. But who
No idea. Probably drink and knives, as usual. Could you keep her with you a couple days? Save us the paperwork and shelters. Theres always some distant aunt as soon as the forms are finished.
Of course, not a bother, Mrs Harriss heart thudded with guilty relief. She couldnt bring herself to mourn Lucys parents. She hurried back to the shop, overjoyed.
The two women whispered together and agreed not to tell Lucy about her parents. They just said her mum had given permission for a little holiday at Mrs Harriss. Lucy was thrilled, asking if she could be shown how to work the till.
After that, Stripe never came back. Lucy searched all the bins nearby, called for him determinedly, but his bowl remained untouched.
Mrs Harris looked after Lucy, dreading the moment when shed be taken away. One day she marshalled her courage and went to the local council to start adoption proceedings, but was knocked back single, childless, working nights. Always falling short, shed retreat to try again later. Two months drifted by. Lucy grew used to Mrs Harris, learning to fry an egg, sound out letters, and tidy up to please her.
When the first snow fell it was the 3rd of November, and Lucys eighth birthday she blew out the bright candles on a sticky honey cake straight from the shop shelves and turned to Mrs Harris, declaring, I wish we could always live together, and you could be my mum! She flung herself around the startled woman in a tight hug.
Thats my biggest wish too, love, Mrs Harris whispered.
A knock came at the door. Nobody expected visitors, so Mrs Harris was startled to see a well-dressed young man on the step.
Good evening, Im from the Child Welfare Service of London. Your application and papers reached my desk. Ive come to meet you both, he said, offering his hand.
Come in, please we werent expecting anyone, she said, ushering him to the kitchen.
Care for some tea? Mrs Harris got the most fantastic kind, tropical fruit flavour. Bet youve never had that! Lucy grinned, placing a mug before him.
Lovely. And is that your birthday cake? he asked.
It is! Im eight now. Next year Ill go to school, she replied proudly.
Schools a grand thing. So, how do you like living here? he asked, taking a sip.
Its brilliant! Lucys eyes sparkled.
They talked long into the evening over honey cake and mugs of aromatic tea. A little girl and a polite young man in a sharp suit. Mrs Harris watched them, chin resting on her hand, feeling a gentle warmth and peace shed never known.
Regretfully, I must be going, the man finally said, pulling a thick folder from his briefcase. With these papers, Mrs Mary Harris, go to the local court tomorrow, see the clerk, and fill out a statement. Dont worry theyll help. Its a simple formality. Then you can bring Lucy home properly.
Bring herhome? Mrs Harris was speechless. She couldnt manage a single word. But Lucy flung her arms round him, eyes squeezed shut, repeating, Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
Thank you, Mary barely whispered, trying to brush away joyful tears.
Take care of her, said the man, pausing to look Mary in the face. And for a moment, she was sure deep in his eyes, warm and violet, there was an endless sea of kindness and understanding.
