The Spiteful Old Woman
Emma stepped out of the taxi and waited as little Amelia struggled free from the backseat.
“Thank you,” Emma said to the driver, taking her daughter’s hand before slowly making their way to the building. Two elderly women sat on a low bench by the entrance, knitting under the weak London sun.
“Hello,” Emma greeted.
“Good afternoon, lovely weather, isn’t it?” replied one of the women, squinting up at them. “Visiting someone, are we?”
Emma only smiled. She punched in the code, the lock clicked, and she guided Amelia inside. The moment the door shut, one of the women spoke just loud enough to carry through.
“Saw two lads hauling boxes in half an hour ago. New tenants, above your place, Martha. Those Fletchers finally let it out. Brace yourself—sleepless nights ahead, mark my words.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Let them dare make a peep. I’ll have social services round before they can blink.”
Emma didn’t linger to hear more. The lift stood waiting on the ground floor, and they rode up to the fifth.
The flat door was ajar. Inside, two men sat at the tiny kitchen table, steaming mugs in hand.
“Oh, Emma, you’re back. Made ourselves at home—hope you don’t mind.” She rummaged in her bag for her purse.
“Emma, come off it. Did it as a mate. Maybe you shouldn’t have left Richard. Could’ve patched things up. No job, love—how’ll you get by with the little one?” He winked at Amelia, and she grinned.
“We’ll manage. I’m filing for divorce. Child support, maternity pay. I’m not going back to Richard. Tell him that.”
“Alright. But ring me if you need help. Right, let’s leave you to it.”
They left. Emma stared at the boxes in the middle of the room and sighed.
“Want to help Mummy unpack?”
“No. I’ll play,” Amelia declared.
“Fine. But no shouting, or we’ll be kicked out.”
Amelia nodded solemnly.
Emma opened the toy box, and Amelia immediately pulled out a stuffed bear. Meanwhile, Emma began arranging clothes in the wardrobe.
The flat was small—one bedroom, barely space to breathe. But what more did they need? Decent furniture, clean walls, a fresh start. If they scrimped, they’d survive.
Later, she boiled pasta and sausages brought from the old place, mopped the floors, and tucked Amelia in after unfolding the sofa bed. Her eyelids drooped, but Amelia demanded a story. Emma recited one through gritted teeth until sleep finally claimed the girl. Then she dropped her head onto the pillow—only for Richard’s voice to echo in the dark.
*”You’ll come crawling back. Begging. And I might just laugh in your face.”* Tears pricked her eyes. Sleep fled.
She rose, drifted to the kitchen, and leaned against the window. The unfamiliar streets below swam in the creeping dusk.
***
She’d met Richard at a bus stop. He’d asked which line went to Shakespeare Avenue.
Emma listed the numbers. Then he asked where *she* was headed.
Her bus arrived, and she hurried aboard.
“Sorry, just didn’t know how else to talk to you,” he’d called after her. He stood there, grinning. Against her will, she’d smiled back.
Just like that, they’d met. Emma’s heart had been free, and Richard—charming, quick to laugh—had claimed it easily. She’d shared a flat with a uni friend back then, splitting rent, laughing over cheap wine.
Richard had his own place, small but his. He’d talked her into moving in. Her mother, strict, had drilled into her that children needed wedlock. So when Mum called, Emma lied. Said she still lived with her friend.
Two years passed. No ring. No talk of children. And then—the test.
“We need a bigger flat,” she’d ventured.
“Why?”
“Because there’ll be three of us soon.”
“You’re—? And when were you planning to *tell* me?”
“I just did. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure at first—”
“I thought you were on the pill.”
“So we could ‘live a little’ first? I’m keeping it. With or without you.”
“Christ. Out of nowhere.”
They’d made up. Started saving for a mortgage. Then, one evening, waiting on the balcony, she’d seen him climb out of a sleek car.
“Whose is that?”
“Ours. Nice, eh?” He’d beamed.
“Since when?”
“Bought it today. Deposit’ll take years anyway. Flat can wait—now I’ll drive you and the baby. No more crowded buses.”
“That’s *my* money too! You didn’t even ask—”
“You didn’t ask before getting pregnant.”
“It takes *two*—”
Their first real fight. They’d made peace, even married at the registry office, to Emma’s relief.
But after the car, Richard stayed out late. *Helping mates move. Giving lifts.* No way to check. She fumed, doubted, picked fights.
“I’m earning extra, love.”
When the pains began, he wasn’t home. She called. *”Call an ambulance. I’m stuck in Kent.”*
He’d fetched them from the hospital. A second-hand crib and pram waited. Emma hadn’t complained—babies needed so much.
But Richard still came home at dawn. Amelia, sensing tension, fussed. He’d snap about cold breakfasts. Emma would plead exhaustion.
The bitterness piled up.
“You let yourself go. No wonder I look elsewhere.”
Then he’d walked out. Returned as she packed.
“Where you off to? You’ll crawl back. Beg. And I might just slam the door.”
She’d had savings—stashed quietly since the car. Found a flat. Filed for divorce.
Her neighbours, a couple, fought nightly. Screams, thuds, then reconciliation—booze and blaring music. Some nights, Emma regretted leaving. Then she’d remember his words and steel herself. A friend slipped her freelance work. She typed through the shouting until she couldn’t take it and moved again. Richard’s mate helped haul their things.
***
Dawn bled through the curtains. Emma hadn’t slept. She needed Amelia in nursery—then she could find proper work. No use delaying. She marched to the nearest one.
“Parents queue from birth. Hadn’t you heard? Nurseries are packed. I’ll take her if *you* work here.”
Emma agreed instantly. Amelia would be close. She could feed her, change nappies.
It worked. Only the downstairs neighbour soured things. Every stumble, every laugh brought thumps on the ceiling—*shut that brat up!* Spotting Emma outside, the woman would shrill about noise drowning her telly.
Emma pleaded youth, accidents. But threats of *social services* shut her up. Best not provoke the harridan.
The woman was poison—screeching at teens (*druggies!*), hounding men with beer. Everyone’s business was hers.
Still—better than drunk neighbours.
Winter came. Amelia caught every bug. One morning, Emma woke unable to lift her head. The room spun. Swallowing felt like glass. Amelia touched her cheek and recoiled.
“Hot!”
The thermometer read 39.6.
Amelia’s leftover medicine vanished fast. Emma doubled doses. No improvement. The chemist might as well have been on the moon.
Amelia whined. Emma’s head buzzed. Then—doorbell.
“Drunk, are we? Knew it—”
The rest blurred. Darkness. Floating on waves. *Amelia!*
“Stay down, I’ve got her.” A familiar voice. Whose?
“Mummy?!”
“Delirious. Get her to hospital—she’ll die in the cab.”
Two days in the void. Then—an orange. She craved it desperately.
“Your mum brought that. Came with your girl.”
When the doctor came, Emma begged to leave.
“Not a chance. Nearly lost you.”
She left gaunt, weak. At the door, no keys. She stumbled downstairs.
“Escaped, have you? Still look half-dead.”
Amelia launched herself forward. Emma lacked strength to catch her. The girl glowed—clean clothes, neat hair.
“Thank you,” Emma choked out.
“What’s the tears for? *You’re* the fool. Nearly died. What if *she’d* been alone?”
“Thank you,” Emma sobbed.
Later, they ate soup—rich, like childhood. Tea and scones followed. Mary Whitaker talked: moving from Yorkshire, a drunk husband, lost babies. His death left her alone.
“Ask if you need help. I’ll mind your girl.”
They became friends.
“Where’ve you been?” Mary’s bench-m”Where’ve you been?” Mary’s bench-mate asked, and the old woman simply smiled, hurrying off with flour in her hands to bake pies for the little girl who called her “Gran.”
