The Grey Mouse
Margaret looked out the window. Children played in the playground while their mothers stood nearby, chatting as they kept an eye on them. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
She slipped into her black boots, wrapped herself in a brown coat with a matching knitted hat, grabbed her black leather handbag, and stepped out of her flat. She paused, listening for footsteps or voices on the stairs, then locked the door and descended.
From a distance, she might have been mistaken for an elderly woman. Only up close could one tell she was around fifty, perhaps younger. Her face was plain—small eyes, thin lips—so unremarkable one would forget it the moment they looked away.
She had moved into this house twenty-five years ago. She spoke to no one, avoided everyone. At first, neighbours knocked, asking for an onion or a cup of flour when they couldn’t dash to the shops. Margaret would open the door just a crack—if she opened it at all—say she had nothing, then lock it again. Soon, they stopped bothering.
No one ever saw visitors at her door. It seemed she was utterly alone in the world, which explained her skittish, withdrawn nature.
Of course, she had family. A younger sister lived in a quiet market town, married with children. But Margaret had no contact with her. Perhaps because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who could say?
Strangers rarely set foot in her flat—only the odd plumber or gas inspector. She always demanded identification, scrutinised it carefully, and sometimes even rang their office to verify their authority.
She harmed no one. Never spoke harshly, never gossiped, never socialised. A muttered greeting, then she’d hurry on, head down.
Behind her back, she was called a spinster, a grey mouse, or worse. She had worked all her life in the same place—an accounting office. Sat rigidly at her desk, face stern, but her work was precise and punctual, earning her grudging respect from management. She always wore the same dark dress, her hair scraped back into a tight little bun.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child. For herself. That was when the only man in her life appeared—William, a driver. He visited occasionally. She bought him shirts, which he left behind. He was married.
Whether his wife found out or a well-meaning colleague enlightened her, William soon resigned and vanished. Margaret never fell pregnant. It was her only love.
She consoled herself quickly—better this way. Raising a child alone was hard, and who knew what kind of son he’d grow into? A daughter was unthinkable. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world like herself?
Once, laden with groceries, a man offered to carry them home for her.
“I can manage,” she said, fixing him with a glare that made him step back.
“Help me indeed,” she thought on the way home. “Next thing, he’d knock me over the head, rob me, and leave me for dead. Not me, thank you very much.”
No one could fool her. She calculated sums in her head like a built-in calculator. If a cashier shortchanged her, she’d stare coldly until they recounted and handed back the difference.
One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, her doorbell rang softly. Margaret waited, listening. It rang again. Peering through the peephole, she almost mistook the visitor for her younger sister.
“Who is it?” she asked, her heart oddly unsettled.
“Aunt Maggie, it’s me. Emily, your niece,” came the muffled voice.
“Niece? What do you want?” Suspicion crept into her tone.
How had she found her? Why now? Then Margaret remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister to boast about her new flat. She must have given the address then. All this time, no one had come. She hadn’t even known she had a niece. So, her sister had married, had a girl. The thought twisted Margaret’s lips into a sneer.
She never visited again. What was there to boast about now?
“Aunt Maggie, I need to talk to you. Please open the door.”
Something in the girl’s pleading tone made Margaret disobey her own rules. She opened the door.
“What do you want?” she demanded from the threshold.
She studied the young woman—taller than her, with the same face as her sister, but softer, warmer. Dark curls escaped from under her hat.
When no invitation came, Emily spoke hurriedly, afraid the door might shut.
“Aunt Maggie, I’ve nowhere else to turn. My son is very ill. We took him to London, to a specialist. He needs an operation… urgently.” She paused, but Margaret remained silent, staring.
“It’s… it’s the money. I’ve asked everyone, but it’s too much. Mum said only you could help. So I came. I’m sorry. You should see him…” She covered her face, swaying, tears spilling.
Something in Margaret stirred—pity? She imagined it was her own son suffering, herself begging for help. Her heart clenched for this girl, for the boy she’d never met.
“Come in,” Margaret said, stepping aside. She noted Emily’s snow-damp boots but said nothing.
The flat was immaculate—bright, modern, expensive. Emily perched nervously on the edge of a footstool.
Margaret returned with a thick envelope. “Take this. For your son.”
Emily hesitated.
“Take it.”
Clutching it to her chest, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“How old is he?” Margaret asked brusquely.
“Two and three months. He’s so sweet, so clever—”
Margaret flinched. That happiness had passed her by. Why listen to others’ joy? She just wanted the girl gone.
“Do you have a husband?” she interrupted.
“A husband? Well… yes. But—”
“Drinks, does he?”
“No! He’s… away. Working. To pay for our son’s treatment. But it’s not enough.”
Margaret eyed the envelope. “How will you get home safely?”
Emily opened her coat, revealing a cloth bag strapped beneath. “No one will guess.”
“Go straight home,” Margaret ordered.
Emily suddenly seized her hand, kissing it tearfully. Margaret recoiled.
“Write after the operation,” she said, ushering her out.
Margaret locked the door, staring at the wet footprints. She nearly wiped them but stopped. Bad luck to clean while someone was travelling. Family, after all.
She watched from the window as Emily hurried away. The snow fell gently, the yard festive and white.
For the first time, she wanted to wear her fur coat outside. She’d owned it for years but never dared. Too flashy. Someone might snatch it.
But life was slipping by. Who would wear it after her? That wide-eyed niece, perhaps. Better her than a stranger.
She put it on, stepped out. The coat made her feel taller, prouder. The snow crunched underfoot. She walked with her head high, a faint smile on her lips.
At the square, children darted around a towering Christmas tree while parents snapped photos.
“Could you take ours?” A young man held out his phone.
Instinctively, she stiffened—then something in his face stopped her.
“Just press here,” he explained.
She took the photo.
Later, on impulse, she bought a cake in the bustling shop. Why? Everyone else was. “Just like them,” she thought, carrying it home, imagining—just for a moment—that William and their son waited inside.
But the flat was empty. She stared at the cake, unsure what to do. She didn’t even like sweets.
Next door, the neighbour’s grandsons shrieked. Without thinking, she rang their bell.
The plump, robed woman gaped. “Are you ill?”
“No. For your boys.” She thrust the cake at her, then retreated before thanks could stammer out.
The next day, a letter arrived. Emily had made it home safely. They were leaving for London tomorrow.
Margaret realised she’d never asked the boy’s name.
“William,” she mused. “A soft name, blue as the sky. My life wasn’t wasted after all.”
The fear was gone. The empty flat didn’t feel so heavy.
Three weeks later, another letter: the operation was a success. Little William would be fine. Emily promised to visit in summer—or better yet, for Margaret to come to them. The garden would be full of berries, the river close by. They’d all wait for her. Perhaps her husband would be home from his deployment by then, safe and sound.
Margaret folded the letter, a quiet warmth spreading through her. For the first time in years, she felt part of something. Not just a grey mouse, but someone who mattered.
Sometimes, the greatest act of courage is letting kindness in.
