The day before New Years Eve, Mum and I popped into Hamleys for a bit of last-minute shoppingshe needed something small, maybe some fairy lights or a bit of tinsel. But the minute we walked through the door, I spotted the most glorious dress. It was bright red, knitted, with a bold blue trim around the hem and sleeves. I was utterly besotted with it, so much so that I found myself begging Mum to let me try it on.
When I slipped into the dress, it fit as though it had been made just for me. I couldnt help but imagine myself at our classroom party, catching the eye of the boy Id fancied all term. My daydreams felt so vivid that I almost cried at the thought of taking the dress off. Mum took one look at my pleading face and sighed, saying, Well, I get paid soonlets get it for you, love.
Riding the bus home, I felt pure joy. Once we were home, we decorated our little flat, draping tinsel on our tiny tree. Food-wise, though, things looked bleak: the fridge was almost empty, with nothing but a pat of butter and a bit of frost left inside. Mums pay was latewe waited, full of hope, because even on the 31st in Britain, people still had to work, only they got to leave early for the holiday.
That evening, Mum returned with red eyes and a heavy heart; her wages hadnt come through. She looked so hurt, so ashamed that she couldnt provide a proper festive feast for us. Strangely, I remember not being all that upset. I still felt excited. I planted myself in front of the telly, revelling in the Top of the Pops Christmas specialsomething we only got to see at this time of year, not like today with a hundred channels and Netflix options for days.
For our celebration, Mum boiled some potatoes, melted the last of the butter over them, and grated a carrot with a sprinkle of sugar on top. It was all we had, but we sat down together, Mum started to cry, and before I knew it, I was sobbing toonot because of the plain dinner, but because I felt such heartache for Mum. We ended up curled up under a blanket on the sofa, watching the New Years Eve concert, leaning into each other for comfort.
Then, midnight struck. We heard our neighbours coming out onto the landing, clinking glasses of sparkling wine and singing Auld Lang Syne at the top of their lungs. But we stayed put, not in the mood to join in.
Suddenly, the doorbell ranginsistent and repeated. Mum answered to find Mrs. Cooper, our notoriously fussy neighbour from upstairs. She always seemed to have a complaintmaybe Id skipped my turn cleaning the hall, or shed say I stomped too loudly, or shushed us for playing outside. She was a right old battleaxe, the sort of lady all the kids avoided. But there she was, cheerily tipsy, bustling in, surveying our modest table with its lonely bowl of buttery potatoes, saying nothing, just turning around and leaving.
About twenty minutes later, instead of the bell, there was a thudding on the doorenough to make us jump. Mum told me to stay put and went to check. A minute later, in swept Mrs. Cooper again, this time loaded down with bags and boxes, a bottle of bubbly tucked beneath her arm. She barked at Mum to help instead of gawping and proceeded to lay out an absolute spread: tubs of salad, a selection of cold cuts, a jar of pickled onions, half a roast chicken, sweets, and even a few tangerines.
Mum started to cry again, but this time it felt different. Mrs. Cooper called her a daft thing, wiped her nose with a sleeve the size of a pillowcase, and bustled out as quickly as shed arrived.
Afterwards, Mrs. Cooper kept up her usual bossy ways around the building, never mentioning that night again. But years later, when the whole block turned out for her funeral, everyone had a story about how shed helped them when they needed it most. In the end, as prickly as she seemed, we all loved our difficult neighbour, each of us quietly grateful for her tough kindness on that unforgettable New Years Eve.
