A Glass of Milk
It isnt just the less fortunate who find life hardthose who look after them often feel the weight as well. Mary Bradford knows this better than anyone: for eight years now, shes been working in social services in Manchester. In that time, shes worn herself ragged, grown sharper in her speech, and developed a knack for sarcasm, especially when anyone criticises her work. Who are you to judge what I do? shell snap, her piercing green eyes burning from beneath her ginger fringe until even the nosiest busybody wilts and slinks away. Sometimes shell storm off herselfno one knows quite where or why. Thats why people started calling her Mary Plague.
All these years, Marys fetched shopping for her clients, cleaned their homes when she must, and always found a way to get along. Only once did things go wrong: an elderly gentleman, living alone, gave her a chocolate bar as a present. Personal gifts werent allowed, and Mary never usually accepted them, but this timejust this onceshe caved. After all, how can you refuse under Gods eyes? She brought the chocolate home but couldnt eat itit stuck in her throat with guilt. She handed it to a neighbours child instead, and next time politely refused any further gifts. But the old gent complained to social services, muttering that these carers these days want more than just chocolatesthey expect envelopes with cash The bosses nearly fired Mary, but she hardly resisted. Fine, sack me, she said. Im not a doormat for people to wipe their feet on! The clients rallied for her in the end. Among them, Emma Ashworth, who became like a sister to Maryeven more so after the ordeal.
Their lives were oddly parallel, shaped by misfortune. Both had lost their parents young. If Emma, disabled since childhood, wore her scars outwardly, Marys wounds were all insidea heart battered and skittish, always on the verge of tears, never truly understood. Both bore the same invisible pain: the loss of a chance to have children. Mary had long since made peace with her fate, but Emma still fought, still hoped. Sometimes shed even scold Mary when she seemed ready to give up. Emmas confidence grew especially after she started rehearsing at a local community arts centre, preparing for a performance. Shed never considered taking parther local vicar, Father Luke, gently warned her against it; he visited on holidays, bringing prayers and gifts, and vastly approved of her embroidery instead. Emmas hands werent the nimblest, but she had remarkable patience. She began with napkins and scarves, then embroidered a linen dress with intricate patterns and fanciful emerald birds. The finished dress was entered into a county craft exhibition and won first prize. On the final day, it even sold. With Emmas blessing, of course. When she received the chequeher first ever earningsEmma broke down in tears, overwhelmed and unsure what to do with it.
Dont fretwell put the money to good use! Mary laughed, then grew serious. Well get you a few more dressesenough to keep you busy for years. Lately, your minds been drifting where it shouldnt.
Emma said nothing but the words stung. How could they not? Lately, shed been thinking more and more about finding love. So many dreams of marriage, of sharing your life with someonea feeling she could only watch in films and envy from a distance.
After her win, the centre called her, inviting her to join their ballroom dance group. Eventually, she could compete in a duet.
Is that even possible? Thats mad! Emma exclaimed and hung up, convinced it was a joke.
But they rang back, persuading her to tryand promised she could quit if it didnt work out.
Maybe luck will come your way! urged a gruff womans voice. Youre an award-winner now! Time to broaden your talent. Well make a star out of you! Social services have given permission, and your worker will bring you to rehearsals.
Who will I be dancing with? Emma asked.
Another like yourself We have several pairs like this. In our country nobody is left behind! Anyone can find something meaningful to do, we make sure of it, the woman said, bluff and insistent.
All right, Ill try, Emma sighed.
Good. Im Mrs Margaretta Browning, the director. Be ready after lunch tomorrowour minibus will fetch you!
Sure enough, the following afternoon, the bus arrived, driven by a dour, short-cropped fellow with a bristly moustache. Emma, nervous about squashing her freshly curled blonde hair, skipped her hat. Inside, she met Jackher future dance partner, also using a wheelchair. When they introduced her, Emma was embarrassed to touch his hand, but found it extraordinaryhow steady and strong it felt.
The driver and Mary helped Emma up the ramp and into the rehearsal hall. Jack, meanwhile, handled his wheelchair with confidence.
At first, rehearsals were tough. Both blushed, struggled, tried desperately to stay with the music. Even the simplest steps seemed dauntingEmma felt mortified in front of the elegant, dragonfly-like choreographer, and in front of Jack too, and the bustling Mrs Margaretta. But gradually, twice a week, month upon month, Emma became hooked. She even set aside her embroidery, living for dance nowrehearsals became her happy place.
Today is another rehearsal. Emma waits for Mary, who arrives grumpy and silent, as though the sessions are more than she can handle.
Why the long face? Emma snaps.
Havent got one, Mary mutters, doing her best not to frown.
Emma, always direct, changes tactics. Were only forty! Theres still time for husbands, for families!
You always bang on about that. Ive tried it! Mary retorts. Seven years my husband lasted before he left. Cant blame him. I suppose Im being punished for running after the boys when I was young. My parents never saw grandchildren
Thats in the past. If I were you, Id have remarried a hundred times over!
Whyso I get nagged again?
If you dont want a husband, these days you can have kids another way.
Who can afford that? Mary sighs. I dont earn much, you know that.
I heard on the telly it would be free now
Lets talk later What will you wear?
You wouldnt listen! Pink jumper, grey skirt.
Wouldnt it make sense to wear your show dress for once? Thats what its for! Its longyou should get used to it.
Ill wear it for the dress rehearsal. Otherwise, Ill muck it up on the bus!
Before the dress rehearsal, their training runs late. When they do return home, Mary helps Emma inside, undresses her, sits her on a stool in the bathroom and gives her a bathEmmas cheerful chatter filling the room. Afterwards, Mary wraps her in a dressing gown, settles her in the kitchen. She pours tea, pushes over a tin of biscuits and sweets. Emma doesnt touch them, thoughinstead she asks unexpectedly:
What was your first time like?
My first what?
With a man Emma flushes scarlet.
Oh, I cant remember.
Dont give me that. You were married ages. And what about Nicholas?
Hes long gone. Chased me for two months after the divorce and then found someone younger. Nothing to envy! Mary sniffs.
I think Jack likes me, Emma says, almost boasting. He looks at me, you know?
Brunettes always fancy blondes. You shouldnt set your heart on it. Youll only end up hurt.
How was it, though?
It just was. I wont talk about it. Drink your tea and have a rest on the bedyoure like a ghost!
Emma falls silent, and Mary realises her friend has caught the bugthe yearning for something more. Mary quickly washes up and leaves, pausing only at the door.
Ill lock up and see you tomorrow at lunchtime. Anything you need from the shops?
You know, Emma says moodily, closing her eyes.
Get some rest, youve got the big rehearsal! Mary says, though Emma doesnt reply. Thats what dancing doesdrives people mad! Mary mutters as she leaves, stopping herself just short of saying more.
Outside, Marys thoughts shift: She should find someone, really. She acts helpless, but just look how she told me off over Nicholas! I shouldnt have told her anything
After Mary goes, Emma feels guilty for how she spoke to her. Still, Mary couldnt spare a kind word either, could she? Who else is there to talk to about all these feelings? If only I could write poetry, Emma thinks, tears rising again. She tries not to think about Jack, but memories pop up: his neat chestnut hair, his lovely brown eyesso deep you could drown in them. And his strong, confident hands. At first, Emma had been afraid to spin in her wheelchair to the waltz, afraid she might fallbut with Jack, nothing seemed so scary. Praise from her choreographer soon followed. Well done! shed say, which pleased Emma no end.
Soon enough, Emma perfected her dance, almost without thinking, got used to Jack, and Mary in the audience, and even the electrician in the orange overalls always tinkering backstage.
Thinking about the coming rehearsal, anxiety churns in Emmas stomachnot just about tomorrow, but about what comes next. Will she ever see Jack beyond the centre? Could she have a real date, invite him over so the neighbours see she has someone too? Or is she doomed, like always, to just attend rehearsals? She knows she must do her best, so theyll keep inviting her back.
In the morning, Emma lays her violet, sequin-covered concert dress on the sofachecking the seams, in case anythings come loose. The silky gown seems to slip and glide through her hands. She imagines how shell look wearing it. What comes after, she dares not even guess. All she knows is that she must listen for the music, follow Jacks lead, and leave no room for anyone to say, Well, what did you expect?
Shed be lost in thought for hours if the rattle of a key didnt snap her back.
All right, star, ready for your big day? Mary calls out, rough but not unkind.
I suppose, Emma admits, Im just so nervous!
Thats a good thing, Mary assures her. Means youre not made of stone. Lets get sorted.
It takes a while. The grumpy driver is called early this timeEmma wants to be the first one changed, to get comfortable in her concert dress. Still, butterflies flutter in her stomach as they arrive and everyone seems to stareher, Jack, in his sharp black suit, and some unfamiliar woman alongside him.
Backstage, as they prepare to perform, Jack wheels over and kisses Emmas cheek. Dont worry, itll be great! She nods, her face burning, desperate to cool the spot where his lips touched.
Then she feels a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she sees the woman whod been with Jack, leaning heavily on a walking stick.
Dont fret. Youll be fine, the woman says quietly.
Who are you? Emma asks in a whisper, an odd premonition gripping her.
Jack comes over, almost as if reading her mind: Emma, this is my wife, Sarah.”
Stunned, Emma can only nod. On Jacks left hand, a wedding ring gleams where before there was none. In that instant, dreams shatter; all her hopes, like fragile glass, disappear as if theyd belonged to some other Emma. She cant breathe, her head swims
When they manage to bring her round, Emma looks around with glassy eyes and then slumps back, defeated.
Whats happened to Miss Ashworth? Im asking you! Mrs Browning, usually so motherly but now nothing but sharp edges, snaps at Mary.
She needs to go home, Mary says firmly. Shes completely wrung out, cant you see?
She needs a doctor, not her bed! As soon as shes right, I want her on this stage. We didnt spend months rehearsing to drop the act now!
Whether those words revive her, or just herself, Emma opens her eyes. But she cant face anyone. No matter what they ask, she stays silent. Shes quiet all the way home. Before they reach her front door, she finally nudges Mary.
Wheres Jack?
He stayed. He has an old duet to perform. Youre the one whos crumbled. But dont worry. Its for the best. Father Luke was right! Mary snaps, and Emma takes offence.
When the driver helps get Emma inside, she collapses onto the bed in her concert dress.
So thats it, is it? the driver says, smiling for the first time.
All done. Off with you then! Mary shoos him away and sits with Emma. Will you tell me now whats happened? she asks gently.
Emma doesnt reply at first. Eventually, through tears, she gets it out: Jacks married
Mary nearly laughs. Shed feared something really serious.
So you had your heart set on him, did you?
None of your business. Go away.
Mary stays, but Emma insists, Go awaynever come back. Ill manage without you! Youre a plague!
Had Emma snapped cruelly, Mary might have believed she meant it, but she only squeaks, as always. Still, Mary cant help but feel wounded. Eight years of understanding Emma, of knowing just how cruel words could slip out in a moment like thisstill, it hurts. Hard to believe Emma could say such things. Perhaps all these dreams and disappointments have driven her to lash out at the one soul who cares for her in this world. But now Emmas cut her off. Is this how it ends? No one will look after her like Mary has. Other carers come and goMary cooks, cleans, keeps Emma company, even sleeps over if need be. And yet, the plague, she calls her!
Thanks a lot, Miss Ashworth, Mary sighs bitterly.
She packs up, calm outwardly, but as she walks home, her legs tremble. Tomorrow Ill ask to drop her. Or maybe Ill quit all togethertheres a job waiting at the local nursery. After college I worked with little ones. Did alright, and not once did anyone call me The Plague!
Back home, Mary considers making dinner, but hasnt the energy. Tea and a biscuit must suffice. She lies on the sofa, exhausted from the days events, and soon drifts into sleep, still thinking of Emma. Let her manage a day or two on her own. Shell change her tune soon enough, our little artist. She thinks the world owes her now shes won a prize!
Mary does sleep, properly for once, but is startled awake by a phone call. Its Father Luke, sounding worried in the dark evening.
Mary Bradford, you must get to Emma straightawayshe needs to go to hospital.
Marys breath catches. She remembers, dread rising, that she hadnt locked Emmas door. Something serious must have happened. She throws on her coat and dashes out. As she arrives, she sees an ambulance, a police car, Father Luke, and a few concerned neighbours.
Whats happened to Emma? she gasps, seeing Father Luke looking taller than ever in his clerical hat.
It seems to be poisoning She rang me, said she felt dreadful, and begged me to come over. When I got here, she was unconscious on the floor. Pills everywhere. I called for the ambulance and police.
A dark-browed police lieutenant in a snug uniform steps up.
And you are?
Im her carersocial worker. Whats happened?
She tried to take her own life.
Whatever for? Shes an angel!”
Someone mustve pushed her to it. Well find out. Do you have keys to her flat?
Yes, right here…”
Come on then. Let’s switch everything off and secure the flat. After, you’ll come down to the station and give your statement.
But I only left an hour agoshe was fine!
Clearly not so fine. Thats why well compare your statement to hersif she pulls through.
Dont say such things!
The lieutenant lets Marys neighbours in as witnesses.
Switch off the fridge too! the police officer adds.
But all the food will spoil!
Put it on the balcony.
As Mary places the groceries outside, she finds Emmas phone.
Ill just bring her mobile
No, everything stays put.
She follows orders, and when the door is sealed, they ride in silence to the station. Only then does Mary have a moment to thank Father Luke. She writes her statement, and the officer smirks as he reads it.
Was this… all over heartbreak?
What else could it be, Lord forgive us.
In that case, theres nothing more for us to do here. Off you go.
Instead of home, Mary takes a taxi straight to the hospital. At reception, the tired nurse glances up.
Has an Emma Ashworth come in?
The one with poisoning? Currently in intensive carestomach pumped. Shes come round though.
Thank God! Can I see her?
Not a chance. Maybe in three days when shes out on the ward, but even then its unlikely. Theres a flu quarantine. Are you her sister?
Friend…
Thats good. We thought she had no one. What about her wheelchair?
Theyve got hospital ones, dont they? Heres our numberwait for our call. Bring nothing in, not even flowers. Still March the eighth, you know.
Mary heads home a little calmer, but her flat suddenly feels damp, cold, and painfully empty. No one to ring. Her phone sits silent all evening while she stares at it, waiting. She barely manages to sleep. The next morning, Mary calls work, explaining about Emma and asking not to hand her over to someone else.
Shes still your responsibility, dont worry, the supervisor reassures her.
Every day, Mary calls the hospital for news. On the fourth day, a hurried voice calls her instead.
Is that Mary Bradford?
Speaking
Im a nurse at the hospitalEmma Ashworth asked for you. You cant come inside, but you can wave up at the window: second floor, third window from the left, facing the main entrance. Shell look out at one oclock.
Thank you! Can I bring anything?
Nothing at all. Theres a quarantine.
Not even flowers? It was Mothers Day!
Nothing! the nurse says sternly.
Mary finishes her morning rounds and dashes over, taking up her post outside Emmas window. She waits, then finally sees Emmas pale, tired, hopeful face behind the glass. Emma tries to say something, but the double glazing muffles it. After a few moments, Emma holds up a sheet of paper with one big word: FORGIVE. Mary waves, frowns, implies theres nothing to forgive, but inside, joy bubbles upEmmas calmed down, she wants her back. Emma waves againtime to goand Mary, smiling despite herself, gestures for Emma to call soon.
She walks away, almost giddy with relief through the melting snow and puddles. Only as the golden sun catches the dome of St Peters does she realise: spring has truly come at last, and winter with all its worries is fading. This new warmth helps her see the whole business differently, until shes almost weeping with relief, thinking of her friend. Bloody Emmawhat a troublemakerbut honestly, the dearest thing in the world!Back home, Mary boils a kettle and stands by the window, watching the clouds drift apart, sun spilling across cracked rooftops. She lifts her mug and raises it in an invisible toast to Emma: stubborn, sweet Emma, who somehow always brought life crashing through every disappointment. Tomorrow shell phone, promise to bring Emmas favorite biscuitsflowers or notand perhaps, just perhaps, theyll laugh about it all one day.
The phone vibrates. A simple message appears: Dont give up on me.
Mary sits down and writes her reply with careful fingers: Never, not ever. Ill be here.
She hits send. A teardrop splashes into her tea, but its a happy onewarm and brimming with hope.
And out on the grey street, past the last patches of grit and snow, two womens futuresonce so narrowly circled in lonelinessbegin to open wide as the world, filled with music that can always be danced to, no matter who is watching, and forgiveness as soft as spring.
