Lizzie, would you pop round to the shop for a loaf? her mother murmurs, her glassy eyes almost unable to rest on the slight silhouette of the seven-year-old girl. Lizzies mouth waters just hearing the word bread.
Of course, Mum
She waits obediently, anticipating the coins her mother will hand herenough for the nice lady at the corner shop, Mrs. Jenkins, to sigh and tut before passing Lizzie a crusty loaf. Sometimes, Mrs. Jenkins slips Lizzie a little chocolate bar or a handful of sweets into her eager palm.
That poor darlinggrowing up with those drunkards, Mrs. Jenkins mutters to herself as she sips her instant coffee.
Lizzie, resisting the intoxicating aroma of fresh crust, hurtles back towards home. If shes behaved, Mum always lets her have the crust, with two or three fat sardines glistening in their oil laid on top. Lizzie savours every bite, eating slowly, chewing well. Judging by the bottles on the counter, her parents are expecting company, so therell be no proper supper. She mustnt hang around the flat or be seenotherwise she risks another slap. Last time Dad hit her so hard, her head ached, and her nose bled on and off for days.
Stepping out of the block, Lizzie finds she still has a quarter of her slice and a whole sardine left. The street is quiet despite the gentle spring air. Music plays somewhere distant, and two chocolate sweets wait in her pocket. Its a good night for wandering. If it turns chilly, she can always pop back to Mrs. Jenkins, who will surely make her a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Lizzie walks slowly, gazing into cosy, glowing windows, wishing she could have a friendsomeone to share dreams and thoughts with, or simply wander with, when home feels off-limits.
A faint, pitiful squeak stops her near the bins behind an overgrown bush. Peering into a heap of old, dirty rags, she discovers a tiny stripy kitten, shivering in a torn shoe box.
Lizzie gently offers her hand. The kitten sniffs it, then, drawn by the taste of sardines, begins licking her fingers hungrily. She giggles at his scratchy tongue.
Are you hungry too? Look what Ive got! She places the sardine in front of his nose and stuffs the rest of the bread in her mouth. Here, eat up.
The little hunter pounces on the treat, swallowing in greedy gulps and hissing sharply when Lizzie strokes him.
Easy! Take your time or your tummy will acheI know all about that, she smiles at her new friend.
Want to come and live with me? Ill call you Stripey and well always share our food. She lifts his feather-light frame and tucks him gently inside her coat.
The streetlamps, honey-yellow like the May sun, light the path as Lizzie rambles along, chattering to the furry face peeking from her jacket.
***
Back at the flat, only empty bottles, dirty plates, and an overflowing ashtray remain in the kitchen. The boiler hums, the clock ticks. Lizzie sinks onto a chair and places the kitten on the table. Stripey sniffs a glass curiously.
Yuck! Leave that alone, Stripey! Thats horrid stuff. If you start drinking it, we cant be friends! She pulls him close to her cheek, unwilling to let go. Stripey purrs, pressing his soft paws against her nose as if to say, Dont worry, were in this together.
That night, Lizzie sleeps soundly. She dreams of wonderful things: banana ice-cream and cherry pies. Stripey curls beside her, singing purry lullabies.
The next morning, Dad sees the kitten and roars that he wont have any filthy animal in his flat. Mums in bed again, smoking and pressing a wet tea towel to her forehead. In a croaky voice, she begs Lizzie to take the cat far away from here.
Swallowing bitter tears, Lizzie sits outside the block clutching Stripey for comfort. She cant bear the thought of leaving her best friend near the bins. Crying, she trudges off to the shop to see Mrs. Jenkins, pours out her story between sobs, and pleads for her to shelter Stripey, promising to visit and care for him. The kind women cant refuse. They fix Stripey up in the shops storeroom with an old cardigan and a cut-down mayonnaise tub for a bed.
All through spring and summer, Lizzie visits Stripey daily, breaking off chunks of bread to share, earning another beating every time she comes home short. But it doesnt mattershe has a real friend. She spends hours telling Stripey everything thats happened. He stretches out on her scrawny knees and purrs deeply, lavender eyes squinting with contentment. Mrs. Jenkins, clearing the plate, remarks to her colleague one day:
Ive never seen a cat like him! Look at those eyes, Molly. Both ladies gaze in wonder at those endless, understanding eyes, while Stripey purrs cheekily.
By autumn, Stripey is a handsome, fluffy tom with eyes like enchanted pools. Shoppers try to coax him away, but he ignores them, waiting only for his little mistress.
One week, Lizzie doesnt appear for daysno bread, no visits. Mrs. Jenkins frets; perhaps shes ill. Eventually, Lizzie shows up, cheeks bruised yellow, an ugly scab on her lip. I fell, she mutters to the womens worried looks.
Behind the shop, hugging Stripeys warm fur, Lizzie pours out her troubles until she falls asleep beside him, tears drying on her cheeks. Mrs. Jenkins quietly carries her to the battered little sofa in the storeroom, tucks her in, and phones the local bobby, Mr. Collier. He sighs, saying theres little he can do without proofhe doesnt want to get mixed up with those drunks. Mrs. Jenkins cries bitter tears, wishing she could do more for the lonely child she cant help. Shes often daydreamed of having a girl like Lizzie.
All night, Stripey circles the sofa, anxiously nuzzling Lizzies face, before vanishing altogether. The girl sleeps undisturbed in the shop; no one comes for her. Next morning, Mrs. Jenkins feeds her sweet tea and sandwiches, and asks her and Molly to watch the shop while she runs an errand. Lizzie is delighted.
But at the estate entrance, shes met by Mr. Collier. Oi, love, where you heading in such a rush? Theres been a murderbest not go near. Tell mehave you seen little Lizzie Jones tonight?
Lizzie? Whos been killed? Mrs. Jenkins scans the blocks windows, panic rising.
Her lotsomeones done em in. Were looking for the girl, thinking maybe someones taken her.
Shes with me, slept in the storeroom. Shes safe. But who?
Who knows? Probably a couple of drinking mates at each others throats. Do us a favour, Love, look after Lizzie a day or two? Save her going into care and all the paperwork. Odds are soon as we finish, her nanll turn up.
Of course, Mrs. Jenkinss heart skips with relief and quiet joy. She rushes back to the shop, not sorry in the least about Lizzies parents.
After huddling with Molly, they decide not to mention the deaths just yet, telling Lizzie that her mother has given her permission for a little holiday at Mrs. Jenkinss. Lizzie is over the moon, eager to learn how to use the till.
From then on, Stripey is gone. Lizzie searches everywhere, calling for him by every bin, but Stripey never returns. His bowl in the storeroom remains untouched.
Mrs. Jenkins takes Lizzie under her wing, terrified shell be sent away. Eventually, she plucks up courage to see the authorities about adopting Lizzie, only to be turned down for being single, working nights, not fitting their requirements. The rejection stings, but she tries again and again. Two months pass. Lizzie adapts, learns to make scrambled eggs, sound out words, and keep tidy to please her carer after work.
On November 3rd, the first snow falls, and its Lizzies eighth birthday. She blows out candles on a homemade honey cake in the back of the shop and throws her arms around Mrs. Jenkins, beaming.
I wish we could always, always be together, you could be my mum! Lizzie declares.
Oh Lizzie, thats all Ive wanted too, Mrs. Jenkins whispers, overcome.
Theres a knock at the doortheyre expecting no one. A smart, young man stands there, surprising them.
Good evening, Im from the Social Services in London. Ive received your request and documents, so Ive come to meet you both in person, he smiles, offering his hand.
Come in, we werent expecting anyone, Mrs. Jenkins ushers him in.
Would you like some tea? Shes got a lovely blend, tropical fruitbet youve never tasted that, Lizzie chimes, putting a mug in front of him.
Lovely. Is this your cake? he asks.
Yep! Im eight. Next year Ill be off to school! she nods with pride.
Schools a good place. And how are you finding it here? he sips the tea.
I love it, Lizzie says, her face alight.
They chat for a long time, sharing cake and chatting over mugs of teaone small girl, one polished man in a smart suit, and Mrs. Jenkins, feeling warmed in the heart, just listening.
Well, I must be going now, the man finally stands. He produces a thick folder.
Mrs. Jenkins, tomorrow just take these to the magistrates court, see the clerk, and fill in a statement. Dont worryits pretty straightforward. Youll be able to keep Lizzie with you.
Keep her? Mrs. Jenkins stammers, lost for words. Lizzie hugs the man tightly, beaming thanks.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins manages, trying to keep the tears from overflowing.
Take care of her, the man says quietly, turning to Mrs. Jenkins. She freezes. His eyeslavender deep, full of warmth and understandingsparkle with an uncanny glow.
