On the eve of New Years, Mum and I wandered into Hamleys, our cheeks tingling from the cold. The plan was just to buy a box of tinsel or maybe a few fairy lights, but the shop was a bewildering maze of toys, sweets, and glittering garlands. And in the middle of it all, my eyes latched onto the most marvellous dress imaginable: a knitted crimson number with electric blue trim at the hem and cuffs, shining like a lighthouse in the storm of baubles.
I planted my patent shoes and pleaded with Mum, tugs at her sleeve growing more frantic, desperate to try it on. Someone must have snuck into my dreams and stitched this for methe fit was nothing less than enchanted. Thoughts bloomed in my head like mad hyacinths: I couldnt stop picturing myself in it during the class party, floating past James Atkins, the boy who haunted my every waking minute. I almost wept right then, refusing to take the dress off, lost somewhere between delight and despair.
Mum noticed, and after a moment said, Well, my pay is due in soon. Shall we? Her words spun around me like gold dust. On the bus ride home, my happiness was so giddy it seemed to rattle the windows.
Back at our flat, we set about decorating: paper chains looped around the mirror, a miniature faux pine balanced on a rickety table, baubles twinkling even in the tepid glow of the sitting room lamp. In the fridge, all that remained was a scrap of butter and some honest frost. We clung to the hope of Mums wage: in those days, you worked right through the 31st, only sneaking away early if luck allowed. But Mum came home tight-lipped and red-eyedthe company had delayed payment.
There was shame in her voice, as if shed let the whole holiday fall through. But I wasnt really troubled. Something about New Years made everything seem lighter. Only two channels crackled from our old telly, but the special 31st December films were like rare treasures tossed on the murky river of ordinary days. Mum mashed some potatoes, melting in the relic of butter, and grated up a carrot dusted with sugarthat was all.
We sat side by side at the little table, her tears slipping quietly. I tried to comfort her, and then suddenly was sobbing myselfnot for the want of a feast, but because Mum seemed so small in that moment it left a stone in my throat.
Eventually, we curled under the same blanket on the settee, limbs curled together like cats against the winter, watching the New Years concert flicker across the dusty glass. The clock struck midnight: twelve resolute chimes. Out on the communal landing, voices eruptedneighbours clinking glasses, half shouting, half singing old pop songs. We didnt join them.
Then the bell rang. It wasnt a gentle ding-dong, but a repeated, determined hammering. Mum went to the door, and there stood our neighbour, sour-faced Mrs Harristhe one always scolding me for skipping the cleaning rota or playing too loudly in the stairwell. She swept into our flat, her arms folded, taking in our pitiful potato feast before vanishing again, silent as a shadow.
Twenty minutes later, the banging resumed, this time feet thumping the door. Mum hurried out, forbidding me to follow. The next thing I knew, Mrs Harris was trundling into our lounge, laden with shopping bags, a bottle of bubbly poking out from under her arm. Dont just stand there, give us a hand! she barked, unpacking salads, cold meats, a jar of pickled onions, half a boiled chicken, a paper bag of toffees, and even a couple of clementines onto the table.
Mum cried again, but softer, the tears coming out more like laughter. Mrs Harris dabbed at Mums nose with a sleeve the size of a sail, grumbled something about silly women, then stumped off without another word.
Afterwards, Mrs Harris remained her usual prickly self, bossing about the building and grumbling at us for racket or muddy shoes. She never spoke of that night again.
Years later, when the whole block turned out for Mrs Harriss funeral, I realised everyone had a story of how shed appeared, fierce and grumpy, just when they most needed her. Even in dreams, her presence lingeredbigger and warmer than any holiday banquet, filling the corridors with a sort of secret, steadfast love.
