Aunt Margaret
Im forty-seven. Just an ordinary womanone you might pass on the street and forget within minutes. Average, plain. Ive never been married and truly never wanted to be. Men, in my experience, are largely the samecreatures content if their bellies are full and theyve a sofa to loaf on. Not that anyones ever asked, mind you. No offers, no dates. Nothing.
Mum and Dad are elderly now, living up in Newcastle. Im an only childno sisters, no brothers. Cousins exist, but I keep to myself, which suits me fine. For the past fifteen years, Ive been here in London, working for some company. Each day the same: work, home, repeat. I live in a nondescript flat in a grey block in a sleepy suburb.
Im known as sharp, cynicala loner through and through. I cant stand children. This past Christmas, I went up to Newcastle, as I do once a year, to see my parents. When I got back to London, I decided to clean out my fridgethrow away the old frozen foods: pasties, rashers of bacon, and dodgy chicken Kievs Id bought on a whim and never fancied.
I gathered it all into a cardboard box and trudged to the rubbish bins. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven years old. Id seen him before, always with his mum, and once with a baby in tow. I recall thinking, Some people just have no shame. The boy stared at the box in my hands, curiosity plain on his face. When we reached the ground floor, he followed me outside.
He spoke, barely above a whisper, May I have them? Startled, I told him, Its just old food, love. But in the end, I relented. He took the box, gently collecting the bags and clutching them tightly to his chest. Something made me ask after his mother. Shes poorly, so is my sister. Cant get out of bed, he answered.
I turned and went back to my flat. Put the kettle on, set some beans on toast, but the boy stuck in my mind. Im hardly one for charity, but that image gnawed at me. Before I knew it, I was grabbing whatever food I had: some ham, cheese, a pint of milk, biscuits, a bag of potatoes, an onion, even a joint of beef from the freezer.
Standing by the lift, I realised I didnt know which floor they lived on. I only knew it was above mine. So I started climbing the stairs, floor by floor. Luck was with me: after two flights, there he was, swinging the door open. He blinked at me, then moved aside, silently inviting me in.
The place was poor, but tidy. His mum lay curled on the bed, baby beside her. A basin and flannels on the table; she must have been trying to break a fever. Her daughter slept fitfully, wheezing. Old, expired tablets were stacked on the shelf. I gently touched the mothers forehead. Scarlet hot. She looked up with bleary confusion.
Wheres Tom? she asked. Im a neighbour, I explained. I asked about their symptoms, then rang the NHS helpline. While we waited for the paramedics, I made her tea and a ham sandwich. She ate it without a word, hungry as a wolf. How she managed to nurse her baby, God only knows.
When the ambulance arrived, the medics checked them thoroughlywrote out long lists of medicines, even prescribed injections for the little one. I went to the pharmacy and bought everything. At the shop I picked up milk, baby food, and for reasons I cant explain, a ludicrously bright yellow monkey toy for the toddler. I had never bought a child a present in my life.
Her name was Alice, twenty-six years old. Born on the fringes of Milton Keynes, not really there or here. Her grandmother was a Londoner, but her mum had married a local chap up north. Her dad died in a factory accident just after Alice was bornelectrocuted at work. Her mother slid into drink and decline within three years. A neighbour found Alices gran, who fetched little Alice to London.
When Alice was fifteen, her gran, a stoic and miserly smoker, finally told her everything: how her mum died of TB. At sixteen, Alice worked as a shelf-stacker, then on the tills at the local shop. Gran passed away a year later. At eighteen, Alice dated a lad who promised the world, but disappeared the moment she fell pregnant. She worked right up until the birth, socking away every penny. There was no one to help her.
After her son was born, she had to leave him alone sometimes, cleaning stairwells just to make do. The baby girl came later, the result of a store manager who, after forcing himself on her, threatened to fire her if she told anyone. The day he heard she was pregnant, he shoved £100 in her hand and told her to never come back.
Alice told me all this that first evening, after thanking me profusely and insisting she repay me with cleaning or cooking. I brushed it off and left. I hardly slept. I turned over in my headwhy am I like this? Why have I never cared, for anyone, not even for my own parents? Id always squirreled away money, for what? No holiday, no family to spoil, no one to waste it on. And here, just beyond my own door, a family hungry and ill.
The next morning, Tom knocked at mine, handed over a plateful of freshly fried crumpets and quickly scampered off. I stood there, holding the warm plate, feeling the softness of those crumpets slowly thawing something inside me. I wanted to laugh and cryand eatat once.
Theres a small shopping centre not far from our flat. The lady who runs the childrens shop there struggled to gauge the sizes I needed, so she even offered to come with me. Whether it was for the sale or because she cared, Ill never know. But soon, four enormous bags of warm clothes for the little ones stood in their hall. I bought bedding, food, even multivitamins, and for a moment felt truly needed.
It’s been ten days. Now they call me Aunt Margaret. Alice is clever with her hands; my flat is the cosiest its ever been. Ive started ringing my parents again. I donate to childrens charities with a textjust a simple GOOD sent off to a number. I cant believe how I lived before. Now, after work, I rush home, knowing someone waits for me. And in spring, were travelling up north togethertickets to Newcastle bought for all of us.
