Im fortyseven now, just an ordinary woman in the eyes of most people a plain mouse, hardly striking, never blessed with a glamorous figure. Ive never been married and I have no desire to be, because I see men as little more than beasts whose only ambition is to stuff their bellies and lounge on the sofa. No one has ever asked me for anything, not a proposal, not even a date. My elderly parents live in York, far away from the life I lead. Im an only child, no brothers or sisters, and I keep out of touch with the few cousins I have I simply dont want to.
For fifteen years Ive lived and worked in London, commuting day after day from my modest flat in a residential block to the office where I spend most of my waking hours. My life is a routine of workhomework, and Ive become cynical, bitter, and detached. I have no affection for children, and I rarely think of my parents; I only return to York once a year for NewYears, just to check on them.
This year I made the trip again. While there I decided to clean out the freezer old dumplings, battered cutlets that had been bought and never liked, all left to sit. I packed everything into a box, called the lift, and as I stepped inside I saw a small boy, about seven, with his mother and a newborn sibling. He stared at the box, then followed me out to the rubbish chute. In a shy voice he asked, Can I have some? I told him it was just old food, but then thought, why not? It wasnt rotten. As I turned away from the bin, he carefully gathered the plastic bags, pressed them to his chest and whispered that his mother was ill and his sister couldnt get up. He slipped away, and I went back to my flat and set a simple dinner on the stove.
Sitting alone at the table, his face kept looping in my mind. Ive never been a softie, never felt the urge to help, yet something inside me shifted. I grabbed whatever edible I could find a few slices of ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a piece of frozen meat and hurried back to the lift. I realized I didnt even know what floor they lived on, only that it was higher than mine. I started climbing, floor by floor, and after two levels a door opened for the boy. He seemed startled at first, then silently stepped aside, letting me in.
The flat was sparse but immaculately clean. A woman lay curled on the bed beside a baby, a bucket of water and rags on the table, the air thick with fever. The childs chest rumbled. I asked the boy if there were any tablets; he produced a few expired pills, long past their date. I touched the womans forehead it was hot. She opened her eyes, bewildered, then snapped, Wheres Anthony? I told her I was a neighbour. I asked about their symptoms and called an ambulance. While they waited, I offered the woman tea with a slice of ham; she ate without hesitation, clearly famished. I wondered how she was nursing.
The paramedics arrived, examined the baby, and prescribed a slew of medicines and injections. I went to the pharmacy, bought everything, then stocked up on milk, baby formula, and even a cheap toy a garish lemoncoloured monkey Id never thought to buy for a child.
Her name was Ethel, twentysix, from the outskirts of Birmingham. Her mother and grandmother were originally from London; the mother had married a man from Birmingham and moved there, working in a factory while her husband was a technician. When Ethel was born her father died in an electrical accident at work, leaving her mother with a newborn, no job, and no money. Friends and neighbours tried to help, but her mother fell into drink within three years. Eventually a relative in London found a home for Ethel. At fifteen the grandmother revealed that Ethels mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandmother was tightfisted, smoked incessantly, and spoke little.
At sixteen Ethel started work in a local corner shop first as a packer, then as a cashier. A year later her grandmother passed away, leaving her alone. At eighteen she dated a lad who promised marriage, but after she got pregnant he vanished. She kept working, saving whatever she could, because there was no one else to rely on. When the baby arrived, she began leaving the child alone at home and cleaning the stairwells. The shop owner, who had taken her back after the birth, repeatedly assaulted her, threatening to fire her if she spoke out. When he learned she was pregnant he handed her a £120 cheque and told her never to return.
That night Ethel told me her story, thanked me for the food, and offered to repay me with cleaning or cooking. I brushed aside her gratitude and left. I couldnt sleep the whole night, pondering why I exist, why Im so cold, why I ignore my own parents, why I hoard money I never spend. Yet here was another persons misery, a child with no food, no care, no medicine.
In the morning Anthony arrived, tossed a plate of pancakes at my door and fled. I stood there, the heat of the fresh pancakes thawing something inside me, and I felt an odd mixture of tears, laughter, and hunger.
A small shopping centre not far from my block houses a childrens boutique. The shopkeeper, after a brief chat about my size, offered to accompany me to the donation centre. Im not sure if she was motivated by the prospect of a large purchase or by genuine admiration for my sudden generosity. Within an hour we had four hefty bags of childrens clothing for both boys and girls, plus blankets, pillows, bed linen, and a bulk of groceries and vitamins. I felt suddenly useful.
Ten days have passed. They now call me Aunt Rita. Ethel is a deft crafter, and my flat feels cozier than it ever has. Ive started calling my parents, sending them messages of goodwill for sick children. I cant fathom how I lived before. Every evening after work I race home, knowing someone is waiting. In spring well all travel together to York; the train tickets are already booked.
