Im 47 now, a rather ordinary woman a wallflower, plainlooking, never having any striking figure. Ive never been married and I dont want to be; I view most men as little more than lazy animals, content to stuff themselves and lounge on the sofa. Besides, nobody has ever asked me. My parents are elderly and live in York. Im an only child, no sisters or brothers, and I keep my distance from the few cousins I have.
For the past fifteen years Ive lived and worked in London, employed by a midsize charity. Every day is workthenhome, in a typical tower block in a quiet residential estate. Im bitter, cynical and I hardly love anyone children especially dont appeal to me. Once a year I travel to York for Christmas to see my parents. This year I did the same, arrived, and thought Id clean out the freezer. I gathered all the old frozen meals dumplings, mince pies, things that had been bought and forgotten and packed them into a box to throw away.
I called the lift, and as it descended a boy of about seven stepped in. Id seen him a few times with his mum and a baby sibling. He stared at the box, then followed me out to the communal dustbin. In a shy voice he asked, Can I have it? I told him it was just old food, but then thought, why not? It wasnt rotten. As I turned away, he carefully gathered the small packets, pressed them to his chest. Wheres your mum? I asked. Shes ill, he said, and my sister too. I cant even stand up properly. I left, went back to my flat and put a simple supper on the hob.
Sitting there, the boys face kept looping in my head. Id never been a softheart, never felt the urge to help, yet something nudged me. I grabbed whatever I could eat at home sliced pork, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a chunk of meat from the freezer and headed back toward the lift. I realized I didnt even know which floor they lived on; I only knew it was above me. I started climbing floor by floor, and luck was on my side: two floors up a door opened for me. The boy let me in without a word. The flat was modest but spotless.
A young woman lay on the bed, curled up beside a small child. A basin of water and a rag rested on a table, evidence of a fever. The baby was asleep, a little cough rattling in the mothers chest. I asked the boy if there were any tablets. He showed me a few old, expired ones they should have been tossed ages ago. I touched the mothers forehead; she was warm. She opened her eyes, looked at me with bewildered eyes, then sat up abruptly. Wheres Andrew? she asked. I told her I was the neighbour. She described the symptoms, and I called an ambulance. While waiting, I offered her tea and the pork Id brought, and she ate ravenously, clearly famished.
The paramedics arrived, examined the child, prescribed a slew of medicines and even injections. I drove to the chemist, bought everything, then popped into the supermarket for milk, baby formula and a ridiculous lemoncoloured plastic monkey toy something Id never bought for a child before.
Her name was Emily, 26, originally from Croydon, living on the outskirts of the town. Her mother and grandmother were Londoners; her mother had married a man from Croydon and moved there, working in a local factory while her husband was a technician. When Emily was born, her father was killed by an electrical accident at work. Her mother, left with a newborn, lost her job and money. Friends and neighbours helped, but within three years she fell into alcoholism. Eventually a distant relative in London found Emily and took her in. When Emily turned fifteen, her grandmother told her her mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandmother was tightfisted, smoked heavily and spoke little.
At sixteen Emily started work in a nearby convenience store, first as a packer, then as a cashier. A year later her grandmother died, leaving her alone. At eighteen she dated a lad who promised marriage, but after she became pregnant he vanished. She kept working, saving what she could, because there was no one to rely on. After the baby arrived, she began leaving the child alone in the flat for days while she cleaned the stairwells. The shop owner, where she returned to work, turned out to be a predator; after assaulting her once, he continued, threatening to sack her if she spoke out. When he learned she was pregnant he gave her a £10000 cheque and told her never to return.
Emily recounted all this to me that evening, thanked me for the food, and offered to repay me by cleaning or cooking. I brushed off her gratitude and left. I lay awake all night, wondering why I exist, why I am the way I am. I dont call my parents, I love no one, I feel no remorse. Ive saved a decent sum of money but have no one to spend it on. Yet here is another persons life, a child with nothing to eat, no treatment.
In the morning Andrew showed up, thrust a plate of fresh pancakes into my hands and bolted. I stood on the hallway step, the heat from those pancakes seeping into me, melting the ice that had built up inside. I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions to laugh, to weep, to eat, all at once.
A short walk from my block is a small shopping centre. The owner of a tiny childrens boutique, unable to guess my size, insisted on accompanying me to the charity shop. Im not sure whether she was hoping for a generous donation or was simply moved by my sudden involvement. An hour later I was walking out with four massive bags of childrens clothing, a blanket, pillows, bedding, heaps of food and even a bottle of vitamins. I felt useful for the first time in years.
It has been ten days now. They call me Aunt Rita, and Emily has become quite the handywoman. My flat feels cozier, Ive started calling my parents, sending text messages that simply say Take care to sick kids. I cant comprehend how I lived before. Every evening after work I rush home, knowing someone is waiting. In spring were all heading back to York together; the train tickets have already been bought.
