The Woman from Nowhere
Emmeline was sleeping as if she’d worked three shifts without a break when the sharp buzz of the doorbell shattered the silence.
“For God’s sake, who on earth is ringing at this hour?” she muttered, rolling onto her side. But the ringing didn’t stop—persistent, impatient, as though someone outside was racing against time.
Annoyed, she threw on her dressing gown and peered through the peephole. A frail old woman stood there, clutching a massive, fluffy cat. Her face was pale, drained, as if life had been wrung out of her.
“Who is it?” Emmeline demanded, with no intention of opening the door. Stories about such women weren’t always kind. But then the old woman gasped, sagged against the wall, and began sliding to the floor. The cat wriggled free, mewing pitifully as it circled her.
“Why does this always happen to me?” Emmeline sighed and swung the door open.
“Gran, are you alright? I’ll call an ambulance—don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she whispered, helping the woman inside. She guided her to the sofa and dialled 999.
The cat, sharp as a tack, perched nearby, watching Emmeline’s every move.
“What’s your name, love?”
“Agnes Whitmore… my papers are in there…” The woman rasped, gesturing weakly to a worn handbag.
Emmeline dug out the documents, but before she could ask another question, the old woman murmured, “Please, love, don’t send me to hospital. I have to see my grandson—he’s waiting. If I don’t bring him the rent money, he’ll chuck me and the cat out…”
“The doctor will decide if you’re fit to go anywhere. Don’t fret about the cat—I’ll look after him. But why are *you* bringing *him* money? Shouldn’t it be the other way round?”
“Don’t ask, love. Some things aren’t for you to know…” Agnes turned away, eyes shadowed with sorrow.
Another knock. Paramedics arrived, examined her, and insisted she be taken to St. Thomas’ Hospital at once.
“I’m not going!” Agnes protested.
“Go on, Gran. I’ll visit—promise. Me and the cat will be just fine.”
The next morning, Emmeline woke early, a single thought nagging: why was she always tangled in other people’s messes? But her heart said otherwise. There was something familiar about Agnes Whitmore.
Emmeline barely remembered her own parents—they’d died when she was thirteen. Cheap vodka. A botched homebrew. After that, life spiralled. Foster care. Only old Mrs. Higgins next door had made those years bearable, but she too passed when Emmeline turned sixteen. Since then—alone, unmoored.
Now twenty-three, Emmeline was sharp, resilient. Last night, scanning Agnes’s papers, she’d noted an address. Today, she headed straight there.
The house on Baker Street was ordinary. Two elderly women sat outside, chatting. Ten minutes of polite conversation later, Emmeline knew Agnes’s whole story.
Years ago, Agnes had raised her grandson after his parents died in a car crash. But the boy grew wild, fell in with bad sorts. Now he bullied her for rent, threatened the cat if she didn’t pay. Rented out her own flat while living with some girl. The police? Useless—just “family matters.”
Fuming, Emmeline stormed upstairs and hammered on the door. A bleary-eyed lad reeking of booze answered.
“You little *rat*! How dare you throw an old woman onto the streets?” She barrelled past him, fists clenched. “Pack your things and *go*. Or I’ll make you wish you had.”
The lad slunk out within minutes, bag in hand. Emmeline cleaned the flat, fed the cat, then went to the hospital.
Agnes wept at the sight of her.
“I brought food, sorted everything. And your grandson’s gone. No arguments—no one should die cold and alone.”
“Thank you, love. Thought I’d end up in a gutter…”
“I need you. So does the cat. Rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
A week later, Emmeline took Agnes home.
“It’s so clean… so lovely… How can I ever repay you?”
“Can I call you Gran?”
“Of course, my dear. You’re like family now…”
The cat purred at their feet, finally at ease. The house was free of fear.
A year passed. Emmeline became the granddaughter Agnes never had. The grandson never returned. Emmeline moved in, rented out her own flat, and gave every penny to Agnes.
“Gran, I couldn’t live with myself otherwise. You treat me like royalty.”
Soon, the grandson was killed in a pub brawl. His death didn’t bring joy—just sorrow. Such a waste…
Two years later, Emmeline fell in love. By chance. The new GP at the surgery—gentle, kind-hearted *Peter*. The way he cared for Agnes melted her heart.
“Don’t let him slip away, love,” Agnes whispered.
When Peter proposed, Emmeline sobbed. A year later, their first child was born, and Agnes became the proudest great-grandmother.
They had twelve more years together. At ninety-five, Agnes passed peacefully in her sleep, sharp as ever to the end—folding baby clothes, telling stories.
Emmeline grieved hard, but Peter and the children kept her steady. The old cat was gone, but a stray rescue took his place.
The day came to clear the flat. Legally, it was still Agnes’s, though Emmeline had never pressed to claim it. Sorting papers, she found an envelope.
*”My darling Emmeline, if only you knew the joy you brought me. You gave me back my daughter, Victoria. Without you, I’d not have lived half these years. Take this gift—it’s in the sideboard, under the drawer. You’ve earned it, my beloved girl.”*
Emmeline wept. *”Beloved girl”*—those words pierced her soul.
Peter pulled out a bundle: deeds to the flat and a thick wad of cash.
*”The transfer’s done—no arguing. The money’s every penny you ever gave me from your rent. It’s yours. You’ll know what to do.”*
Emmeline and Peter lived long, happy lives, surrounded by children, grandchildren, then great-grandchildren. And always, at the heart of their home, stood a photograph—Agnes Whitmore’s warm smile, and beside her, a big, fluffy cat.
