Emily, would you mind popping to the shop for a loaf? My mothers eyes were already glazed and unfocused, barely registering my skinny seven-year-old frame as I nodded, swallowing at the very mention of bread.
Of course, Mum
I waited dutifully for a couple of pounds, which Mrs. Brown at the local corner shop would always accept with a sigh, placing a fresh loaf in my hands, and sometimes, with a meaningful tut, slipping a creamy chocolate bar or a handful of penny sweets into my pocket.
Bless that child Poor thing, growing up with parents like those, Mrs. Brown would mutter, clutching her mug of instant coffee behind the counter.
Id all but race home with the bread, trying not to breathe in too deeply, as the irresistible smell of crisp, fresh crust filled my nose. If Id behaved well, Mum would always break off the crust for me, topping it with two or three fat sardines dripping sweet oil, soaking into the soft bread. Id stretch out the treat, taking careful, measured bites, savouring every mouthful. Judging by the empty bottles lined up at home, my parents were expecting company tonight, so this would be dinner nothing more promised. The most important thing now was to slip out unnoticed getting caught might mean trouble. Last time, Dad boxed my ear so hard my head ached for days and my nose bled on and off.
Stepping out into the warm spring evening, the last quarter of my bread and a whole sardine still in hand, I soaked in the peace. The street was empty, save for distant music and the reassuring weight of two chocolates in my pocket. It wasnt cold tonight, perfect for wandering the streets. If I felt brave, Id stop into the shop; Mrs. Brown sometimes poured me milky coffee with sugar. Id gaze into the glowing windows of the houses, wishing for a friend just someone to share my dreams, my secrets, or to stroll with on nights I couldnt bear to go home. But a pitiful mewing halted me by the bins. I peered into a pile of smelly old rags and there, in a battered shoebox, crouched a scruffy striped kitten, crying softly.
I reached out and he sniffed my fingers. The scent of sardines made him lick them greedily, his little rough tongue tickling my hand.
You must be starving! Look what Ive got I placed the sardine in front of him, stuffing the last of my bread into my own mouth.
There you go, tuck in.
The tiny creature pounced on the food, gobbling greedily and hissing as I stroked his back.
Easy, dont rush! Youll get a bad tummy if you eat too fast. Trust me, Ive been there, I smiled at my new companion.
How about coming home with me? Ill call you Stripey and always share my food, I scooped the kitten up, light as a feather, and tucked him inside my coat.
Streetlights, golden as honey in May, flickered along the pavement as I walked, chatting to the furry little face poking out from my collar.
***
Home was quiet for once. Only empty bottles, dirty plates, and an overflowing ashtray sat in the kitchen. The boiler hummed and the clock ticked indifferently. I sat on a wobbly chair and placed Stripey on the table. He sniffed at an empty glass and drew back.
Ugh, no, Stripey you dont want any of that. Trust me, its awful stuff. If you started on that, we couldnt be friends anymore! I hugged him close, refusing to let go. He purred, gently kneading my nose with soft paws as if to say: Itll be alright were together!
That night, I slept better than I had in ages. I dreamed of banana ice cream and cherry pies. Stripey curled against me, purring lullabies only a cat could sing.
But in the morning, Dad found Stripey, and started shouting, saying hed better not see that creature in the house again. Mum just smoked her cigarette, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead and croaked that I should take the cat away.
Swallowing bitter tears, I sat outside clutching Stripey. I couldnt bear to leave him by the bins again. I wandered, crying, all the way to the corner shop and poured out the whole story to Mrs. Brown, begging her to take Stripey in. She relented, promising I could visit every day, feed him, and teach him to be good. They set up a little nest for Stripey in the back room an old jumper and an empty ice cream tub for a bed.
Spring and summer, Id run to see him, tearing chunks off my bought loaf for him, even though it earned me beatings at home. But what did that matter when I had a real friend? Id pour out my heart to Stripey for hours; hed curl in my lap, purring with those mysterious violet eyes. Mrs. Brown and her friend would clear their lunches into his dish, marvelling at him.
Ive never seen a cat like this! Look at his eyes, Mary not even real! Theyd peer at him in wonder, and hed only close his eyes contentedly, plump and satisfied.
Come autumn, Stripey had grown into a magnificent, heavy-coated cat with the cleverest gaze in the neighbourhood. Customers tried to tempt him away, but hed only ever wait for me.
Then one day, I didnt turn up. Not for bread, not for Stripey. After days, Mrs. Brown started to worry. Had I fallen ill? I did return eventually, but my cheeks were bruised yellow and ugly and my bottom lip was scabbed. At their surprised questions, I mumbled:
Fell over.
I crept behind the shop, burying my sore face in Stripeys fur as I told him everything. I fell asleep, clinging to my attentive companion. Mrs. Brown tucked me up on the old staff sofa and called the local bobby, but he just shrugged: hard to prove, nothing he could do, and he didnt want trouble with the likes of them. Tears rolled down Mrs. Browns cheeks. She wanted so badly to help, and sometimes wished Emily was her own little girl.
Stripey prowled anxiously around the sofa, sniffing at my face, and then slipped away. That whole night, I slept in the shop; no one at home even came looking. Next morning, Mrs. Brown gave me sweet tea and sandwiches, telling me to keep an eye on the shop with Mary, as she had important errands.
I agreed, brightening at the chance. But as Mrs. Brown left, she was stopped outside my block by the bobby.
Oi, where are you off to? Weve had a right mess up there, best you keep clear for now. And have you seen little Emily Turner last night?
Emily? Whos what happened? Mrs. Browns eyes darted to the flats.
Her parents turns out they were both found dead this morning. Looks like a row got out of hand. Were searching for Emily did anybody pick her up?
She spent the night with me, safe in the shop shes fine. Who did it?
Hard to say, likely one of their drinking mates. Listen, Mrs. Brown, could you keep her with you a few days while we sort everything out? We dont want her sent to a home if we can help it. The paperwork always takes ages, and usually thats when some distant aunt shows up.
Of course, Mrs. Brown’s heart soared. She had no regrets over Emilys parents only happiness that the girl was safe. She dashed back to the shop.
She quietly shared the news with Mary, and together, they decided not to tell me about my parents’ deaths yet. Instead, they explained that my mum had given me permission to stay. I was thrilled and immediately asked if Id be allowed to learn the till.
From that day, Stripey never returned. I searched, calling him by the bins, but his dish stayed full. Mrs. Brown did all she could for me now, dreading the day Id be taken away. At last she plucked up the courage to apply to adopt me, only to be told again and again she didnt fit the requirements single, no children, working late hours. Shed swallow her disappointment, only to try again later. Two months passed. Id grown used to Mrs. Brown, learned to scramble eggs, read simple words, and tried to keep the shop tidy to please her.
When the first snow fell on November 3rd, I turned eight. I blew out the candles in my shop-bought honey cake and declared to Mrs. Brown:
I wish we could always live together, just us, and you could be my mum!
Thats my wish too, dearest Emily, she whispered, hugging me tight.
There was a knock at the door. No visitors were expected so when a young man in a smart suit appeared, Mrs. Brown was taken aback.
Hello, Im from the local Child Welfare Office. Ive received your applications and wanted to meet personally, he said, extending his hand.
Do come in we werent expecting anyone, Mrs. Brown said, showing him to the kitchen.
Would you like some tea? Mrs. Brown bought a lovely kind, tastes of tropical fruit. Youve got to try it, I set a mug before him.
Thank you! Is this your cake? he smiled.
Yes! Im eight now. Ill be at school next year, I nodded earnestly.
Thats something to look forward to! How do you like living here? Tell me all about it, he sipped his tea.
Oh, its brilliant, I beamed.
They chatted long at the small kitchen table, eating honey cake and drinking tropical tea. An odd trio: an excited little girl, a well-dressed young man, and kindly Mrs. Brown resting her chin on her hand, feeling happier than she had in years.
Eventually, the man stood and pulled out a folder.
Mrs. Brown, with these papers, youll need to visit the magistrates court tomorrow and make a statement. Dont worry, its only a formality. Then, youll be able to take Emily home for good.
For good? Mrs. Brown was lost for words, but I hugged the man tight, repeating
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
Thank you, Mrs. Brown whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Take care of her, he said, before leaving. And I noticed, for a moment, his eyes were the same endless lilac as Stripeys full of warmth and understanding.
That winter, I learned that even when you have little, kindness and hope make the world brighter. Sometimes, all it takes for a new life is a bit of luck, a generous stranger, and the memory of a friend who once waited for you by the bins.
