Emily Smith drifted past shop windows, eyefeeding herself on the displays. In her mind she tallied how far the few pounds in her threadbare wallet would stretch. The verdict? Shed have to tighten her belt.
Instead of three sidejobs, she was left with a single meagre gig. The modest sum saved after her mothers funeral vanished completely.
So, in effect, Emily was on her own. Shed never married, had only just finished a bookkeeping course. Ironically, numbers had always made her cringe, but her father had insisted it was a useful trademoney, after all, doesnt grow on trees.
I love looking after people, the shy teenager had told her dad one evening. You know, making life a little easier for them, cheering them up.
Doctor, perhaps? Thats respectable, her father grunted. People always respect doctors.
No, a sister of mercy, Emily replied. A nurse, perhaps?
Her father frowned. Nurse? What, a caretaker? Are you out of your mind? You need a proper, prestigious career! Think of Napoleonbe great, be first! He paced the cramped kitchen, waving a battered newspaper.
Emily tried to focus on the ledger, numbers haunting her dreams, waking in a cold sweat. She wanted to tell her father that not everyone needs to be a conqueror; she just wanted to help, to be useful.
When Grandmother Margaret fell ill, Emily was the one who lingered by the bedside. Aunt Gill muttered about the smell, pulling away and wrinkling her nose. Emily didnt understandhow could something smell bad when it was her grandmother, whose hands always smelled of fresh scones and garden herbs? She simply whispered kind words, changed the sheets, read stories, and begged anyone to let her help with a washcloth.
Grandmothers death sent the house into a chorus of wailing. Aunt Gill collapsed into a faint, sobbing, Take her away, Im scared of ghosts! Emily slipped into the bedroom, pressed her cheek to her grandmothers hand and wept.
Emily! Get out of here, youre scaring me! her father bellowed, bursting in.
No, Father, she sniffed. Im sad because life feels empty without her, but shes at peace now, in a beautiful place.
What place? Did she go on holiday? he asked, bewildered.
Emily wanted to explain the vision shed hadher grandmother walking a sunlit lane flanked by impossible flowers, a gleaming white manor on a hill, and the old womans voice saying, Im home now, love, dont cry. She kept quiet, fearing to upset him.
She returned to her bookkeeping studies, but soon quit. The numbers felt suffocating, as if she were living someone elses life. Then her father left, falling in love with another woman; her mother, devastated, fell ill and wept constantly.
Emily begged him to stay until her mother recovered. He mumbled something about life being short and needing to take it all, then left.
Now it was just Emily and her ailing mother. The neighbours called Emily mad as a hatter, but she didnt whine. She grabbed any odd job she could, trained as a nurse, and tended to her mother herself, giving injections and encouragement.
Soon, a cascade of nervoussystem illnesses struck her mother, leaving the woman unable to walk.
Honestly, dear, why are you still single? Find a man, stop wallowing! Aunt Gill snapped one afternoon. Youre clingy, first to Mum, now to me. Whos to blame? Your father, your mothers bad choices, everyones mistakes.
Emily, usually quiet, cut in:
Dont be like that, Aunt Gill. Mum loves Father; hes her water. You cant live without water, can you? Let her live as long as she can; Ill look after her. A husband isnt a replacement for a mother. Mothers are our angels on earth. And Fatherhe made his own choices. Hes my father, and I wont let anyone badmouth him.
Aunt Gill stared, then muttered, Youre a fool, and walked off.
When her mother slipped away in Emilys arms, a distant laugh drifted through the open window, lilacs scented the air, and a tiny handkerchief lay on the nightstand. The house fell into gray, sluggish days.
Emily often stared at the sky, seeing angel wings or wild embroidered flowers like the ones her mother used to stitch. The silence grew oppressive; she felt like a butterfly trapped in a cocoon, oblivious to the world outside. She applied to the local hospital, hoping one of her three sidejobs could become a steady wage. Her strength waned, each step an effort, the absence of her mother a heavy weight.
Emily! Wait, Ive got news! called Mrs. Eleanor Parker, the chatty neighbour, down the landing. Her face was a mixture of concern and gossip.
Everything will be fine. Dont listen to the doommongers. Get some chickens for the summer cottage, or head to the coastcollect shells, listen to the sea in a big conch. Joy is everywhere if you look for it.
Emily nodded, continuing up the stairs. A young woman in a crisp white coat and fashionable boots descended, perfume swirling around her like a fairy dust cloud.
Emily stared, the stranger shot a disapproving glare and barked, What are you staring at? Mind your own business!
Sorry, youre just stunning, and thosefragrances aremagical, Emily stammered, apologising for her rudeness.
The woman turned away, but a voice called from behind, Hey, wait! Your fathers ill, Ive been lashing out at everyone. Im scared and angry. Help me, pleasepay me whatever you can!
Emily tried to ignore the drama, heading to the corner shop for a few necessities.
She spotted a young mother with a pram, holding a trembling fiveyearold who begged for juice and icecream.
Liam, well get it later. Mum has no money now, just a few pennies for pasta, the mother whispered, eyes downcast.
The girls eyes met Emilys, then she burst into tears: My wallet fell out! Ive looked everywhere, its gone!
A sharply dressed lady in a long coat and expensive earrings intervened, Scammers! Dont trust hershes a beggar with a child!
Emily, feeling a tug of compassion, said, Hold on, take this. She handed the woman the last of her cash, insisting she buy food and icecream for the child. Im rich in kindness, she joked, shuffling out in her threadbare coat and worn boots.
A voice from the shop rang out, Thank you, little angel! The mother smiled through tears.
Emily walked home with almost nothing left, only a few potatoes and two wilted carrots in the pantry. She stared at the sapphire sky, the scent of the strangers perfume lingering. Soon a stream would run by the old woods, where she and her father used to launch paper boats as kids. He now lived far away, barely calling. Still, life went on.
In the postbox lay a parcel addressed to Emily Smith, 12 Willow Lane, York. She hadnt expected anything. The sender: Martha Nickyford. Her heart skippedMartha was Grandmother Margarets old friend from the same village.
Miss! Take the parcel, dont hold up the line! the postman urged.
Emily opened it trembling: a handstitched towel, a sachet of dried raspberries, dried mushrooms, tea, a tin of goldenwrapped sweets, a tiny plush pig, and an old postcard.
Dear Emily, the card read, Its Martha Nickyford here, your Grandmothers dear friend. We grew up together by the lake. One day she said wed send each other a package years later. I knew shed soon pass, so Im fulfilling that promise. Enclosed is an icon of the Blessed Mothermay she watch over you. Your Grandmother was a goldenhearted woman, always praying youd meet a worthy partner. Youll never be alone, love.
Emily clutched the icon, tears spilling over for her grandmother, her mother, herself.
Forgive me, she whispered. Ive failed, Im a fool, Ive ended up alone
A sudden knock at the door made her jump. A young neighbour in a white jacket stood there, cheeks flushed.
Hi again! Im Vicky. My dads having a fit againdoctors are coming, but hes stubborn. He needs an injection and I heard youre good with needles. Ill pay whatever you ask.
Emily shook her head. Im not a doctor.
Come on, you can do it! Im desperate, I have to leave tomorrow, and my dad threw the caretaker out! the girl pleaded.
Emily followed Vicky into a surprisingly tidy flat. The man in bed looked about fiftyfive, stern jaw, cold eyes. Emily tried to explain, but he turned away.
She stepped forward, speaking softly about how life never truly ends, that he still had strength, that Vicky needed him. The conversation drifted to a whispered, God will see to it.
Vicky buzzed about ordering soupMushroom, please, like the one Mum used to make in the countryside.
Emily slipped out, returning home with a bag of dried mushrooms and raspberries, the icon safely tucked away. Later, the three shared a fragrant mushroom soup and raspberry tea.
Vickys father, Victor, eventually married Emily. He had enough money to live comfortably, yet she kept working in the hospital, convinced it was her calling. Whenever she saw eyes filled with pain, she whispered, Gods in controljust have faith.
