Left All Alone

Outside my window, dusk was gathering, and Mum still hadn’t returned. Emily, spinning the wheels of her wheelchair, manoeuvred to the table, snatched up the mobile, and dialled Mum’s number.
“The mobile phone you are calling is switched off,” intoned an unfamiliar, automated voice.
The girl stared helplessly at the phone. Remembering its nearly flat battery, she turned it off.
Mum had gone to the shops ages ago – she never disappeared like this. She always told Emily exactly where she was going and when she’d be back. Mum never left her alone long; Emily, only seven, had been disabled from birth, relying solely on her wheelchair and having no other family.
Emily was used to being home alone, but this was different. ‘She just went to that supermarket further out because the prices are lower. It’s not even that far; an hour there and back tops,’ she thought, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s been four hours now. I’m so hungry.’
Wheeling herself into the kitchen, she boiled the kettle, pulled a cold sausage roll from the fridge, ate it, and sipped her tea.
Still no sign of Mum. Anxiety gnawing, Emily grabbed the phone again, dialling desperately.
“The mobile phone you are calling is switched off,” repeated the metallic voice.
She retreated to her bed, tucking the phone under her pillow. Too scared to switch off the light, she lay awake before finally drifting into an uneasy sleep.
***
Dawn light streaming through the window woke her. Mum’s bed lay neatly made.
“Mum!” she called towards the hall.
Silence answered. She grabbed the phone, dialled. The same robotic voice echoed back. Fear spiked, hot tears springing to her eyes.
***
Arthur was walking back from the bakery near Montague Street. He went there every morning for pastries; it was their routine – Mum would fix breakfast while he fetched the buns. Thirty now, Arthur remained unmarried. Girls never seemed interested; he was painfully thin, perpetually unwell with ailments since birth. Expensive treatments had drained his single mother. Then, during adulthood, the final blow: he was told he’d never have children. He’d made peace with a solitary life.
Something glinted in the grass – a smashed mobile phone. Tech was his passion and profession; he was a programmer and blogger. Though he had top-end phones, professional curiosity made him pick it up. Crushed like a car had driven over it.
‘Wonder what happened?’ He pocketed the ruined device. ‘Have a proper look at home.’
***
After breakfast, he extracted the SIM card and plugged it into one of his own phones. The contacts listed were mainly the council, hospitals, and pensions offices… but the first entry was marked “Darling”.
Hesitating only a moment, he dialled.
“Mum!” a bright, childish voice chirped.
“I… I’m not your mum,” Arthur stammered.
“Where’s Mummy?”
“Don’t know. Found a broken phone, put its SIM in mine and rang this number.”
“My Mummy’s gone!” The voice dissolved into tears. “She went shopping yesterday and never came back!”
“What about your dad? Grandparents?”
“Haven’t got any. Just Mummy.”
“What’s your name?” Arthur felt a jolt of urgency. “I need to help you.”
“Emily.”
“I’m Arthur. Emily, pop outside and tell your neighbours you’re alone?”
“I can’t walk. My legs don’t work. And the flat next door’s empty.”
“Not walk? What?” Arthur was bewildered.
“Born like it. Mummy says we need to save lots of money for an operation.”
“How do you move about?”
“In my wheelchair.”
“Right. Emily,” Arthur switched gears, “Do you know your address?”
“Yes. Seven Montague Street, Flat Eighteen.”
“I’m coming over. We’ll find your mum.”
He hung up.
Mum Sylvia appeared in his doorway. “Arthur? What’s happened?”
“Found a trashed phone. Got the SIM working. Called the first contact. There’s a disabled girl, Emily, alone in her flat. No other family. Got the address. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll come too,” she said firmly, already fetching her coat. Sylvia, having raised a chronically ill son alone, understood the struggle of a single mother with a sick child. Now retired, she relied on Arthur’s good salary.
They hailed a taxi.
***
At Seven Montague Street, they buzzed the intercom.
“Who is it?” asked a small, sad voice.
“Emily? It’s Arthur.”
“Come up!”
The building door clicked open. Flat Eighteen’s entrance stood slightly ajar.
Inside, a frail girl in a wheelchair regarded them with mournful eyes.
“Will you find my Mummy?”
“What’s her name?” Arthur asked quickly.
“Claire.”
“Surname?”
“Miller.”
“Arthur, hold on,” Sylvia interjected gently. “Emily, are you hungry?”
“Yes. Had a sausage roll in the fridge, but I ate it yesterday.”
“Right. Arthur, run to our usual shop. Get what we normally get.”
“Got it!” He dashed out.
***
Upon his return, Sylvia had managed something in the kitchen. She unpacked his bags and laid the small table promptly. Over their makeshift meal, Arthur focused on finding Claire.
He pulled up the local news site, scanning yesterday’s incidents.
“Ah.” His finger tapped the screen. “Hit and Run on Park Avenue. Female pedestrian struck by vehicle. Victim transported in critical condition to Royal Infirmary.”
He dialled the hospital. After several rings, someone answered.
“Yes? Victim from Park Avenue yesterday. Still critical. Unconscious.”
“Her name?”
“No ID or mobile found on her. Family?”
“Well… possibly…?”
“Visit Royal Infirmary.”
“Know the address. On my way.”
He turned to Emily. “Have you a photo of Mum?”
“Yes.” She wheeled to a side table and pulled out an album. “Here’s us taken last month.”
“Lovely Mum!” Arthur snapped a picture with his phone, giving Emily a reassuring smile. “Off to find her.”
***
She opened her eyes. Ceiling tiles. White. Slowly, consciousness filtered back – the screech of tyres, the looming car…
She tried to move. Pain exploded through her body.
“Awake?” a nurse murmured softly.
Claire’s eyes widened in sudden terror. “How long?”
“Two days.”
“My daughter! She’s alone!”
“Claire, steady on.” The nurse placed a calming hand on her chest. “A young man visited yesterday. Left his phone. Said your mobile was crushed.”
“Need to call…!”
“This one?” The nurse tapped the screen. “Number saved as ‘Darling’?” She held the phone to Claire’s ear.
“Mum!”
“Emily! Sweetheart! Are you alright?”
“I’m fine! Auntie Sylvia and Uncle Arthur are looking after me.”
“Uncle Arthur?”
“Let’s not agitate, Claire,” said a doctor entering briskly. “Or I’ll confiscate it. Let’s examine you.”
“I’ll call back, darling!” Claire yelled before the nurse disconnected. After the doctor’s assessment and instructions, the nurse hooked up an IV drip. As the doctor
Outside the gates of St. Hilda’s Primary, we finally paused, the four of us, watching Julia take her first brave, unassisted steps into her new world together.