The Grey Mouse
Alison glances out the window. Children are playing in the playground while their mothers stand nearby, chatting and keeping an eye on them. The bench by the entrance is dusted with snow.
She quickly pulls on black boots, a brown coat, and a knitted hat of the same shade, grabs her black leather handbag, and steps out of her flat. She pauses for a moment, listening for footsteps or voices on the stairwell, locks the door, and walks downstairs.
From a distance, one might mistake her for an elderly woman. Only up close is it clear she’s somewhere around fifty, if not younger. Her face is unremarkable—small eyes, thin lips. One glance, and she’d fade from memory the next second.
She moved into this house twenty-five years ago. Never socialised, avoided everyone. At first, neighbours dropped by, as they do—to borrow an onion or a cup of flour when they couldn’t make it to the shops. Alison would open the door just enough for the chain to stretch, if she opened it at all, say she had nothing, and snap the lock shut again. Soon, people stopped trying.
No one ever saw visitors come to her flat. It seemed she was utterly alone in the world—no wonder she was so skittish and withdrawn.
Of course, she had family. A younger sister with a family of her own, living in a small provincial town. But Alison hadn’t stayed in touch. Maybe because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who knows?
Strangers rarely entered her flat. A plumber, perhaps, or the gas inspector. Alison always made them show their ID, scrutinised it, sometimes even rang their office to confirm who they were.
She never caused trouble. Never said a cruel word, never gossiped—never spoke to anyone at all. A quick hello, then she’d walk past, head down.
Behind her back, neighbours and colleagues called her ‘the bluestocking,’ ‘the grey mouse,’ or ‘the old maid.’ She’d worked the same job all her life—an accountant in some quiet office. Sat at her desk with stern focus, but did her work precisely and on time, earning the grudging respect of her superiors. Always dressed in dark, severe skirts, her hair scraped back into a tight little bun.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child of her own. That was when the only man in her life appeared—a lorry driver named Vince. He’d drop by sometimes. She bought him shirts, which he never took home, leaving them at her flat instead. He was married.
Whether his wife found out about Vince’s fling with the accountant or someone at work tipped her off, within two months he’d quit and vanished. Alison never got pregnant. That was her only love.
She made her peace with it quickly, deciding it was for the best. Raising a child alone would be hard, and who knew what kind of son she’d have? A daughter, though—she never wanted that. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world like herself?
Once, she filled a shopping bag with groceries, and a man offered to carry it home for her.
“I can manage,” she said, giving him a look that sent him backing off at once.
“Help me? More like bash my head in and rob me,” she thought on the way home.
No one could fool her. She had a mind like a calculator. The second a cashier rang up her bill, she knew if she’d been short-changed. She never raised her voice—just fixed them with those cold, sharp eyes. The cashier would fluster, recount, and hand over the missing coins.
One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, her doorbell rang softly. Alison waited, listening. It chimed again. She peered through the peephole. For a second, she thought her younger sister stood on the landing.
“Who is it?” Alison asked, her pulse quickening strangely.
“Aunt Alison, it’s me—Emily, your niece,” came the muffled voice.
“My niece? What do you want?” Suspicion tightened her tone.
“How did she find me? And why?” Then she remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister and mother to show off her new flat and life. She must have given the address then. Just in case. No one from her family had bothered her since. She hadn’t even known she had a niece. So her sister had married and had a girl. The thought made her lips twist.
She never went back. What was there to boast about?
“Aunt Alison, I need to talk to you. Please let me in,” Emily pleaded.
Something—maybe the quiver in her voice, maybe curiosity—made Alison break her own rules. She opened the door.
“What do you want?” she said at once, eyeing the young woman who looked so much like her sister. She was a little taller than Alison, with the same soft features, though her grey eyes weren’t cold—just open and young. Dark curls peeked from under her hat.
Emily hesitated, waiting for an invitation inside. When none came, she rushed on, afraid the door might shut in her face.
“Aunt Alison, I’ve got nowhere else to turn. My son—he’s very ill. We took him to London to see a specialist. He says he needs urgent surgery.” She paused, but Alison said nothing.
“It’s expensive. I’ve asked everyone, but it’s too much. Mum said you might help. So I came.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. If you saw him—” She covered her face, swaying as she cried.
Something in Alison’s chest twinged at the tears, at the mention of a sick boy. She imagined it was her own son suffering, herself begging for help. Her heart clenched—pity for herself, for the girl weeping in her hall, for a little boy she’d never met or even known existed until now.
“Come in,” Alison muttered, shutting the door behind Emily. She glanced pointedly at her niece’s snow-damp boots.
“Wait here.” Alison disappeared into the flat.
She didn’t offer to take Emily’s coat, and the girl didn’t dare remove it. She stood awkwardly in the hallway, then peeked into the living room.
She’d only seen flats like this in films—bright, modern, immaculate. Expensive. She was afraid to breathe, let alone move. One wrong step might shatter its perfection. A palace, not a home.
Emily perched on the edge of a footstool. Her mother had warned her Aunt Alison was a solitary oddball, unlikely to help—but there was no one else. “What if she says no?” Emily thought bitterly.
“Your home is lovely,” she blurted as Alison returned.
“Take this. For your boy.” Alison thrust a thick envelope into her hands. “It’s all there. The full amount.”
Emily stood, cradling it like something fragile. “Thank you,” she whispered, disbelief shaking her voice.
“How old is he?” Alison asked flatly.
“Two and a half. He’s so sweet, so clever—if you could see him—”
Alison grimaced. Motherhood had passed her by. Why listen to another woman’s joy? She just wanted Emily to stop talking and leave. But the girl kept thanking her, tears streaming.
“Thank you! I’ll—I’ll do anything for you. I’m in your debt forever. My boy’s so wonderful—”
“Have you got a husband?” Alison cut in.
“A husband?” Emily blinked. “Yes. But—”
“Drinks, does he?”
“No! He’s—he’s overseas. Army. Went to earn money for our son. But it’s still not enough.” Her shoulders slumped at the mention of him.
“How will you get the money home safely?”
“I’ll hide it. No one will know.” Emily opened her coat, revealing a cloth pouch strapped around her waist. She tucked the envelope inside, tightened the strings. Under her loose coat, the bulge looked like a pregnancy. No one would guess. Her handbag was just for show.
“Good. Go straight home. No stops.”
“Of course. Thank you! If you ever need anything—” Emily suddenly seized Alison’s hand and kissed it, wet with tears.
Alison jerked her hand back.
“Write after the surgery,” she said, opening the door.
“I will!” Emily called from the stairs.
Alison locked up, eyeing the wet footprints Emily had left. She almost reached for a cloth, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while someone was travelling. Blood was blood, after all.
She went to the window. Snow drifted down; the white courtyard looked festive. Emily hurried away. For the first time, Alison wanted to put on her fur coat and step outside.
She’d bought it years ago but never worn it out. Just tried it on, twirled before the mirror, then hid it away again. Too risky—what if someone mugged her? Left her bleeding in some alley?
But now she thought—life was passing her by. She’d never really lived, always hiding, always afraid. And when she died, who would get the coat? That wide-eyed niece, probably. Better her than a stranger.
AlisonShe closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and for the first time in years, let herself believe that perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn’t quite as alone as she had always thought.
