The Grey Mouse
Eileen peered out the window. Children played on the playground while their mothers stood nearby, chatting as they kept watch. The bench by the entrance was lightly dusted with snow.
She tugged on her black boots, threw on a brown overcoat and matching knitted hat, grabbed her leather handbag, and stepped out of the flat. Pausing for a moment, she listened for footsteps or voices on the staircase before locking the door and descending.
From a distance, one might mistake her for an elderly woman. Only up close was it clear she was barely fifty. Her face was plain—small eyes, thin lips, forgettable in an instant.
She had moved into this house twenty-five years ago and kept to herself ever since. At first, neighbours knocked—borrowing an onion or a cup of flour when the shops were closed. Eileen would crack the door open just enough, chain still fastened, insisting she had nothing before shutting it again. Soon, they stopped asking.
No visitors ever came. It was as if she lived entirely alone in the world, which made her wary and withdrawn.
She had family, of course—a younger sister in a provincial town, married with children. But Eileen had cut ties long ago. Perhaps because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who could say?
Strangers rarely crossed her threshold. The occasional plumber or gas inspector, but only after she scrutinised their ID, sometimes even phoning their office to verify them.
She never caused trouble—no rude words, no gossip, no conversation at all. A muttered greeting, then she’d hurry past, eyes downcast.
Behind her back, they called her “the old spinster” or “the grey mouse.” She’d worked all her life as an accountant in some dull office. Strict, efficient, always in dark, severe dresses, her hair pulled tightly back into a tight bun.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child—just for herself. That was when the only man in her life appeared—Gary, a lorry driver. He’d visit occasionally. She bought him shirts, which he left behind. He was married.
Whether his wife found out or a nosy colleague enlightened her, Gary quit two months later and vanished. Eileen never got pregnant. It had been her only love.
She convinced herself it was for the best. Raising a child alone would be hard, and a son might turn out poorly. A daughter? Unthinkable. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world?
Once, laden with groceries, a man offered to carry her bags home.
“I can manage,” she snapped, shooting him a look that sent him backing away.
*As if. Help me? More like rob me. Not likely.*
Deceiving her was impossible. Her mind worked like a calculator—cashiers flinched when she caught their mistakes with a single cold glance. No shouting, just the silent weight of her stare until they returned the difference.
One Saturday morning, close to Christmas, a timid knock echoed through her flat. She waited, listening. The knock came again. Peering through the peephole, she froze—for a second, it looked like her sister.
“Who is it?” Her heart thudded oddly.
“Aunt Eileen, it’s me—Margaret. Your niece.” The voice was muffled by the door.
“My niece? What do you want?”
*How did she find me? And why?* Then she remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister to show off her new flat and life. She must’ve given the address then. All these years, no one had bothered her. She hadn’t even known she had a niece. Her lip curled at the thought.
She’d never gone back. Nothing left to boast about.
“Aunt Eileen, please—I need to talk to you.” There was a tremble in the girl’s voice.
Curiosity, or something else, made Eileen break her own rules. She opened the door.
“What do you want?”
She studied the young woman—taller than her, pretty, with the same grey eyes but warm instead of cold. Dark curls escaped from under her hat.
Margaret waited, hoping for an invitation inside. When none came, she rushed on, afraid the door might slam in her face.
“Aunt Eileen, I’ve nowhere else to turn. My son—he’s very ill. We took him to London, to a specialist. He needs an operation.” She paused, but Eileen just stared.
“It’s expensive. I’ve asked everyone, but… Mum said you could help. Please. You should see him—” Her voice broke as she covered her face, swaying.
Something in Eileen’s chest twisted. She imagined it was her own son suffering, herself begging for help. Pity surged—for the girl, the boy she’d never met, even for herself.
“Come in.” She stepped aside, then pointedly eyed Margaret’s snow-damp boots.
“Wait here.”
No offer to remove her coat. Margaret stood awkwardly in the hall, then peeked into the flat. It was like something from a film—bright, modern, everything in its place. Terrifying to breathe in, let alone touch.
She perched on the edge of a footstool. Her mother had warned her—*Aunt Eileen’s odd, lives alone, don’t expect help.* But there was no one else.
“It’s lovely here,” Margaret blurted when Eileen returned.
“Take this. For your boy.” Eileen held out a thick envelope. “The full amount. Go on.”
Margaret hesitated, then took it as if it might explode.
“Thank you!” she whispered, disbelief in her eyes.
“How old is he?”
“Two years, three months. He’s so sweet, so clever—”
Eileen winced. She didn’t want to hear about other people’s happiness.
“Have you got a husband?”
“A husband?” Margaret faltered. “Yes, but—”
“Drinks?”
“No! He’s—he’s away. Signed up to earn more for our son. But it’s still not enough.” At the mention, she seemed to shrink.
“How will you get the money home? Aren’t you afraid?”
Margaret opened her coat, revealing a cloth bag tied around her waist. The bulge looked like a pregnancy. “No one will know.”
“Good. Go straight home.”
“Thank you—anything you need, just ask!” Suddenly, Margaret seized Eileen’s hand and kissed it, tears wet on her lips.
Eileen jerked away. “Write after the operation.”
“I will!” Margaret called from the stairs.
Eileen locked the door, staring at the wet footprints. She almost wiped them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while the girl travelled. Blood was blood, after all.
At the window, snow fell softly. The white courtyard glittered. She spotted Margaret hurrying away—and for the first time, she wanted to go out.
She owned a fur coat, bought years ago but never worn beyond her mirror. Too risky—someone might steal it. But now she thought, *What’s the point? Who’ll inherit it but that wide-eyed girl?*
She put it on, stepped outside, and felt taller, grander. The snow crunched underfoot. She walked with her head up, smiling faintly, all the way to the square with its towering Christmas tree. Children darted around it while parents snapped photos.
“Could you help us?” A man held out his phone.
Eileen recoiled, ready to leave, but something in his face stopped her.
“What?”
“Take our picture?”
She fumbled, but he guided her. After, she wandered into a shop and bought a cake. *Why?* Because everyone else was. *”Just like them,”* she thought, carrying it home. For a moment, she imagined Gary waiting there with their son…
But the flat was empty. She stared at the cake, uncertain. She didn’t even like sweets.
Next door, the neighbour’s grandsons shrieked as usual. Without thinking, Eileen knocked. The plump, ageing woman gaped.
“Are you ill?”
“No. For your boys.” She thrust the cake into her hands and shut the door before the woman could react.
The next day, a telegram arrived—Margaret had made it home safely. They’d leave for London tomorrow.
Only then did Eileen realise she’d never asked the boy’s name. *”Let it be Gary,”* she thought wistfully. *”A soft name, like the sky. Maybe my life wasn’t wasted after all.”* The fear was gone.
Three weeks later, a letter came. The operation had gone well. Little Gary would recover. Margaret thanked her again, inviting her to visit in summer—berries in the garden, the river close by. Maybe her husband would be home by then, safe from the war.
Eileen folded the letter carefully. For the first time in years, she let herself imagine the future.
