Every Love Has Its Own Shape: The Story of Little Annie, Her Absent Mother, a Struggling Father, and the Neighbourly Kindness That Changed Their Lives

Each Love Has Its Own Shape

Emily drifted out onto the street. At once, a chilly wind slipped through her thin jumper, sending tremors through her. Shed forgotten her coat, but she wandered through the little white gate anyway, stopped just beyond, and simply stood there peering around, not noticing the trail of tears on her cheeks.

Emmie, why are you crying? She jumped, startled to see Michael, the boy from next door, standing before her. He was a bit older, with unruly hair sticking out at the back.

Im not crying, its just Emily lied.

Michael looked at her a moment, then reached into his pocket and fished out three sweets.

Here. For you. Say nothing though, or the lot of themll be after me. Go indoors now, he ordered gravely, and although she wasnt sure why, Emily obeyed.

Thank you, she whispered, but Im not hungry… its just

But Michael already understood and nodded, turning away. In this row of cottages, everyone knew Emilys father, Andrew, drank too much. Hed be at the local shop, the only one for miles, asking Mrs Valentine the shopkeeper for credit until payday.

How youve not been sacked yet, I cant imagine, shed call after him. You owe half the village already! But Andrew would shuffle off briskly all the same and spend his meagre wages on booze.

Emily returned inside. Shed just got home from schoolshe was nine. There was never much to eat, but she kept this to herself, fearing social services would whisk her awaynot that strange brick building called a childrens home. Shed heard it was miserable there, and what would become of Dad, all alone? Shed rather stay, even if the fridge was empty.

Today, Emily had come back earlytwo lessons had been cancelled, her teacher was ill. It was the end of September; an icy wind whipped golden leaves from the trees, sending them skittering away. Cold had come early. Emilys coat and boots were worn and let in water.

Her father slept on the sagging settee, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring gently. Empty bottles cluttered the kitchen table, and more lay underfoot. She opened the cupboardsnothing, not even a crust.

She quickly devoured the sweets Michael had given her and sat down to do her homework, tucking her feet under her on a wooden stool. But the sums in her maths book blurred; she found herself staring out at the restless autumn wind bending the trees and chasing leaves through the garden.

Beyond the window, the vegetable patchonce green and alivewas now brown and tangled, only weeds crawling over the soil. The old apple tree, too, looked dead. It had once belonged to her mother; shed nurtured every plantraspberries, strawberries, the apples that hung fat and sweet in autumn. But this year, Father had picked all the apples early and sold them at the Sunday market.

Need the money, hed muttered.

Andrew hadn’t always been like this. He was once kind, cheerfulhe and Mum would pick blackberries in the nearby woods, all of them would watch telly together in the evening, eat her mothers crumpets slathered in homemade apple jam, cups of tea warming their hands.

But one winter, her mother fell ill and never came back from the hospital.

Mums heart gave out, Father had said, crying. Emily had cried too, clinging to him as he explained, Shell be watching over you now, up in the clouds.

After that, her father often sat with Mums photograph, lost in silent thoughtthen the drinking began. Strange men started turning up at the house, laughing coarsely. Emily would stay in her little room or sit quietly on the bench behind the shed, waiting for quiet to return.

With a sigh, she turned back to her maths. She finished quicklyclever and diligent, lessons always came easily. Packing her books and jotters away, she lay on her bed.

Her favourite old stuffed rabbit, Timmy, sat waiting for hera gift from her mother long ago, once snowy white but now grey and threadbare. She snuggled him close.

Timmy, do you remember Mum? she whispered.

Timmy offered no reply, but she was certain he remembered too. Emily closed her eyes and memories flickeredfuzzy, but bright and warm. Mum in her apron, hair pinned up fussing with pastry in the kitchen.

Lets make magic buns, darling, Mum would say.

How do you mean, magic? Emily would ask in wonder.

Oh, there are such things as magic buns, Mum would laugh. We shape our dough into little hearts, and if you make a wish as you eat, it just might come true.

Emily always helped shape the dough, although her hearts looked wobbly and odd. Mum, smiling, would say:

Every love has its own shape.

Emily would watch the oven eagerly, waiting for the smell of bakingand then, as soon as the buns were done and the house filled with their warm, sweet scent, theyd sit together with Father and their mugs of tea, sharing magic buns and wishes.

Emily wiped away tears from the memory. The living room clock ticked in the quiet; she felt hollow insidewith loneliness, missing her mother, and a longing for someone to care.

Mummy… she breathed softly to Timmy. I miss you so much.

The next day was Saturday; no school. After lunch, with her father once again passed out on the sofa, Emily pulled on her old jumper beneath her coat and slipped out. She walked toward the woods, past a tumble-down cottageOld Mr. Georges place. Hed passed away two years earlier, but his orchard still bore apples and a few pears.

Emily had been before, clambering over the fence to gather fallen fruit, telling herself, Im not stealing, just picking up whats been left behind.

She vaguely remembered Mr George: old and stooped, always with a walking stick and a kind word, handing out apples and, if you were lucky, a sweet or two. The orchard flourished, though he was gone.

At the fence now, Emily eased herself over and picked up two apples, rubbing one on her sleeve before taking a bite.

Oi, who are you? Startled, she dropped the apples and gaped. A woman, wrapped in a wool coat, stood on the porch.

Who are you? the woman asked again.

Emily… Im not stealing, its just from the ground… I thought no one lived here anymore

Im Mr Georges granddaughter. Came yesterday. Im going to stay. How long have you been taking fruit? she asked.

Emilys voice cracked. Since Mum died. Tears prickled.

The woman stepped over and gave Emily a gentle hug.

Dont cry, love. Come on in; Im Anna Clarkejust like you. When youre older, I bet people will call you Anna too.

Anna quickly understood how hungry Emily was, and how hard her life must be. Inside, the house was clean and warmly lit, still dotted with unemptied suitcases.

Take off your shoesmind the hallway, Ive only just tidied up, Anna said. Sit down, Ill find you something proper. Made chicken soup this morning, and theres bread.

Emilys stomach rumbled; she hadnt eaten since the day before. She settled at the chequered tablecloth in the bright kitchen, feeling comforted by the warmth. Anna brought over a steaming bowl of soup and a thick slice of bread.

Eat up! And have more if you wantdon’t be shy, Emily.

But shyness didnt matterhunger did. She finished the bowl in moments, bread and all.

Would you like seconds? Anna asked.

No, thank you. Im full.

Well then, how about tea and something special? Anna unveiled a basket under a cloththe fragrant scent of vanilla drifting outa heap of warm buns shaped like little hearts. Emily took one, took a bite, and shut her eyes.

Bunsjust like Mum used to make, she murmured. Exactly like hers

After tea, Emily sat with rosy cheeks, feeling blissfully safe.

Well now, love, tell me about yourself, whos at home with you, where you live. Then Ill walk you back.

I can manage aloneits only four houses down, Emily said, not wanting Anna to see the chaos at home.

I insist, Anna replied firmly.

The silence in Emilys home greeted them as they entered. Her father still slept in his clothes on the couch; bottles, cigarette ends, crumpled shirts scattered everywhere.

Anna gazed around with a sigh.

Right, I understand She began to tidy, clearing empty bottles, opening curtains, sweeping the rug clean.

Emily turned anxiously. Dont tell anyone. Dads really good, hes just losthe misses Mum so. If people find out, theyll take me away, and I cant bear to leave him.

Anna knelt and hugged her. I wont say a word. Promise.

*

Time slid by like a strange English river, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Emily raced to school, hair in glossy plaits, a brand new coat, smart boots, rucksack bouncing.

Emmie, is it true your dads married again? called Martha, her classmate. You look so posh now! And your hairs lovely.

Yes, Emily replied with pride, my new mumAuntie Anna.

Andrew had given up drinking long ago, helped by Annas steady love. Now, he dressed sharp and walked tall, Anna beside himpoised, self-assured, beautiful. Always, their faces were brightened by Emilys presence.

Years danced and blurred. Emily, now at university, came home on holiday and burst through the door.

Mum, Im home!

Anna rushed forward, wrapping her in a warm embrace.

Hello, my clever professor! Welcome home! they both laughed, while Andrew arrived later from work, joy lighting his face, and for a moment the whole house glowedfull, again, of love, in all its shapes.