Auntie Rita

Im 47 now, just an ordinary blokeish sort of woman, you know a bit like a grey mouse, not exactly a looker, not blessed with any great figure. Ive never been married and Im not keen on it; men all seem the same to me a lot of bellyfat and a love of the sofa. Nobodys ever asked me anyway, so Im fine staying single. My parents are getting on in years up in Newcastle, up north, and theyre the only family Ive got Im an only child, no sisters or brothers, and I dont keep in touch with the cousins either. Ive been living and working in London for fifteen years now, doing a ninetofive gig at a charitytype organisation. My flat is in a typical highrise in a quiet residential block, just the usual workhome routine.

Im a bit bitter and cynical, I dont really care for anyone, let alone kids. Every New Year I hop a train up to Newcastle to see my folks, just once a year. This year I did the same, got there, thought Id give the fridge a good clean. I packed all the old frozen bits dumplings, meatballs, whatever into a box and headed for the bin. The lift was stopping for a lad of about seven, Id seen him a few times with his mum and a baby in a pushchair. He stared at the box, then as I walked out to the rubbish chute he called out shyly, Can I have it? I told him it was old, but thought, why not? It wasnt rotten. He carefully gathered the packets, tucked them close to his chest. Wheres your mum? I asked. Shes ill, and my sisters too. Cant get up, he said. I turned and headed back home, put the dinner on the stove.

Sitting there, I kept thinking about that little boy. Im never the sort to feel sorry on impulse, but something nudged me. I grabbed a handful of things from the kitchen some sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a chunk of meat from the freezer and rushed back towards the lift. I realized I didnt even know what floor they were on, just that it was above me. I started climbing floor by floor and, lucky as it gets, after two levels a door opened and the lad let me in without a word. The flat was tiny, shabby but spotless.

Inside, a girl was curled up on the bed with a baby beside her. A basin of water and some rags sat on a table she looked feverish, shivering. The baby was asleep, breathing shallow. I asked the lad if there were any tablets. He showed me a pack of old, expired pills that shouldve been tossed ages ago. I went over to the girl, touched her forehead it was hot. She opened her eyes, looked confused, then snapped, Wheres James? I told her I was the neighbour. I asked about their symptoms and called an ambulance. While they were on the way I handed her a cup of tea with a slice of sausage she gulped it down, clearly starving. She was still nursing the baby.

The paramedics arrived, examined the little one, prescribed a bunch of meds and even a couple of injections. I popped over to the pharmacy, bought everything, then hit a supermarket for milk, baby formula, a few snacks, andjust becauseI grabbed a weird little lemoncoloured toy monkey. I never give gifts to kids, but something about it felt right.

Her name is Emily, twentysix, living in a suburb of Croydon, not in the centre but out on the edge. Her mother and grandmother are Londoners; her mother married a Croydon bloke and moved there to work at a factory while her dad was a technician. When Emily was born, her dad was electrocuted at work. Her mum was left with a newborn, no job, no money. Friends tried to help, but she fell into drinking fast and within three years was a heavy drinker. Somehow a neighbour tracked down Emilys grandma back in London, and she took Emily in. When Emily turned fifteen, her grandma told her the truth her mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandma was stingy, smoked like a chimney, and didnt say much.

At sixteen Emily started a job at the local corner shop first as a packer, then as a cashier. A year later her grandma passed away, leaving Emily on her own. At eighteen she dated a lad who promised to marry her, but after she got pregnant he vanished. She kept working, scrimping, because there was nobody to rely on. When she gave birth, she was already leaving the baby alone for hours while she cleaned the stairwells. The shop owner, where she returned after a break, turned out to be a nasty sort; after she got pregnant he forced himself on her and kept threatening to fire her if she spoke up. When he found out she was expecting, he handed her a tenpound note and told her not to show up again.

All that she poured out to me that evening. She thanked me for everything and said shed work off the amount by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her thanks and left. I didnt sleep a wink that night, just kept thinking why Im alive, what Im doing. I never call my own parents, I dont care for anyone, I hoard my money Ive got a nice little stash, but theres no one to spend it on. And heres this other persons life, with no food, no proper care.

In the morning James dropped a plate of pancakes on my doorstep and bolted. I stood there holding the warm stack, feeling the heat melt some of the ice inside me. All at once I wanted to laugh, to cry, and to eat everything in sight.

Not far from my flat theres a small shopping centre. The owner of a tiny kids boutique, not quite sure what size I needed, offered to come with me to the charity shop. Im not sure if she was just hoping for a good sale or was moved by my sudden caring streak. An hour later four huge bags of clothes for a boy and a girl were waiting for me. I also grabbed a duvet, pillows, some bedding, loads of food, even a bottle of vitamins. I felt useful for once.

Its been about ten days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Emilys become a proper handywoman. My flat feels cozier, I actually call my parents now, send them texts wishing good health to sick kids. I cant believe how I lived before. Every evening after work I race home because I know someones waiting. And this spring were all heading up to Newcastle together tickets are already booked.