A Miraculous Lady
Wednesday, 8th November
What an afternoon it’s been! Today, I truly felt like a part of London life the drizzle, grumbling commuters, the push and shove of the bus, and the odd warmth that sometimes slips in when you least expect it.
I squeezed into the packed 139 at Baker Street and just about managed to weave my way further in, pressed from all sides. The bus had spat out a handful of people at Oxford Circus, but double that number tried to squeeze on. I didnt so much board as get carried in by the crowd, rain dripping from my coat, my rucksack nearly pulling my arm out its socket, and no doubt grinning like a lunatic. Oddly enough, I always cant help but smile in those moments. Not out of nerves or frustration Ive learnt that a smile is the best defence against the storms of city life.
All around me, people shuffled and snapped at each other about damp umbrellas or bags in the way. The crowd wedged me between a kindly, older woman and a sullen teenage schoolboy. He didnt know what to do with his overstuffed bag, so the woman in a grey woolly hat sitting by the window offered to hold it for him on her lap. Her lap already held her handbag now it was disappearing beneath the school bag.
Those lucky souls who had seats sat like ancient statues, engrossed in their screens or staring blankly at rain-smudged windows, the only colour outside coming from bright umbrellas bobbing along the pavements.
The seated passengers seemed determined to ignore the standing crowd that was delaying the bus. Why bother paying attention to inconveniences not your own? Theres already enough negativity, and its best just to block it out, isnt it? None of them seemed concerned for anyone else. It was the golden age of practical selfishness.
Except, perhaps, for this tiny woman in her knitted grey hat, now cradling the schoolboys heavy bag as well as her purse. She kept scanning the flow of passengers, twitching nervously and trying to help. Theres three more to get on still everyone budge up a little, cant you? she called with more hope than authority.
No room, love, were packed in here like sardines! Just sit down and let it be!
Maybe you could swap with me, dear? Ill stand She was instantly interrupted.
Oh, give it a rest, will you? barked her neighbour, still hunched over her blaring phone.
The lady in the hat turned away, slightly hurt, but her frown never deepened; she still kept watching the door anxiously, as if she could will everyone on board. What a curious woman, I thought to myself.
Finally, the doors heaved shut, once, twice. The driver called out to clear the doorway, so the last young man leapt down and ran into the rain, abandoning his umbrella to sprint ahead of the bus, oblivious to the rivers on the pavement or the water streaming from his hair.
I caught the way the lady in the grey hat watched him concern furrowing her brow. Such gentle worry and that unmistakable take my seat spirit, and here we all are, bustling along like grumpy sheep.
Soon enough, I was caught up in my own thoughts again. If only I had my own car I would by now, if only No use dwelling. Dad never wanted it. I get it. Especially since hes got his Florence now, hed probably buy her one first and knowing him, he certainly could.
Dad is such a typical bloke. He always was, despite appearances. At uni hes Dr Thompson, intimidating to others perhaps, but to me, hes my soft-hearted dad. Every so often, he and I would share a ride in his ancient VW, if our schedules aligned (and they rarely did). Hes gentle, easygoing.
Mum was strict. Demanding. But
Stop. Dont think about that now.
So mostly, I took the bus. Even on days as grim and grey as this.
At Paddington, it was time to shove my way out. There was the usual chaos behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lady in the grey hat trying to manage her enormous bag. A theatrical man made a fuss: Steady on with that suitcase, love, mind my shoes!
Sorry, sorry, Ill be careful, I promise
Miss, are you getting off now? she panted, wiping her forehead under her cap. She wasnt old at all, really.
Yes, I said, grateful Id get a head start on her trunk and spare my tights the indignity of another snag.
I popped out, opened my tattered brolly, and headed for the crossing, the bracing autumnal wetness filling my chest. No idea why I looked back, but I did. The grey-hatted lady was speaking to an equally lost-looking pensioner nearby. The OAP shook her head and shrugged.
Lost, perhaps? The lights were green, but something pulled me back. After all, I knew the Marylebone area rather well by now, even if I’d only lived here three years.
Before, Id lived elsewhere with Mum and Dad. After Mum died, I stayed with Gran for three years. When I got into uni, I moved back in with Dad. Hed sold our old place too full of memories. We both needed something new.
Dad found us a lovely new flat, all mod cons. All for you, darling! hed said. I was grateful and threw myself into making it ours, indulging Dad with all the little meals Gran taught me, and using YouTube recipes too. After years of blackened pans, I soon mastered the slow cooker and bread machine, making country-style rolls and candle-lit dinners. The kitchen became my territory.
Dad would tease, Em, Ill be as round as a barrel if you keep this up! Hes easily pleased.
The grey-hatted lady really was pint-sized, dwarfed by her own rolling suitcase. She wore a denim-trimmed jacket lined with faux fur, skinny jeans, and practical black boots. The scarf on her head was only just doing its job; shed looped it clumsily over her crown, leaving the back exposed.
I trotted over. Do you need directions, maam?
Hmm? Yes, yes please! She propped up her bag. Birch Avenue which way is that?
By chance, it was the way I was going. Lets walk together happy to help with that bag.
No, I couldnt bother you. Its on wheels, anyway, and theres not far to go. Ill manage.
Youll get soaked and its not exactly nearby.
She chuckled, patting her scarf. Thats what this is for!
I simply did my best to share my umbrella, at least some of the way. She seemed to take it all in her stride, if not with light feet then with good humour. I found myself smiling at her as she thanked me between puddles and car splashes.
Are you from round here? I called, raising my voice above the churning water and engines.
Oh, me? Im from somewhere a bit further afield. Just up from Derbyshire actually, a little village just past there.
That is a long way!
Oh, but a quick flight to London. It took me longer just to get to the airport. And then, typically, rain when I arrive. Back home? Dry as chalk. But if you wish for rainbows, you must put up with the rain
No rainbows this late in autumn. Looks like winter is here, I shrugged.
True enough. Just puddles now.
She kept saying something that sounded like calujins. I had to ask.
Sorry, what was that?
Puddles! She chuckled. It mustve been some country word.
Her suitcase slowed us down; every step meant a dance around curbs and water-filled potholes. At last, I couldnt help but grab the handle myself.
Nearly there, I said, pointing ahead. Thats Birch Avenue whats your number?
Oh, no looks like its quite far. Ill managereally, you shouldnt go out of your way for me.
Dont be silly! Youll catch your death without a brolly.
Im here to surprise my son. Hes at uni here. Renting a flat. I brought him some homemade food. Hell be gobsmacked. I wanted to see the city anyway see what this London fuss is about.
First impressions?
She shrugged, steering around a giant puddle. Everyone seems busy looking out for themselves. Makes life a bit cheerless, dont you think?
We finally tracked down her sons block, a five-storey just like any other. The security door was on a code, though, and attempts to buzz up got us nowhere. Even her phone was out of juice.
When did you last speak to your son? I asked, wishing shed at least said when she was arriving.
Yesterday. Hell be at uni, no doubt. Ill wait here, thank you ever so much, Emily. Honestly, youre a treasure. I must repay you somehow I have homemade shortbread oh wait, perhaps not, theyre rather old. Fancy a sweet instead? I politely declined. Go on, go on, Ill manage here, dont worry!
Reluctantly, I left her under the entrance, eager to escape the drizzly, miserable weather. Still, there was a lingering warmth inside me a kind of shelter after the ordinary hostilities of city life.
When I got home, the flat was still and empty blissfully so these days. Once, I loved our evenings together. But since Florence appeared in our lives, those cosy evenings with Dad had faded. At first, she and Dad saw each other outside, but gradually she started spending more time at ours. The first morning I saw her emerge from Dads room in his robe, I felt like a guest.
She soon made herself at home in a way that made me feel like the outsider. She tried to teach me her way of doing bangers and mash or insisted I watch her Caesar salad recipe, although I could cook rings around her. Apparently, I needed basic tutorials.
One time, I came home to find her giving herself a pedicure in our living room, foot propped up on the beige sofa like she owned the place. Youre back early! Join me, love, I have the full kit. Or do you not bother?
I do, usually in the bathroom, I replied, taking my sandwich to my room. No appetite for sitting at the table with her lessons.
She often prattled on about whatever TV or music was new; in fairness, I watched a few good films because of her. Still, Dad and I both felt the shallow depth of her interests.
One evening, when it was just me and Dad, I finally asked, Do you love her?
He shrugged. I suppose Ive got comfortable. Youll fly the nest one day its nice to have someone. Florence is kind-hearted.
Shes empty, Dad. And she bosses you about.
He just smiled. Ive never been a leader, love. A woman without quirks is like a general without an army command is all about flair, not just authority.
But its all flair, Dad, and nothing inside.
Maybe, but I think she cares for me. Dont be jealous, Em. Start thinking about your own life too youre old enough.
But I did mind for Dads sake. Was it jealousy? Was it about Mum, or just not wanting someone else taking over? I couldnt untangle it. I just know that with Florence there, things are colder. Now shes everywhere: her shampoo on the shelves, her hair ties, her slippers.
Later, home and changed into my velour lounge suit and warm socks, just as I sat down for a snack, an unfamiliar number called.
Hello, you tried to ring me? A rich male voice.
I dont think so Wait, are you the chap from Birch Avenue?
Yes! Whats happened?
Your mums here a surprise visit and youre not home. Shes waiting in the rain, poor thing
My mother! Thank goodness. Im so grateful. Just well, could you tell her Ill be back soon?
He hung up before I could say more. I set about clearing up the frying pan Florence left greasy on the hob. Sigh.
The phone rang again. Im so sorry to bother you. But well, Im not in London, and wont be back for a week. I volunteer with a student group were up in Manchester. Didnt tell Mum, shed only worry. Could you let her know? Maybe find her a B&B for a few nights? Im desperate. Shes always turning up out the blue
I peered out at the grey afternoon, the rain beating against the glass. She hadnt got far. I imagined her hunkered beneath the doorway, boots drenched. Alright, stay by your phone Ill give it to her myself. Just answer when we call.
So, I buttoned up, grabbed my umbrella, and marched back out. On the way, I racked my brain for nearby hotels, but everything was expensive and full. Only one came to mind out of most peoples budget. How much cash did a little Derbyshire lady have anyway? Why set out on this surprise mission?
She wasnt at the entrance, but I spotted her blue jacket hunched up on the childrens playground bench, arms wrapped around her knees, looking like a bedraggled sparrow.
I called, Still here? She looked up, tried to smile.
I feel like a sparrow on a fence. Bit chilly, honestly. Where have you come from?
My phone your son cant get through. Here. She held the phone like a lifeline, and when she heard his voice, she chattered away cheerily, all her misery forgotten.
Manchester? Oh bless! Ill be fine, son. Dont worry. Ill get myself sorted. Ill wait for you!
Her face was lit with happiness. She had no thought for herself, just glad to hear from him.
So, what now? I ventured.
She shrugged, hopeless with logistics and delighted with life. Where to, indeed? Any hotels nearby?
Lets check, I said, and we peered into my phone together. Every B&B was full or dearer than Claridges. Tried for short-term lets. No chance.
She sighed. Maybe Ill find a luggage locker and just have a wander around. Always wanted to explore London.
In this weather? I snapped my phone case shut. Absolutely not. Youre coming with me, and youll warm up at ours. Stay for three days when his landladys back, youll have the keys.
She paled and backed away. I couldnt! Im a stranger what if Im a con artist? You dont know me!
She stared at me, eyes wide in comic terror. The sight of her, so earnest in her worry, made me double over with laughter, and soon shed joined me, tears rolling.
Oh dear, and now I need the loo! she giggled, legs crossed, and off we went together under my battered umbrella.
Looks like were inseparable, you and I, she said, switching to you with me.
Lets introduce ourselves Im Emily, a student at the local uni.
Im Mary, manager at the village community centre and dancer and singer, when needs must!
Really? You run the whole thing?
Ha! Its just a village club. Theres never enough people, so I do the lot. At least theres a cleaner. If there wasnt
She was clearly exhausted, yet she kept worrying that shed impose, asking if Dad would mind, offering money
She admired the flat, running her hands along the bookshelves, clapping herself on the thighs, beaming at every room.
When shed warmed up and changed, I made us both lunch. There was even a spare bedroom for her thank goodness for Dads foresight.
Oh, you have so many books. You love Gaskell? So do I! And all Dickens, what a treat. Come here She opened one and read aloud, I never know whether to cry or laugh with Dickens. Sometimes I read him in tears; sometimes Im in stitches. I never know how to react!
She could have read literature all day. I asked about her funny turns of phrase.
Oh, thats just the way we speak at home. Country talk, you know. Im with folk all the time. Emily, if your Dad minds, Ill leave right away, no hard feelings. Just say so.
He cant object, not when he invited Florence. Shes lived here for weeks, and this is my home too. Of course you can stay.
You dont like her much?
No. Dad and I were fine on our own.
But thats how it goes sometimes a home is big for seven and too small for two. Maybe the closeness just never quite fell into place with you and her.
It didnt, I said, stirring the soup.
Perhaps its still to come. Things thicken over time, you know.
We had a funny, warm lunch together. In my room, a photo of Mum and me hangs by the bed Im about ten, and shes hugging me from behind, smiling with her wild curls and gentle eyes.
Mary hovered for a long time, looking at the photo. I felt nervous, somehow, as if she could see things I wasnt ready to face.
Whats that youre holding? she asked.
I glanced at the picture. A watch. Mum just bought it for me, my heart racing, but this time, I didnt tell myself to stop. I kept talking.
She asked me about Mum, and I found myself telling her everything things Id only ever whispered in the dark, after Mum died. The stories Id never dared share with Dad or Gran, or friends. They couldnt bear it, or understand.
That first year nearly broke me. The nightmares, the crying fits. Dad and Gran took me to doctors, worried sick about me. Dads hair turned white almost overnight.
At fourteen, I couldnt see how I could ever be whole again. Mum had been half of me we were a unit. When she died on that icy motorway, skidding off into a strangers car, it felt as though someone had broken off my right arm and asked me to keep smiling.
Over time, Id learnt to shut it away behind a wall in my mind. Remembering her had become something gentle I let myself recall the good things, not the details, or Id fall apart again.
But as I told Mary everything, Mums memory flowered in detail: her perfume, her hands with their blue veins, the birthmark on her shoulder.
Only now, years later, did I truly understand how much Id loved her. I poured out all our little secrets, the goals shed set me, how shed brush my hair and meet me at the gate after school, convinced Id be independent one day. I even told her the story of the watch, but stopped short of saying what happened after.
I didnt feel tearful in that broken way, the way I used to be. Marys listening was so intent, so kind, and I suddenly realised her frown matched the one Mum used to get when she was worried about me.
Goodness, Ive started crying, havent I? I dabbed my collar.
Well, its raining and a little cry never hurt. Sometimes you have to let grief out, or it turns sour. Youre grieving gently now, Emily. Your mum would be proud.
And so I realised it was the first time Id mourned Mum softly, not in shattering sobs, but in quiet acceptance. Why now, with a stranger?
Truly miraculous, I thought as I fell asleep. And Mary dozed off too, there on the sofa, not budging to her own room.
Outside, the trees on the avenue loosened their gold and red from the branches, the rain weaving its way into every corner, softening the gap between sky and earth, grief and joy, yesterday and tomorrow.
Maybe thats how things heal: steady rain, one gentle chat at a time. For now, Ive found comfort at the heart of a November storm.
