The Orphan “So that’s it? Packed your bags and you’re out?” Marina stood in the doorway, hands on hips, her dressing gown straining across her frame, her face blotched with angry red patches. “Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you? I rescued you from the care home when your mum disappeared into thin air and your Nan passed away!” Vicky, without turning, kept shoving her jeans into the battered old rucksack. The zip was stuck—more annoying than her aunt’s shouting. “Did I ask you to save me?” the girl muttered at last, having forced the zip closed. “You only took me in to look like a saint in front of the family.” Like: ‘Look at our Marina, what a heroine. She took in an orphan.’ “How dare you!” Marina stepped into the room. “We were meant to be going to the Petersons for the bank holiday, barbecues, a bit of fun. And now this? You’re sulking again? Attitude about everything?” “It’s not attitude, Marina. I just don’t want to hang around your drunken… jolly friends. I have an important test tomorrow. I need to revise.” “A test!” Marina threw up her hands, almost hitting the low-hanging lampshade. “Well aren’t you bright! If it weren’t for me you’d be scrubbing floors and eating overcooked porridge in a kids’ home. I took on legal guardianship for you!” Vicky spun round. “Then give it up. Right now. Call social services and say, ‘Take her away, I can’t cope.’ What, scared it’ll ruin your image?” Marina stopped, offended into silence for a moment. “You’re giving me ultimatums now? I’ll gladly be rid of you! I’ll hand in the papers first thing tomorrow. I’m sick of your cheek. No gratitude, just attitude.” “Maybe I’ll leave you first!” Vicky shouted. “Think I’m happy here? I’d rather live in an institution than with you!” Marina froze, mouth comically open. Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall—Vicky’s dad, John, emerged from the kitchen. Fresh out of prison last summer, he crashed here like a lodger, jobless, no rights over his own daughter. “What’s the shouting for?” he rasped, scratching his stubbled chin. “Neighbours will call the police in a minute.” “Oh, shut it!” Marina barked. “Father of the year, now you care? Your daughter’s off to a home and all you worry about are the neighbours.” Looking at her father, Vicky felt sick. She remembered being three, men in uniform taking him away, her mum just closing the door and “popping out for bread”—gone for a week, then vanished for good. It all started the day they brought Vicky home from the hospital. Her teenage mum, always in a hurry, barely glanced at the bundle. “Mum, sit with her, I need to nip out,” she told Vicky’s gran, and vanished for thirteen years. Gran was old-school. No fuss, no extra toys, but she always knew when Vicky was hungry or had a headache. When Dad was taken away and Mum was searching for a “better life,” Gran just sighed and started sorting paperwork. “You see, love,” she’d say, brushing Vicky’s hair, “sometimes people need time to see what they’ve lost. Until they do, we’ll stick together.” When it was time for school, Mum had truly disappeared. Gran had to fight red tape to strip the parents’ rights. “It’s hard,” she told the neighbour while Vicky played in the sandpit. “To take your own daughter’s rights away… but the girl needs it, or she’ll get no doctors or school.” Vicky heard everything. She wasn’t angry with her mum—she didn’t know how to hate. Mum was like a half-remembered cartoon character—a blur, no plot. Six years of school, nearly straight As. Gran was proud. Then, that autumn, Dad came back from prison—Gran let him stay, even though they’d never got on. Six months later Gran was gone, a slow hospital death; Vicky sat in the waiting room with a bag of oranges, never to be given. Marina, Dad’s sister, organised the funeral, performed for sympathy: floods of tears, fussing over the scarf, taking condolences as if her own life had ended. “We won’t abandon you,” she whispered at the wake, piling pie on Vicky’s plate. “John’s hopeless, but I’m family. We’ll sort out temporary guardianship. You’ll stay with us. We’ll lock up Gran’s flat for now.” Vicky didn’t know “lock up” meant renting it out in secret and pocketing the cash. She just wanted to be left alone. *** Life with Marina wasn’t like the happy families in adverts. Three-bed-flat, grumpy husband, who barely tolerated his niece. Vicky was put in the living room on an old sofa. “Have you done the dishes?” Marina would check, peeling rubber gloves. “Yes,” Vicky muttered, still reading her history textbook. “And the frying pan? I told you—soak the greasy ones! This isn’t a hotel. We’re family; families muck in. I work myself to death, your Dad lies on the sofa, at least you can help.” Dad really did just lie around. He didn’t bicker, just existed. Sometimes—“How’s school?” “Fine.” “Well, keep at it. Education’s important.” That was it. Vicky saw he didn’t care—no more than Mum, lost somewhere. His worries were about cigarette money or when the crime news was on the telly. Tension built for months. Marina ranted about food, clothes, the mere fact of Vicky’s existence. “Do you know how much teenage shoes cost?” she’d moan on the phone. “She grows out of them overnight! The allowance’s a pittance—I pay out of my own pocket and get nothing but dirty looks.” Vicky heard it all through the thin door. She knew her aunt received support money for her and was making good money off Gran’s flat. But she couldn’t say anything—Marina would go ballistic. *** The row exploded over the May bank holiday. “I said you’re coming with us to the Petersons’ cottage!” her aunt shrieked. “We must look respectable. You’ll wear that blue dress!” “I’m not going,” Vicky replied calmly. “I need to study. I was off sick in March, I’m behind on maths.” “Maths can wait!” Marina squealed. “You’re embarrassing me. Everyone asks, ‘Where’s Vicky? Why’s she so moody?’ They’ll think we keep you chained up!” “Don’t you?” Vicky looked up. “You’ve only bought me one pair of trainers all year—and they’re two sizes too big, ‘to grow into.’ Where’s the money from Gran’s flat going?” Marina blanched. “How dare you… That money’s for your future! And what’s it to you?” “I’m not going, and I’m not wearing that stupid dress. It’s too tight now anyway.” Marina flew into a rage. “Pack your bags! I’ll call social services! Let them take you. See if you mention the flat then!” “Call them,” Vicky said, folding her workbooks. “It’s better than listening to you whinge about how expensive I am…” John appeared in the hall. “Marina, enough. Where’s she supposed to go at night?” “Shut it!” she spun round. “You’re just another scrounger. Your daughter’s just like her mother—arrogant.” Vicky slipped on her coat. “I’m leaving,” she said. “Get out!” Marina shouted, shoving her onto the landing and slamming the door. She didn’t go to a care home. She walked to the nearby block where Mrs. Irving, her gran’s old friend, lived. Mrs. Irving, strict and practical, formerly worked for the council, knew more about child welfare than Marina ever would. “Good heavens, Vicky? This time of night?” Mrs. Irving opened the door, shawl over her shoulders. “Marina kicked me out. Can I stay here tonight? I’ll go to social services tomorrow.” Mrs. Irving looked her up and down—pale, old rucksack, worn trainers. “Come in. Let’s have a chat…” Vicky told her everything: the flat, the money, Dad staying silent while Marina raved. Mrs. Irving listened. “So the flat’s being rented out? And the legal papers—temporary guardianship?” “She keeps saying she’ll make it permanent, but she never does.” “She doesn’t—the checks are tougher for permanent. With temporary, she pretends she’s helping the state.” “Listen, love. Tomorrow we won’t just go to social services. We’ll visit my former pupil—she heads up child services at the local council now. That flat’s yours—your gran left it to you; I saw the will myself. Marina’s just keeping it from you.” *** By lunchtime Marina was banging on doors. “Give her back!” she sobbed in the hallway. “Vicky, come on! I overreacted. We’re family!” Mrs. Irving opened the door, chain still on. “Family, you say? Bit late for that. The council now has a different opinion!” “What council?” Marina faltered. “The one investigating whether it’s legal to rent out a minor’s flat without permission—and misuse support funds.” “No, we spent it all on her! Honestly, I—” “Enough. Vicky’s not coming with you. I’ll take her. And turf out those tenants, or you’ll be in even deeper trouble. The flat was left to her! You’ve been using an orphan’s assets, shame on you!” Marina screamed, ranted, tried the door, but Vicky didn’t come. *** Marina lost her guardianship in disgrace. Gran’s tenants were evicted. John, scared of trouble, found cash-in-hand work in another city and vanished. He sent Vicky a text: “It’s better this way.” Mrs. Irving couldn’t take guardianship—too old. Vicky went into care, and to her surprise, she liked it. Mrs. Irving visited regularly, Vicky made new friends. Her grades improved; she finally felt calm. Vicky could finally breathe.

Orphan

So, thats it then? Packed your things and off you go?

Susan stood in the doorway, fists propped on her hips, her dressing gown stretched tightly across her frame as red blotches spread across her face.

Dyou even understand what Ive done for you? I saved you from the childrens home, after your mother vanished into the mist and your nan passed away!

Emma, not turning around, continued to cram jeans into an old rucksack. The zip stuck, which infuriated her more than her aunts shrieking.

I never asked to be rescued, Emma replied hoarsely, finally conquering the zipper. You just took me in for brownie points with the family so you could look like the saint.

As if! Look at me! Look at Saint Susan, giving a good home to a poor orphan.

Unbelievable, the cheek! Susan stomped into the room. We were supposed to go to the Peakess for a May barbecue this weekend, have a proper knees-up with friends. And now what? Another one of your sulky spells spoiling the whole thing? Never good enough for you, is it?

Its not about that, Susan. I just dont fancy sitting through your drunkencheerymates cackling. Ive got a maths test tomorrow. I need to revise.

A test, she says! Susan threw up her hands, narrowly missing the low ceiling lamp. Little Miss Smartypants thinks shes above it all! If it werent for me, youd still be in some home scrubbing floors and eating lumpy porridge!

Im your legal guardian; its all on my head!

Emma spun round sharply.

Then give me up. Call social services right now and say you cant cope. Go on. Whats stopping you, Susan? Only your precious reputation, isnt it?

Susan reeled, momentarily speechless with indignation. You think you can lay down the law? I will, gladly! Im done! No thanks, just attitude. Do what you like! Go look for your dear old mum who hasnt so much as sent you a card in seven years!

Maybe Ill give you up first! Emma shouted. You think its a picnic here? Id rather live in a group home than with you!

Susan froze, her mouth comically agape. From the hallway, heavy footsteps approachedDavid stumbled out of the kitchen, Emmas father, whod come back from prison the previous summer and now drifted about as a lodger, neither working nor claiming any real place in her life.

Whats all this noise? he rasped, scratching his stubbled chin. Neighboursll have the police round in a bit.

You stay out of it! barked Susan. Father of the year, arent you? Your daughters about to be marched off to care and all you care about is what the neighbours think!

Emma looked at her father, and nausea welled up.

She remembered being three, men in uniforms leading him out, her mother simply shutting the door and vanishing for a loaf of bread, returning a week later and then, finally, never again.

It all started the day Emma was brought home from the hospital. Her mum, forever rushing off somewhere, hardly glanced at the bundle.

Mum, mind her for me, I just need to nip out, shed trilled to Emmas nan before dashing off on some date.

Out stretched thirteen years.

Grandma was old-fashioned: she didnt coo, didnt buy needless trinkets, but somehow always knew when Emma was hungry or had a headache coming on.

When her father was taken, and her mother left searching for a better life, Grandma just sighed and began gathering paperwork.

See, love, she murmured, brushing Emmas hair, sometimes people need time to realise what theyve lost. Until then, well do just fine together.

When it came time for school, complications arose. Her mother had disappeared forever.

Grandma now had to brave the circles of bureaucracy to take away the parental rights of her own daughter.

Its a hard thing, shed say quietly over the garden wall to her neighbour while Emma played in the dirt. Taking your own childs rights away but it must be done for her sake, otherwise no school, no doctors.

Emma heard it all. She didnt resent her motherwasnt yet old enough to hate. Her mother was a blur, like a character from a half-remembered cartoon.

Emma sailed through six years at school, near the top of the class. Grandma beamed with pride, put Emmas report cards on proud display. And then

That autumn, her father returned from prison. Grandma, though never fond of her son-in-law, let him stay. After half a year, Grandma passed away.

It was a long, drawn-out thing: a hospital room Emma wasnt allowed to enter, as she sat on a plastic chair clutching a bag of oranges she never got to give away.

When the doctor nodded solemnly, Emma didnt cry. There was no real understanding.

Susan, her fathers sister, took charge of arrangements. She laid it on thick: tears, condolences, acting as if shed lost her very purpose in life.

We wont abandon you, she whispered to Emma at the wake, piling another slice of cake onto her plate. Davids hopeless, bless him, Im your own flesh and blood.

Temporary guardianship papers were done; Emma was shuffled to their house. Grandmas flat was locked upmeaning, in truth, quietly let out to family friends and the money pocketed. Emma didnt know it then. She just wanted to be left alone.

Life with Susan was far from the poster-perfect English home life.

She lived in a semi with her husband, who openly disliked Emma.

Emma had to sleep on a lumpy old sofa in the front room.

Has the washing up been done? Susan called, wriggling out of rubber gloves.

Yes, Emma muttered, poring over her history book.

And the frying pan? I told yousoak off the greasy things! Susan pressed on. This isnt a hotel, Emma, its family! Pull your weight! I work, your dad loafsleast you could do is be useful.

David barely left the sofa. He didnt argue, just lay there, half vanished.

Sometimes he tried small talk:

Hows school?

Alright.

Well, work hard. Educations important.

That was it. He didnt care more about Emma than her mum, wherever shed gone. He worried more about when Susan would hand over fivers for cigarettes or when the news would show police chases.

Tension thickened, month to month. Susan endlessly grumbled about Emmas food, clothes, the cost of keeping her.

Do you know how much decent trainers cost these days? shed moan to friends on the phone. Her feet grow like wild mushrooms! The allowance covers nothingIve to spend my own bit! Not a word of thanks, just glowering at us.

Emma caught every word through thin walls. She knew the money meant for her upkeep came in, that the rent from Grandmas flat was tidybut to bring it up was to spark one of Susans tantrums.

The real row came in May:

I said youre coming with us to the Peakess country house! Susan bellowed. We need to look respectable. Youll wear that blue dress.

Im not going, Emma replied calmly. I need to prep for my maths exam. I missed weeks being ill in March.

Maths can wait! Susan shrieked. You spoil my reputationeveryone asks, Wheres Emma, whys she so miserable? Think were keeping you in the coal cellar!

Arent you? Emma looked up. You only got me those one-size-too-big plimsolls all year. Wheres the money from grandmas flat going, then?

Susan paled.

How dare you Thats for your future! And whats it to you? Its not yours!

Emma stood.

Im not going anywhere. Im not wearing that daft dress, eitherits too tight in the shoulders.

That was it. Susan went ballistic.

Get your things! Im ringing social services right now! Lets see how you manage then, shall we?

Go ahead, Emma replied coolly, folding her exercise books carefully. Better there than listening to you whinge about how expensive I am

David hovered in the hallway.

Suze, pack it in. Wheres she to go at this time of night?

Oh, shut up! Susan rounded on him. Youre as much a freeloadershes just like her mum, all airs and graces!

Emma left for the hall, now truly ready to walk. In her head, a plan simmered.

Im leaving, Emma called, shrugging on her jacket.

Go on, then! Susan screamed, shoving her out onto the landing and slamming the door.

Emma didnt head to the home. She walked to the next street, where Mrs. Allen livedgrandmas old colleague and friend.

Mrs. Allen was a stern woman, retired from the education office, well-versed in law and policycertainly more so than Susan was in recipes.

Heavens, Emma? What are you doing out at this hour? Mrs. Allen asked, holding the door with her shawl still slipped around her shoulders.

Susans thrown me out, Emma said plainly. Can I stay tonight? Tomorrow Ill go to the authorities myself.

Mrs. Allen studied Emmas weary face, battered rucksack, scuffed trainers.

Come in. Well have a proper chat…

Over tea, Emma told all: the letting of the flat, the money, her fathers silence while Susan treated her like dirt.

Mrs. Allen listened in silence.

So theyre letting the flat? she clarified. And the guardianship papers?

Only temporary. She always says shell make them permanent, but never does.

She drags it outpermanent guardians get scrutinised more, Mrs. Allen nodded. With temporary, its all on a handshake. Listen here. Tomorrow, were not just popping into social. Well see a former pupil of mine at the councilnow at the childrens welfare office.

And that flat is yoursyour gran left it to you. Ive seen the will myself. Susans just keeping you in the dark.

By lunchtime, Susan came pounding up the stairs.

Give her back! she hollered up the street. Emma, come out! I got carried away! Were family!

Mrs. Allen opened the door, not unchaining it.

Family, is it? Youre too late. The councils already investigating the letting of a minors property without consent. And the misspending of the maintenance payments.

What you canteverything went on her! I did my best!

Oh, hush up, Mrs. Allen cut in. Emma wont be coming back. Shes staying with me. Empty out the flat before you invite more trouble.

Thats Emmas flather grans will says so! How dare you, Susanmaking profit from an orphan, shame on you!

Susan tried ranting, threatening, even hammered at the door, but Emma didnt budge.

Susan lost her guardianship in disgrace. The tenants in grandmas flat were turfed out.

David, panicking at the thought of actual parental responsibility, vanished to labour at a distant building site, sending Emma a short, apologetic text:

Best for everyone this way.

Mrs. Allen, due to her age, was denied official guardianship. Emma entered childrens care. To her surprise, she liked itthe routine, the friends, Mrs. Allen visiting with little gifts and stories.

Her grades improved. She found quiet for her soul. For the first time, Emma could breathe easy, as though it were all happening in a weird English dream, half-real and half mist, but finally her own.