She Would Manage
Alison grew up in an orphanage, and for as long as she could remember, there had always been other children like her and the caretakers. Life had never been sweet, but she had learned to stand up for herself and defend the younger ones. She had a sharp sense of justiceshe couldnt bear to see the weak mistreated. Sometimes she suffered for it, but she never cried. She knew she was fighting for what was right.
Her name had always been Althea, but at the orphanage, they shortened it to Alison. The moment she turned eighteen, they sent her out into the world on her own. Luckily, she already had a tradeshed trained as a cook and had been working as a kitchen assistant in a café for a few months. They gave her a room in a boarding house, but it was dreadful.
By then, she was seeing Victor, who was three years older and worked at the same café as a van driver. Soon enough, they moved in together at his one-bedroom flat, left to him by his grandmother.
“Althea, come live with me,” hed said. “No point staying in that dump where the locks dont even work. Needs fixing up, anyway.” She agreed without hesitation.
She liked Victor because he was older, steadier. Once, theyd talked about children, and hed been blunt.
“Cant stand snotty brats. Nothing but noise and trouble.”
“Victor,” she said, surprised, “but if it were yoursyour own flesh and bloodhow could you say such things?”
“Drop it, all right? I said I dont like em, and thats that.”
His words stung, but she pushed the hurt aside. Maybe if they married, hed change his mind. Children were part of life, after all.
At the café, Alison worked hard. She could even cover for the head cook, Valerie, when she called in sick with a “headache”though everyone knew the real reason. Valerie drank too much and couldnt stop.
“One more slip-up, and youre out,” the manager, Mr. Thompson, warned her, though he knew she was a fine cook. Patrons often praised her dishes.
“Your cooks top-notch, Max,” friends would say.
So Valerie clung to her job, enduring the warnings. She knew they only kept her because she was good. And shed noticed how quickly young Alison picked things upcooking with heart, putting care into every dish. Even Mr. Thompson had started watching her closely.
Once, Alison overheard him talking to the floor manager.
“If Valerie skips work again, shes done. Alisons young, but shes got the knack. Shes not spoiledtakes responsibility.” The rest was lost as they walked away.
So, Mr. Thompson had his eye on her. But she felt sorry for Valerie. A good woman, ruined by her habit. She kept the conversation to herselfeven from Victor.
Time passed. Valerie missed a whole week, and Alison took over. Not a single complaint. When Valerie returned, she was a wreckshaking hands, dark circles under her eyes, barely able to lift her head.
Mr. Thompson walked into the kitchen. “Valerie. My office. Now.”
He fired her, then came back to address the staff.
“From today, Alison, youre head cook. Youve got talentroom to grow. Ive seen it. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” she said, nerves fluttering at the responsibility.
She was overjoyedthe pay was decent, and she was so young to have her own kitchen. She swore to herself: *Ill prove Mr. Thompson right.*
That evening, Victor brought champagne.
“Lets toast your promotion. Well done, Alisonyouve earned it.” He smirked.
Theyd lived together for years, but he never mentioned marriage.
Time rolled on. Alison worked hard, earning the occasional praise. She truly had a gift for cooking. Nearly three years with Victorhe didnt drink, was always driving, never raised a hand to her. They quarreled sometimes, but made up fast. Still, no ring, no talk of it. She didnt push, though she wondered.
*Weve been together so long. Why wont he ask? Maybe if Im pregnantthen hell see we should be a proper family.*
She remembered his warning about children. But that was long ago. Perhaps hed softened.
Then she realizedshe *was* pregnant. A visit to the doctor confirmed it. Small yet, but she glowed.
*No family of my own, but this one will be mine. My own little one.* She stroked her still-flat belly.
Victor came home to find her beaming.
“Youre lit up. Whats the good news?”
“There is news. I saw the doctor today. Were going to have a baby.”
His face darkened. He stared at the floor, voice flat.
“I dont want it. Get rid of it, or pack your things. I told youI cant stand kids. You knew. Now face the consequences.”
He never shouted, but his tone chilled her. Hed never hidden his feelingsbut shed hoped, foolishly, that hed change. His jaw clenched as he turned away. Then, coldly:
“Youre an orphan. Where will you go, pregnant? Think hard. Get rid of it. Then well go on as before.”
The next day, after her shift, Alison went home, gathered her things, and left for the boarding house. Room thirty-five greeted her with peeling paint, the number scrawled over a faded plaque. She shouldered the unlocked door open.
The hinges groaned. The room smelled of damp and dust. Patches of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Dead flies littered the grimy windowsill. A rusty iron bed stood against one wall, its stained mattress draped in a spotted blanket. A wobbly table, a rickety chair, a scuffed wardrobe with a door hanging loose.
She set down her baga few clothes, some books, cups, and plates. Her hand rested on her belly, still flat but holding someone dear.
*Well manage. We will.*
Next door, a drunken neighbor roared curses, then slammed his door. She flinched.
“Welcome home, Alison,” she whispered.
The shared kitchen was worsea battered stove, a wheezing fridge, cockroaches swarming the bin.
Back in her room, she bolted the door. Grief tightened her chest, but she refused to cry. Instead, she feltfree. Victors words echoed: *Where will you go?*
Well, shed gone. To this room. Hers. Shed make it work.
She opened the grimy window. Overcast, but no mattershed wash it till it shone.
*Well manage. Because we must. Because I chose this. I wont do what my parents didabandon my child to an orphanage. I have work. I wont starve. Ive saved a little. Ill make this room a home.*
No time to waste. She found a bucket, an old blouse for a rag, and set to work. Soon, she sat on a clean chair, gazing through a sparkling window. The floor gleamed, scrubbed twice to remove the grime. The air smelled fresh.
*Right. Rest over. Nowa quilt, a pillow, linens, towels, soap. A new lock firstsomeone will help fit it. Then dishes*
Bit by bit, life settled. Old Pete, the handyman, fixed the lock. A cheerful soul, always joking, always kind.
At the café, Timothy started as a waiterthough it wasnt his main work. He watched Alison closely. Everyone knew shed soon leave for maternity leave.
One evening, he walked her home. Out of politeness, she invited him for tea. He accepted. That night, she sensed his feelingsbut pushed the thought away. *Im pregnant. No future there.*
Yet Timothy persisted. One day, he spoke plainly.
“Althea, marry me. Youre alone, Im alonewell, except for my gran up in Yorkshire. Ive grown fond of you. More than fond. I love you. And your baby.”
“But, Timothy” She touched her stomach.
“Dont say it. That child will be mine too. I want a house full of children.”
She compared him to Victornight and day. Timothy was warmth itself. Steady, working two jobs. She said yes.
When the time came, he took her to the hospital, waited through the birth of her son, then raced home to fix up the roomnew wallpaper, fresh paint, a crib, a pram. He met her at the hospital door with flowers.
When she stepped inside, she barely recognized the place. Timothy had outdone himself. Balloons everywhere. Order. Home.
