Oh man, let me tell you about this proper little nightmare my mate Oliver had with his cousins kid. Right, so this seven-year-old girl, Emilyskinny as a rake, massive dark eyeswas always being dumped at their flat in Manchester by her mum, Auntie Linda. Single parent, barely scraping by as a care assistant, running round giving old folks their jabs, taking any odd job for extra quid. Even tried dating oncebloke seemed decent till they found out he was married.
Every time, Auntie Linda would rock up unannounced on their doorstep, avoiding eye contact, whispering all frantic-like, “Sarah, just for a couple hours, yeah? Ill owe youits late, cant leave her alone.” And thered be little Emily next to her, scowling, head down like a right miserable pup.
Olivers mum would sigh but always cavedcouldnt leave the kid sitting in the dark flat alone, could she? Dad would proper moan about it later, though.
And guess who got stuck entertaining the uninvited guest? Oliver. Had to plonk her in front of the telly to watch whatever rubbish was onusually some daft action film. Shed perch on the edge of the sofa, dead quiet, hands on her knees, which wound him up even more.
Once a week, Auntie Linda would shove a crumpled fiver into his hand and say, “Walk her to the corner at least, yeah? Youre going to the same school anyway.”
Then one day, Emily was buzzingproper gleaming, even managed a few words on the walk: said they had a school thing, she was gonna recite “Snowflakes.” Oliver snortedin that ugly bobble hat, the daft kid looked more like a space germ than a snowflake.
Come break time, Oliver was grabbing his cheese sandwich when something made him turn around. The year ones were all rowdy in their corner, crowding round Emily in her fancy dress. Some were pointing and laughing, others trying to pass her tissues. He edged closerabsolute disaster. Her whole outfit was drenched in strawberry yoghurt drink.
She was frozen, proper trembling, tears streaming without a sound.
Then outta nowhere, his mate Jack came sprinting over: “Oli, mate, come on! Lucys sorting the party detailsshes asking for YOU!” His voice sounded miles away. “Seriously, she wont wait forever!”
Lucy. Just chatting to her was every lads dream. And now she wanted him there? He took a step towards the door. Not his problem, was it? Let someone call Auntie Linda, sort the dress, whatever.
Deep down, Oliver knew no one would bother with Emily. Theyd shove her in a corner, forget about her. And shed just shrink into herself like usualsilent, invisible.
He sighed, just like his mum always did, and walked over.
“Miss Thompson, whens the assembly?”
“Oh, Oliver, not for another hour and a half. Look at hertrusted her with a poem, and now this Hows she meant to go on like that?”
Emily was shaking like a leaf, yoghurt all down her front, pale as death. Oliver yanked the empty carton out of her hand.
“Ill take her home, see if she can change.”
“Youre a lifesaver, love. Go on, Ill sort it with Mrs. Harris.”
Turns out? No spare dress. Oliver cursed everything under the sunscrubbed the stains, blasted it dry with a hairdryer, ironed out the frilly pink folds. Emily, all bones in her vest and tights, hovered nervously.
They sprinted back, him gripping her mittened hand tight.
Never did chat to Lucy that day. Skived off lessons toowent to the year one assembly instead.
Emily rattled her poem off like a pro. But when her class filed past, she suddenly broke ranks, flung herself at Oliver, and blurted out:
“Oli, if it werent for you Id have died today. Like, actually died.”
Daft kid.
