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As I heave open the heavy school doors, I am hit by a gust of icy, cold wind. My eyes are blinded by the bright whiteness of the sky, ready to open the heavens and release soft snow. After being deprived of light and fresh air for 7 hours, I exhale a breath of relief and freedom. Its finally the holidays, I think to myself. I pull on my chunky-knit hat, gloves and scarf my gran made for me when I was 6 and start to trudge through the slush and ice, taking extra care not to slip.
Walking home from school takes what seems to be a century, and this snow doesn’t seem to be helping. My friends are on their Christmas holidays already, off to exotic places like Cyprus and Barbados, leaving me lonely with no-one to discuss twinkly trees and silver stockings with. They will be lounging by the pools, walking on the sand with their flip-flops, rather than trekking home from school in the knee-high snow with their obnoxiously bright patterned wellington boots.
How I envy them, I think to myself. I picture where I would go, and think of the endless colour combinations of bikini pieces. I see myself lying out in the sun, slathered in factor 50+ but still burning to a crisp, followed by slowly submerging myself into the royal blue pool, releasing steam as my burn cools.
It’s like a slap in the face when I return to reality.
Snow gently begins to fall from the sky of cotton-wool above me, landing on my eyelashes and making me feel like an ice-queen, before they melt and make me look like I’ve been crying. Black flakes and streaks slowly start dripping down from my eyes, and in annoyance I wipe them away with my scratchy gloves. “Stupid snow,” I mutter under my breath. “Why can’t I be somewhere warm and sunny?” And then I remember why.
Dad’s been out of work for nearly 7 months, and things aren’t looking too good for him. He is so determined, though, out every day job hunting, but the recession isn’t helping him. Poor mum is always up at the hospital every night for her nighttime shifts and she isn’t enjoying it. And then there’s Ben, my younger brother who is too young to be working to bring income to the family.
Which reminds me that I have to be up at the cafe in the next hour. Having to work like this at 15 years old is hard, with my schoolwork and all, but my family appreciate that I work hard to keep us going. We are such a close family, and our love for each other is what keeps us happy and motivated to work so hard. It’s not like what you see on TV; single mum of 4 living in a council house, living off of benefits. We don’t want to be like that, because once you’re in, you never come out.
But with 3 out of 4 people out most of the time, we struggle to find time to sit down, relax and have a chat. We’re constantly thinking of money and work, and a cup of tea and a biscuit is the last thing on our minds. I have never had someone to properly confide in other than my friends, and even then it’s hard to get their attention.
I’m knocked out of my thoughts when I am hit by a snowball.
The scruffy-looking boy shouts something about me being in the way, but I pull my hat over my ears and carry on walking. I keep on walking until I get to the alleyway. I’m always creeped out by alleyways, and this one is no exception. Red-brick walls that have turned brown and green over time, overgrown weeds, and the classic spray-painted graffiti. Black bins are lined along the wall, giving off a pungent smell.
I stop when I hear a high-pitched wail.
At first, I can’t quite figure out where the noise is coming from or what is making it, but then a stab of fear hits me as I realise where it’s coming from.
Glad I have my gloves on (so I don’t touch any unwanted bacteria), I open number 14’s bin and hold my breath as I look inside. In a tattered cardboard box are two scruffy, undernourished kittens. I manage to identify the breed instantly, as mum’s always looking at cat books, sighing over the fact that we will never be able to afford one, never mind two. Tabby kittens. Clumps of hair have fallen out leaving bald patches and painful looking wounds. They only look a couple of weeks old, and certainly don’t look well. Their eyes plead me to take them, anywhere where they would be safe. I needed to get them out of there immediately before anyone saw, even though they were probably unwanted. I look down at my coat, wondering if they’d fit in there. I remember that mum put a pocket on the inside of my jacket so that my money wouldn’t be stolen. The pocket looked big enough to fit them in, so I slowly pick them up, one in each hand, my thumb and middle finger able to touch each other round their frail and fragile bodies. When I put them in my jacket, they quickly fall asleep, feeding off the warmth from my body.
I desperately think of what to do next. As I put my hands in my pockets, I hear a jangle and feel some paper and coins. The paper turns out to be £5, along with a pound, three 50 pences, and a 20p. That should be enough to buy food and a bed for them.
I walk quickly so I can feed them as soon as possible. The snow stops, and gradually melts to reveal slush at the side of the pavement. I reach the main road, and see the pet shop right at the end of the street. I smile to myself and quickly but carefully cross the busy road filled with pollution-excreting vehicles. My pace quickens as the time reaches 5pm. The store closes at 5:30pm, but I should have enough time.
I finally arrive at the shop and step inside, greeted by the warm air of the radiator at the window. I browse the aisles looking for cat food and a small but affordable bed. I am asked if I need any help, but I kindly refuse and quickly try to make up my mind on what to buy. I try not to look too suspicious with a massive bulge around my right breast, and the occasional strange movement there.
Endless packets, bags and tins with Whiskas to Iams line the shelves and I am overwhelmed by the amount of food available for cats alone. Eventually, I settle for a small 1kg bag of Iams Kitten and Junior Chicken and a small, brown, fluffy bed. This totals to £7.50, leaving me with 20p. I breathe a sign of happiness, glad I could afford everything and be able to save these kittens.
I exit the shop and make my way back home. By this time it’s dark, so I quicken my pace and wrap up warm. As I walk, I feed my pocket succulent chicken and occasionally stroke my jacket, just to make sure they’re okay. I realise I’ve just missed my shift at the cafe, but giving these kittens a home is far more important than an underpaid job.
Feeling like a superhero, I quietly walk into the house, as mum isn’t expecting me home for another 20 minutes. I tiptoe as light as a feather up the stairs, being careful not to make one of the wooden floorboards creak. I reach my room and take out the bed from my bag and lay it on the floor, it awaiting its new occupants.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the kittens, and carefully place them in the bed. I feed them a bit more chicken before stroking them lovingly. They turn their heads up to me and tenderly lick my fingers with appreciation. I smile to myself, knowing I’ve done the right thing. Then I think of what mum would think. She would love kittens, and would be so proud of my effort and bravery.
I cross the landing and go into my parents’ room. My mum is lying on the bed, taking her quick nap before work in a couple of hours. I gently stroke my mum’s arm, so as not to give her a rude awakening.
“Mum,” I whisper, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
