We hated her the moment she crossed the threshold of our little terraced house in Birmingham. Her sweater was plain, but her hands were different from Mums the fingers were shorter and stubbier, clenched tight. Her legs were slimmer, her feet longer.
My brother Harry, seven, and I, nine, were busy flicking tiny flashlights at her. Long Emily is a mile, not a little one! we taunted. Dad noticed our disrespect and snapped, Mind your manners! Whats this, youre behaving like uncouth children?
What, is she staying with us for long? Harry asked, cheekily he was allowed to speak his mind, after all, he was just a boy.
Forever, Dad answered.
We could hear his patience wearing thin. If he lost his temper, things would get ugly, so we kept quiet. An hour later Emily gathered her things to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, Harry tried to trip her. She nearly stumbled into the hallway.
Dad rushed over, Whats happened?
I just caught my foot on the other shoe, she said without looking at Harry.
Its all over the place. Ill tidy it up, he promised, eager.
Thats when we realised he cared for her. We couldnt push her out of our lives, no matter how hard we tried.
One afternoon, while Dad was out, Emily, fed up with our mischief, said in a flat voice, Your mothers dead. Shes up there somewhere, watching everything. I bet she doesnt like how you behave. She knows youre being nasty just for kicks. Youre trying to protect her memory.
We stared, shocked.
Harry, Lucy, youre decent kids! Do you really have to guard mums memory like that? Good people are made by their deeds, not by being prickly as porcupines! she added. Her words gradually curbed our urge to be cruel.
Later I helped her unpack groceries from the shop. Emily praised me, patting my back. Sure, her fingers werent Mums, but it felt nice. Harry got jealous.
Emily also set the clean mugs on the shelf, and she praised him, too. That evening she bragged loudly to Dad about how helpful wed been, and he beamed with pride. Her foreignness kept us on edge for a long time; we wanted to let her in, but it never quite worked. Not Mum, not at all, wed mutter.
A year passed and wed forgotten life without her. Then, after one incident, we fell for Emily utterly, just as Dad had.
When Harry was in Year Seven, life got rough. A bully named Jack Harper, who was his own height but far more brazen, started picking on him. Jacks family was solid; his father gave him a hardline pep talk: Youre a man now, give em a right proper fight. Dont wait for em to push you around. Jack chose Harry as an easy target.
Jack would come home and say nothing to me, his sister, waiting for things to settle on their own. But problems dont sort themselves. The bullying grew blatant. Jack would jab Harrys shoulder every time he passed. I managed to wrest the truth from Harry after spotting bruises on his shoulder. He believed men shouldnt dump their troubles on sisters, even older ones. We didnt know Emily was standing just outside the door, listening.
Harry begged me not to tell Dad, fearing it would make things worse. He also begged me not to go after Jack right then I wanted to protect my brother, even if it meant a fight. Involving Dad could spark a clash with Mr. Harpers father, and prison wasnt far off.
The next day was Friday. Emily, pretending she needed to pop to the corner shop, led us to school and slipped a note asking to see Jack. I showed it to him. Let him have it, you goat! I shouted.
What followed was theatrical. During a English lesson, Emily breezed into the classroom, hair neat, nails done, voice sweet, and asked Jack Harper to step out because she had business with him. The teacher, unaware, let him leave. Jack, assuming Emily was some new organiser, walked out calmly. She grabbed his shirt, lifted him off the ground and hissed, What do you want from my son?
What son? he stammered.
From Harry Ryeburn!
Inothing.
I want nothing! If you lay a hand on my brother again, get any closer, or look at him the wrong way, Ill smash you, you scoundrel!
Please, miss, I wont again! Jack squealed.
Off you go! the teacher snapped, standing up. And if you say anything about me, Ill have your father locked up for trying to raise a juvenile criminal! Got it? Youll apologise to Harry after class, and Ill make sure you remember it.
Jack scurried back, adjusting his blazer, mumbling about the neighbour. From then on he never gave Harry a hard look again; he actually avoided him, apologising the same day, short and shaky, but sincere.
Emily urged us not to tell Dad, but we couldt hold it in and spilled everything. He was impressed. At one point she led me onto the right path, and at sixteen I fell into a reckless love, the kind where hormones blind reason and everything feels forbidden.
Its embarrassing to recall, but Ill say it. I got involved with an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist, completely missing the obvious signs. He told my naïve ears that I was his muse, and I melted in his arms like wax. It was my first real contact with a man. My mother later visited the pianist and asked two questions: Does he ever sober up, and how are we going to make a living? With a solid life plan she said shed consider a future together, provided he took responsibility. One flatroofed council flat wasnt enough proof of serious intentions.
He was five years younger than Emily, while I was twentyfive years older than him. She didnt bother with niceties. I wont repeat the pianists answers here, but Ive never felt more ashamed in front of Mum, especially when she said, I thought you were smarter.
That was the end of my love story messy and unseemly, but it never reached prison for either the pianist or Dad, thanks to Emilys timely interference.
Years have passed. Harry and I now have families built on the core values Emily taught us: love, respect, and looking out for those whore wrong or lost. Shes the woman none of us could ever replace. Dad is happy with her, looking after and loving her.
She once suffered a family tragedy that we never knew about. Her son died because of his husband, and she never forgave him.
We like to think we eased some of Emilys pain. Her influence on our upbringing was never, and will never be, downplayed. The whole family gathers around her. We never know exactly how to please her, what slippers to buy for her feet, but we cherish and protect her. Because true mums, even when faced with a cruel step, never stumble themselves.
