Chapter 6
The landlady was a war-veteran's widow, a lovely little lady called Stella Burton with a bright red poppy pinned to her grey wool dress. Her faded grey eyes were still sharp and reminded Asha of an old school teacher.
She was a woman of few words and kept to herself.
Her husband had died during the First World War and she had never remarried or had children.
Asha did not miss the way her face seemed to brighten up when she saw the boy.
A couple of days later, she climbed two flights of stairs on creaky arthritic knees and left a box of homemade lavender and lemon cake slices at their doorstep. Not a word was exchanged.
The first time Asha saw the flat, she wasn’t sure what to feel.
It was a small, converted garret—nothing more than a glorified attic with a kitchen space, a small closet masquerading as a bedroom and a bathroom. The door stuck when she tried to push it open. The air smelt faintly damp and mould blackened the windowsills and corners.
There was one double bed in the common area and a narrow living space. A hotplate and an ancient fridge which made alarming groaning noises. The shower leaked. The chimney had a thin crack running along the base where rain must have found its way in.
And the second room was little more than a closet with a window.
But it was theirs. There were no shared walls with strangers. Going to the toilet at night didn't require a sprint through a common corridor in low light while her heart was beating its way out of her chest.
Even if it was not perfect, it was their space.
So, she said yes.
The first few weeks were spent fixing what she could. Scraps of cloth from the seamstress turned into curtains. The light filtered through the cracked window glass like a rainbow.
The leak around the chimney announced itself slowly and was a story of its own.
At first, it was just a faint dampness, a darker patch that refused to dry. Then one evening, after a steady spell of rain, it began to trickle—thin, persistent drops that ran down the wall and pooled along the edge of the floor.
Asha had tried to catch it with a bowl.
She pretended, for a day or two, that it was manageable.
The landlady was away, visiting a cousin.
***
The boy couldn't keep anything to himself. Within minutes of reaching the pub after school, he gave his daily account of 'what happened at school' while Patrick pretended not to listen. It had become a kind of routine for them.
“Patik… it’s raining inside our house,” he said while he munched on a chicken leg, crouched behind the counter. Asha had long since given up even trying to stay vegetarian. Keeping her child fed took priority over any religious inclinations.
Patrick grunted, not looking up at first.
“Is it now?”
“It’s dripping,” Tanay insisted before getting distracted by the box of old toys Patrick had unearthed from his attic. Patrick moved on to proudly clean a framed photograph on the mantle showed a younger Patrick and Mavis with four boys displaying toothy grins.
Asha sighed softly, pressing her fingers to her temple.
Patrick said nothing but that night when Asha shrugged her coat on, Patrick had walked up and jerked his chin toward the door. “James’ll fix it.”
It didn't register for a second to her tired brain.
“James?” she repeated blankly before her eyes met the now familiar silver ones that seemed to follow her every movement.
Patrick only shrugged in a manner which implied the matter was settled. “He’s got hands and skills. Might as well use ’em.”
He did not tell her James had heard the boy earlier and had called in a favour and twisted his arm until he gave in. But only after he promised Patrick to behave himself.
***
James was already outside when they stepped out. He was leaning against the wall, his brawny arms folded, as if he had been there for a while. He straightened when he saw them.
But he didn’t look directly at her.
“Come on, lad,” he said instead, his voice carrying none of the usual tension, “Bus’ll be along.”
He walked with them but kept just behind. On the bus, he sat just behind them and paid for the tickets before she could protest.
He spoke to Tanay in the low, easy tones of a man who was used to small children—asking about school, about the drawings, about things that made the boy turn and answer in quick, bright bursts.
The boy quickly lost his shyness when he learned James had gone to the same school and still played rugby with the lads.
Asha kept her eyes forward but the awareness buzzed beneath her skin.
His eyes on the back of her head felt like a physical touch. His hand gripped the grab-rail next to her head and she did not see his fingers twirl a silky lock that had escaped her braid.
When they reached the flat, she hesitated for a second at the door, her keys in hand.
The instinct to refuse to let him in made her hands clumsy.
But the drip was getting worse.
"Mum, hurry… I need a wee…" mumbled the boy hopping from one foot to the other.
She had no choice but to quickly unlock the door and hold it open in invitation.
James seemed to fill the entire flat with his presence.
He paused just inside the threshold, taking in the small space.
Then, without looking at her, he said, “I ain’t going to touch ya.”
Her startled eyes had the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Unless ya want me to.”
Asha stiffened, heat rising unbidden to her face, though she said nothing.
He didn’t tease her further, just turned and got to work.
She watched as he dragged a chair beneath the leak and began examining the crack with quick, assessing hands.
Asha stood off to the side, arms folding and unfolding, a nervous habit she couldn't quite get rid of.
She watched the work as he sealed and patched.
But for no good reason, her gaze could not help but notice the shift of muscle beneath his shirt as he reached.
The dampness gathered in his thick hair despite the cold.
There was a faint dusting of dark hair along his forearms where he had rolled his sleeves up.
He caught her staring and held her eyes with a knowing smile curling his lips until she looked away and got busy with dinner.
“It should hold,” he finally said, turning back to her “But get Stella to get it sorted when she gets back.”
Asha wasn't surprised he knew Stella. Here, everyone seemed to live in each other's pockets. He wiped his hands on the rag she had handed him, already moving toward the door.
“Do you want to stay for dinner, James?” Tanay’s hopeful voice cut in while she stood there, completely forgetting her manners.
Asha opened her mouth to refuse.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Yes, please stay.”
The words surprised her as much as they surprised him.
James paused and seemed to consider her.
“Alright.”
***
The meal was simple—rice with vegetable curry. A pot of homemade yoghurt sat in the middle.
She reheated it quickly, her movements clumsy with awareness that there was a man in her house talking to her son about rugby. Had it been back in her village with the rice fields and coconut groves, she would have been called a fallen woman and driven from her home.
They sat on the small spindly table with the boy between them.
James watched as they washed their hands and sat down to eat.
His eyes flicked once to their hands and then back to his plate.
Asha felt heat suffuse her cheeks. She stood abruptly.
“Here,” she said, pulling out spoons, placing one near him.
He took it without comment.
They ate in near silence but he watched them eat with their bare hands as if fascinated.
While she watched his pale skin turn slightly pink as he ate the curry.
***
When it was done, she cleared the table quickly. The boy was in the small closet room, playing with his new toy..
Then she wiped her hands and turned to him.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked carefully, hoping it was something she could afford.
He leaned back slightly, making no move to leave.
Then he stood up and started walking towards her.
She ended up crowded between the makeshift kitchen counter and him.
He smelt of tobacco and sweat and Asha found she didn't hate it.
He bent down so his face was just inches from hers.
The light was behind him but his pewter eyes seemed to gleam like a predator in the night.
“Let’s say you owe me a favour,” he whispered, his burning gaze on her lips.
The words hung between them like a ticking bomb. In this new life, Asha did not want to owe anyone anything.
He didn't give Asha a chance to reply as he abruptly backed off, shrugged his coat on and disappeared through the door.
In his little closet room, Tanay played with the little red car Patrick had given him to take home and called out, "Can I have a hat like James, mummy?"
***
As the weeks passed, Asha's days had settled from busy to brutal.
She would start at the pub in the morning—cleaning, setting up, doing whatever needed doing before the doors opened. It was either a fifteen-minute brisk walk to the pub or a short bus ride if there were pennies to spare.
Then she would briskly walk with the boy's warm hand in hers, drop him off at the school gate and then walk down to the seamstress’s shop.
This was her favourite part of the day. Her grandmother used to be an embroidery teacher at the local school and she had spent her childhood learning how to crochet and do fine needle work.
The magic of the sewing machine and the soft drag of thread through fabric were her moments of quiet. The careful, precise work of mending, stitching, reshaping and darning made her feel like she was doing something more than running all day. Mrs. Wilmslow was a woman of few words but not unkind.
She stayed until four, and she tried to stretch every hour.
Then the rush began again. It was another quick walk to her son’s school and then back to the pub for the evening rush.
They would take the bus back together.
She would drop him behind the bar, settle him with something to eat from the box of leftovers she always brought along, a book and then step back into the noise.
And without fail, he would be waiting and watching for her.
After that night's rejection, he never approached her again.
But she imagined that his face relaxed a smidgen when he saw her.
She noticed the other lewd proposals and suggestions had died down.
Now she was just like Mavis and Patrick.
She found the miners were a gruff but not unkind lot.
Some of them would give her a nod when she passed them.
One in particular, a fresh-faced lad named Roger would blush and smile when she asked him what he would like to drink.
Work continued until nine, by which point her feet felt ready to fall off.
Then the last bus home.
It was the same story every day, every night. And every day, she became aware of the same large shadow trailing behind her until she and the boy were safely home.
Not a word passed between them but she now knew his name was James and that he was thirty years old.
***
It was a hard life but a good one. She endured it because slowly, the numbers began to change. Coins turned into notes.
Notes began to stay, instead of disappearing the moment they arrived.
And then, one evening, Mavis mentioned it casually—
“That lad James,” she said, wiping down the counter. “He is a good one. But best you stay away.”