Since she was a little girl, Emma Whitaker had always been sweettempered and tender. Her mother used to say:
Darling, you got your character from your father, Gregory. He was a softhearted chap who helped anyone, even strangers, though he didnt stick around long. And now youre carrying on his good deeds, even if youre still a schoolgirlevery beetle you find youll set free.
Emma grew up, went to college, got a job and moved out of her parents house into her granddad Georges council flat in Camden. She remained generous and fair, always ready to lend a hand to people and animals alike, even if a few neighbours whispered that she was a bit offbeat.
One drizzly autumn Saturday, Emma was making her way home from the supermarket when she spotted an elderly lady trudging ahead, struggling with two halfempty shopping bags.
Good heavens, her hands are trembling, her back is benthow many years must that be on her shoulders? Emma thought, her heart softening.
She caught up, recognised Mrs. Margaret Ilford from the same block.
Hello, let me help you with those, Emma offered, taking the bags.
At first Mrs. Ilford startled, then gave a tentative smile.
Thank you, dear, but I live on the fourth floor.
I know, Im only on the second, Emma replied with a grin.
When Emma carried the bags up, she glanced around the flat and saw the place was a messclearly nobody had bothered to tidy for ages.
Mrs. Ilford, let me give the place a quick clean. I see youre struggling. I can swing by later after I drop my own groceries, she suggested.
Oh, love, you dont have to waste your time on me, the old woman protested, but Emma insisted, Its no trouble, Im on my day off anyway.
From then on Emma visited Margaret regularly, often sharing a pot of tea in the evenings. She loved listening to the creaky old piano that Margarets late husband had bought when their son was born. Emma herself could play a bitshed taken lessons at the local music school because her mother thought it properbut she never pursued it professionally.
One morning, as Emma was heading back home, she saw Mrs. Tammy Sheffield perched on a bench outside the lift, a neighbour from the fifth floor.
Emma, I see youve taken Margaret under your wing. Good on you. A pity about the old lady, though. Her son and his wife live in the States, very welloff, and the grandchildren are in London. They only visit now and then, mostly to wait for the inheritance. I dont even know if theres any wealthpeople love to gossip.
Emma nodded and went up the stairs.
Honestly, what treasure could Margaret possibly have? Just a piano and a few decent pieces of furniture, she mused to herself, rolling her eyes at the rumours.
That evening Emma arrived at Margarets flat with a homemade cake.
Lets have some tea; Ill put the kettle on, she chirped, heading for the kitchen.
Dont trouble yourself, dear, Margaret replied, eyes twinkling. I just thought it would be nice to have a little treat and some company.
They sat down, and Margaret talked about her childhood during the war, her late husband, and her son who had long since moved to America with his wife. She lamented how seldom they visited, as if hed forgotten his own mother.
But you still have grandchildren, dont you? Emma asked gently.
Grandchildren they think Im an old bag of bones, barely holding on. Last year my grandson Gary popped round, a rough sort of fellow, but he did bring some fruit. When he left he muttered, Ah, gran, youre getting on your heels, better youre off your rocker. He gave me a little nod and then quieted. Thats the sort of lot I get and my granddaughter never shows up either, just waiting for me to die.
Winter set in, and Margaret fell ill. Emma began visiting every night after work, bringing meals, buying medicine, and running errands. One night she asked, Would you mind playing a little on the piano? Id love to hear it.
Emma sat at the instrument, her fingers lightly brushing the keys, and a gentle melody floated through the room. Margaret closed her eyes, a soft smile spreading across her face, as if memory and music were intertwining.
Their evenings settled into a routine: Margaret would tell simple stories, and Emma would quietly play tender tunes.
Time went on, and Margaret grew weaker. Emma called the local GP, kept track of the prescriptions, and even mopped the floor one afternoon. As she rested beside Margaret, the old woman whispered, You know, love, Ive made a will. The flat will go to my grandchildrenwell, theyll have it whether they like it or not. But I want the piano to belong to you.
Emma stared, stunned. Mrs. Ilford, Im just a helper. I dont need anything, and I certainly dont want your family blaming me for anything.
Dont worry, dear. Ive sorted everything proper.
Spring arrived, and Margaret stopped getting out of bed. She called the doctor repeatedly, but never ended up in hospital. One night she slipped away, alone, with Emma by her side. As the breath left her, she murmured, Dont forget the piano, dear. Its yours now. I really mean it.
The next morning Emma rushed to work, only to learn Margaret had passed. She dialled the number on Margarets old mobile and reached Gary, the grandson.
At the funeral Emma wept as if shed lost her own grandmother. Later, Gary arrived with his siblings to clear out the flat. He gestured to the piano standing in the centre of the empty room. The movers will take it to your place, love. Your grandmother wanted it that way thanks for looking after her, he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Emma watched the piano being wheeled out, feeling a mix of gratitude and melancholy. She whispered, Thank you, Margaret, you were a kind soul.
For a few days Emma couldnt bring herself to sit at the keys. One evening, after dinner, she opened the lid, brushed the dust aside, and found a small wrapped parcel tucked among the strings. Inside was a tiny tin box, its lid opening to reveal a handful of jewellery and a handwritten note.
Emma, dear, this is for you. For a heart as big as yours. Thank you for the last year of my lifeyou were not alone. Be happy. If you ever wish to sell anything, go ahead, but keep at least one ring as a memory of me.
Tears welled as she examined the gold rings, earrings, bracelets, two necklaces and a faded photograph of a young Margaret. She chose a single simple gold band, slipped it on, and pressed a key. A soft chord sang out.
The tin box lay open on the table. She turned the jewellery over, wondering what to do with it. The next morning, a Saturday, Emma slipped the box into a bag and headed to a pawnshop.
Are these family heirlooms? the appraiser asked, eyebrows raised.
Yes, theyre quite valuable, Emma replied.
It looks that way, he said, eyes narrowing at the price tag.
With the modest sum in hand, Emma bought a battered twostorey house on the outskirts of townan old Victorian with peeling plaster revealing sturdy brickwork and a wild garden that had seen better days. She cleared the dust, set the piano by the window, and began to imagine what could be.
She soon contacted an estate agent. You really want to buy this place? It needs a massive renovation.
Exactly that place, Emma affirmed.
Eight months later, after the house was restored, Emma opened a small residential home for lonely seniors. In the spacious lounge stood the piano, surrounded by comfy sofas and armchairs. The first residents were Mr. Ian Seymour, a spry old gentleman, and sisters Anne and Gloria, displaced by a fire. More and more retirees arrived, filling the rooms with chatter and laughter.
Often Emma would sit at the piano and play classical pieces on request.
Emma Whitaker, could you play something for us? theyd ask.
She lost herself in the music, feeling Margarets approving whisper between the notes: Well done, love.
Emma became the beloved matriarch of Our Home, as the locals called it. Reporters came, wrote articles, and were amazed.
Sold your jewellery and turned it into a home for the elderly? Thats brave. No regrets? a journalist asked.
Nope, not a drop of regret, Emma laughed. Its a joy watching these folks smile. Look, theres Gloria knitting socks and Ian over a chessboard waiting for his old mate, Mr. Ignatius. Im sure Margaret would be proud of how I used her piano. Ive gained more than wealthIve found love and kindness.
Two years later Emma married Stephen Clarke, a gentle fellow who gladly helped run the home. Together they managed everything, their hearts as wide as the garden they tended.
