Dear Diary,
The roar of a sleek Bentley tore through the calm of our culdesac in Guildford. Neighbours stopped midwalk, eyes wide, as the car thundered past, my white apron flapping and my gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. In the passenger seat a little girl slept, her pale face pressed against the seatbelt.
I, Jasmine Clarke, have been the livein housekeeper for Charles Davenport, the powerful property magnate who owns the sprawling estate on the hill. My experience with vehicles never went beyond my brothers battered Ford Fiesta, let alone a Bentley. Yet when I discovered twelveyearold Emily Davenport crumpled on her bedroom floor, gasping for breath as an asthma attack tightened its grip, there was no time to think. My mobile had no signal, and the nearest ambulance was at least twenty minutes away. The only vehicle that could get her to the hospital in under five minutes was the Bentley sitting in the driveway.
My hands shook as I snatched the keys from the kitchen cupboard. Each second felt like a crime, but Emilys ragged breaths forced my hand. I buckled her into the passenger seat, hoping my onceforgotten driving lessons would surface. As we hurtled down the high street, horns blared and drivers swerved to avoid our erratic path. My heart pounded. If I damaged the car, I would lose more than my jobI could face jail. If I hesitated, Emily might not survive.
When the hospital loomed, I whispered through tears, Hang on, love. Dont leave me. I skidded to a stop at the emergency entrance, and doctors rushed out. I lifted Emily into my arms and shouted, She isnt breathing properly! Help her! In a heartbeat she was whisked inside. I sank onto the curb, my apron damp with sweat and tears, the Bentleys engine idling beside me. I barely noticed the stunned faces of the onlookersI had just risked everything.
Soon after, Charles arrived, his immaculate suit a sharp contrast to his fury. He stormed into the reception, shouting, Where is my daughter? My car has been taken! Before anyone could answer, his eyes fell on me, slumped in a chair, still wearing my yellow gloves, my face streaked with tears. He advanced, voice dripping with anger.
Do you have any idea what youve done? That car is worth more than your entire life! he snapped.
I looked up, weary but steady. I didnt care about the Bentley, I rasped. Emily was dying. There was no time to wait for an ambulance.
For a moment Charles was frozen. Then a doctor emerged, his expression urgent. Mr Davenport, he said, your daughter suffered a severe asthma attack. Shes stable now, but any further delay could have been fatal. Whoever got her to us saved her life.
The words hit Charles like a hammer. His anger softened into disbelief. Youyou stole my car, he whispered.
No, I replied, voice firmer. I used it to save your child.
In that instant the billionaire who had always believed everything had a price felt truly powerless. His treasured Bentley, roaring a few minutes earlier, now seemed trivial compared to his daughters limp hand in my grasp. Still, his pride flared. You should have called an ambulance, he muttered.
Thats what everyone else would have done, I said, eyes flashing. And wait twenty minutes while she suffocated?
He fell silent. The doctor added, Honestly, Mr Davenport, she received help faster than most would have managed. The gratitude in his eyes was faint, his jaw clenched, his posture that of a man accustomed to control now stripped of it.
Hours later, after Emily rested peacefully, I found Charles sitting alone on a bench beside the Bentley, its oncepristine paint dulled by dust. He looked up as I approached.
I understand if you want to fire me, I murmured softly. But I would do it again, in a heartbeat.
He studied me, and for the first time I wasnt just his maidI was a woman who risked her freedom, her livelihood, perhaps even her life, for his child. I was worried about the car, he admitted, voice low. You were worried about my daughter. He exhaled, then, surprisingly, smiled. You are not dismissed. I owe you more than I can ever repay. If you hadnt acted, I would be arranging a funeral today.
Tears gathered in my eyes, yet a faint smile broke through. Shes a wonderful girl, I whispered. She didnt deserve any of this.
Charles placed his hand on my shoulder, his grip warm. From now on, youre not just an employee. Youre family. The Bentleys engine had long since cooled, but the story of the maid who borrowed it to rescue her employers daughter spread through the neighbourhood and beyond. To my amazement, the billionaires response was gratitude, not vengeance.
That day, Charles learned a lesson his wealth had never taught him: cars can be replaced, but family cannot.
Jasmine Clarke, £2,500amonth, Guildford.
