Mrs. Margaret Hughes watches over her class while her husband works night shifts. No one could have imagined that Sam Golby would stop attending lessons in midNovember. At first she assumes the boy has simply caught a coldautumn brings viruses, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet a week passes, then another, and Sam is still absent. During breaks she finds herself waiting for him to slip into the classroom, sit at the windowside desk and pull out his beloved blue maths notebook, but the desk looks as if it has been ripped from her familiar picture of the room.
By the end of the second week her worry becomes unbearable. She hears nothing from Sams parentsnot a phone call, not a note. It feels odd. Sam has always been diligent, quiet but keen, loved maths, rarely missed a lesson, and his notebooks were always spotless. It cant be that simple, she thinks, flipping through the class register.
After school she walks to the front office.
Valerie Parker, do you happen to know whats happened to Sam Golby? she asks, perching on a stool by the desk. He hasnt turned up for ages.
The secretary looks up from a pile of paperwork, pushes her glasses up and snorts.
Nobodys called. Maybe theyve got problems at home again. You know the area.
Margaret knows the area well: rows of terraced houses with peeling paint, courtyards where rubbish piles up against the entrances, noisy gangs of teenagers who seem to claim every bench on the corner, endless neighbour squabbles that echo through thin walls.
She frowns.
But you cant just leave him like that. He has a mother, doesnt he?
His mother is there, Valerie replies dryly. But what kind of mother?
Margaret rises in silence.
Fine, Ill sort it out myself, she mutters, pulling her coat tighter.
Dont bother, just go looking, the secretary grumbles after her. Good luck.
Margaret does not answer. She strides across the school playground, the only question looping in her mind: whats happened to Sam?
The hallway of the Golby flat smells of damp and stale cigarette smoke. A flickering bulb hangs over the stairwell, the steps are smeared with grime. She climbs to the third floor and knocks on a door painted a faded brown.
Is anyone home? she calls, but only silence answers.
She knocks again, louder. After a minute the door cracks open and Sam peeks out.
Mrs. Hughes? his voice trembles.
Sam, hello. Why arent you at school? Whats wrong?
He stays silent, looking lost and exhausted. His cheeks are hollow, bruises dark under his eyes.
Will you let me in? she asks gently.
Sam looks around as if checking for anyone else, then opens the door wider.
The flat is small and untidy. In the corner a threeyearold girl plays with a plastic spoon. Sam quickly shuts the door behind Margaret so the little girl doesnt feel the cold draft from the hallway.
This is my sister, Poppy, he whispers.
Sam, tell me whats going on, Margaret says firmly, taking a seat. Wheres your mother?
At work, he answers, bowing his head.
And why isnt Poppy in nursery?
Mum didnt have time to arrange it, he mutters. She says shes too busy.
Margaret sighs.
So youre looking after her while Mums away?
Sam nods.
And school?
He hesitates, then says quietly, I cant manage. I cant leave Poppy alone. Shes too small.
Margaret feels a tight knot form in her chest. Her pupils never speak of such things.
Sam, she says softly, meeting his eyes, have you eaten today?
He shrugs. Im not sure maybe breakfast.
She stands.
Alright, this cant continue. Stay here. Ill be back soon.
Where are you going? he asks anxiously.
To get food, she replies, pulling her coat tighter. And help.
Sam opens his mouth to protest but changes his mind.
Margaret steps out, pulling out her phone as she walks. She knows she cant simply abandon these children.
An hour later she returns, carrying heavy grocery bags. Sam opens the door again, his gaze less startled this time.
Youre back? he asks.
Of course, she replies cheerfully, stepping inside. I promised. Wheres the kitchen?
Its over there, he points uncertainly.
She walks to the indicated corner and unloads the bags onto the table: a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, a bag of rice, a few apples, and even a packet of biscuits. Sam watches, eyes wide.
This is all for us? he asks, his mouth forming a small O.
And who else would it be for? Margaret smiles. Wheres the frying pan?
What are you going to do with all this? Sam asks, wary.
Cook dinner, she says firmly. You go play with Poppy.
Sam hesitates, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, fists clenched.
You really plan to do all this yourself? he asks uncertainly.
Margaret rolls up her sleeves, looks at him and says, Of course. Who else, if not me?
She pulls out eggs, butter, finds the bread, and turns on the kettle. The pan sizzles as she drops a knob of butter into it. Sam watches silently, unsure how to react.
Sam, why are you just standing there? she asks gently. Go join Poppy. Shes probably bored.
He glances at the corner where Poppy sits with a doll, peeking out from behind a chair.
Shes always so quiet, he murmurs.
Then lets cheer her up, Margaret says with a grin. Dinner will be ready soon.
Reluctantly Sam steps out of the kitchen, and Margaret continues cooking. Within twenty minutes the table holds scrambled eggs, sliced bread, mugs of tea, and a small plate of apple slices.
Everythings ready! she calls. Come and eat!
Sam and Poppy sit down. Poppy eyes the food cautiously, then takes a bite and brightens.
Yummy, she whispers, clutching her spoon.
Exactly, Margaret winks. I tried my best.
Sam eats in silence, casting quick glances at Margaret, then finally asks, Why are you doing all this?
Margaret puts down her fork and looks at him. Because you matter to me, Sam. Youre my pupil, I care about you. Thats natural.
He blushes and hurries back to his plate.
After dinner Margaret begins clearing the table. Sam offers to help, but she stops him.
Why dont you tidy the toys with Poppy? Ill finish here.
Ten minutes later she returns to the living room. The floor is spotless, toys are gathered, the carpet is swept.
Well done, she praises. Tomorrow Ill speak to the neighbour. I think she can drop by sometimes and help while Mums at work.
The neighbour? Aunt Lena? Sam asks, surprised.
Yes, shes very kind. Ill arrange it, and youll come to my house for tutoring, Margaret says.
Come to you? Why? he asks, uneasy.
For lessons, she replies. You cant keep missing school.
He thinks for a moment, then nods. Alright.
Margaret smiles. Good. Everything will settle, youll see.
Thus begin their evenings at Margarets house. She takes Sam after her own lessons, and together they dive into maths and literature. Occasionally they put the textbooks aside and simply talk.
Mrs. Hughes, I sometimes wonder, Sam says one day, doodling circles in his notebook, what if you hadnt come?
Someone else would have, she answers with a smile.
No, he shakes his head seriously. Nobody would have.
Margaret pauses, then changes the subject. By the way, youre doing maths, not philosophy. What about question three?
Sam flushes, but quickly returns to the problems. He knows her help means more than just checking homework.
Gradually his school performance improves. Teachers stop complaining, neighbours notice he no longer loiters on the streets. Occasionally Margaret sees Sams mother, exhausted after a shift, trying to spend more time with her children.
Thank you, a neighbour says one afternoon as she meets Margaret outside the block. If it werent for you, I dont know what would have happened to Sam.
Youre welcome, Margaret waves off. Hes a bright lad. He just needed a nudge.
A warm pride tinges her voice.
Months pass. Sam grows more confident, no longer questioning why Margaret spends her evenings with him. He simply accepts her support and repays it with determination.
How do you manage everything, Mrs. Hughes? he asks one day while flipping through a history book. You have your own job, too.
I manage because youre sharp, Sam. You pick things up quickly, she replies, smiling.
He looks away, embarrassed, but her words stay with him. He works harder.
Six months later he returns to regular classes, earning top marks. Margaret feels a deep satisfaction watching her effort bear fruit.
Years later Margaret has long since retired from the school and lives peacefully in her modest cottage. Former colleagues drop by, sharing stories about the changing education system. She listens, but her thoughts often drift back to the children she once helped.
One scorching summer afternoon a knock sounds at her door. She wipes her hands on an apron, opens it, and finds a tall young man holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes, he says, his voice unmistakably familiar.
Sam? she asks, squinting in surprise.
He nods, smiling. Yes, its me. I wanted to visit.
Come in, she says, opening the door wider, a little flustered.
They sit together in the kitchen for a long while. Sam talks about university, about how his mother finally secured a good job.
Thank you for everything you did for me, he says suddenly, his tone serious.
Dont be silly, Sam, Margaret replies gently. I only gave a little help.
No, he insists. You gave me a future. I wouldnt have made it without you.
Tears gather in her eyes.
The important thing is that youre happy, she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.
They reminisce for hours, flipping through old memories. When Sam leaves, Margaret stays seated in the quiet, looking at the flowers on the table, realizing that sometimes the greatest purpose is simply being there when someone truly needs you.
