How could one sink so low? Child, arent you ashamed? Your hands and feet are whole, why dont you work? the words were hurled at the beggar woman with a babe in her arms.
Mary Thompson shuffled past the towering shelves of the great supermarket on Oxford Street, eyes lingering on the rows of brightly coloured packs. She had been coming here every day as if it were a job. She needed little to feed a family that she no longer had; the thought of a household was a memory that had long since faded. So each evening the lonely old woman slipped from her quiet flat into the lightfilled aisles.
When the weather was mild she could pass the hours on a bench with the other neighbourhood women, but winter left no choice. In those cold months Mary grew fond of her trips to the new megastore.
The place was bustling, the scent of fresh coffee mingled with soft music. The packages, vivid as childrens toys, caught the eye and coaxed a smile. Mary lifted a pot of strawberry yoghurt, squinting at the label, then placed it back. Such a treat was beyond her means, but a glance was free.
As she surveyed the abundance, memories flooded back. She recalled the long queues at the ration counters, where shopmaids fought like tigers over scarce goods. She remembered the thick grey paper bags in which purchases were once wrapped.
A smile touched her lips as she thought of raising her daughter. For Eleanors sake she had stood through endless lines. The thought of her child quickened Marys heart. She paused beside a low freezer of frozen fish and rested a trembling hand on it.
The image of Eleanors laughing face rose a cascade of copper curls, large grey eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and dimpled cheeks that always seemed to grin.
She was a most beautiful girl, Mary murmured sadly.
Under the watchful gaze of the shopkeeper she moved to the bakery counter. Eleanor had been Marys only joy. She had grown bright and clever. When she realised that work would not bring happiness, she turned to surrogate motherhood, just as Mary had warned her it would bring naught but sorrow.
At twenty, who listens to a mothers counsel? Had a living father been there, things might have turned out differently. Yet the cruel men who coaxed her into that trade showed no mercy to an inexperienced girl.
Eleanor laughed, rubbing her rounded belly, while her mother shook her head in grief. How could one give away a child that had lived within her heart for nine months?
Eleanor brushed it off: I think of it not as a child, but as good money.
The birth was hard; the infant could not be saved. Within three days the baby died, and the mother received no compensation the contract was with the childs intended parents, not with Mary.
Mary buried Eleanor and was left utterly alone. No relatives lingered; she drifted into an emptiness that felt easier than trying to climb out.
Later she walked toward the bread aisle, intent on buying something modest. She felt the need to prove she was not merely drifting. She felt a few copper pennies in her pocket, counted them, and handed the exact sum to the cashier, tucking the remainder into her clenched fist.
She recalled seeing a young beggar the day the supermarket first opened, almost a month ago. The girl had been on her first foray, taking in everything with wide eyes. What had drawn Marys attention? Perhaps the girls youthful vigor, or the stark stillness of her pose, or the careful way she cradled the infant.
How could one sink so low? Mary thought as she approached the familiar figure. She placed a small tin of coins on the counter and said, Child, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are whole, why arent you working? You could still find a job.
The old woman winced as passersby hurried past, unable to pause because a grandmother blocked the way.
Thank you for the penny, but please go on your way. I need to gather more, lest misfortune strike, the beggar replied.
Mary shook her head sorrowfully and stepped away, not wishing to be a nuisance. She resolved to help, as no one else seemed to care not the police, not the welfare officers. The city had grown accustomed to the sight of beggars, turning a blind eye.
All the way home the image of the poor woman with the child haunted her. The grey eyes and youthful voice seemed oddly familiar, as if she had heard them somewhere before. Mary strained to recall, but the memory remained elusive.
She closed the front door, slipped off her low, warm slippers, switched on the light, and carried a loaf of bread into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later she was sipping hot sweet tea from her favourite mug, nibbling a piece of crusty loaf with a thin slice of ham.
How hungry she must be, out in that bitter cold! the old woman thought. What kind of life is that?
She peered out the window, trying to spot the young woman, but froze when she saw two roughlooking men roughly shoving the girl into a car.
Panic seized Mary. She reached for the phone to call the constabulary, but hesitated, fearing she might only make things worse.
She walked to the window again; the forecourt of the shop was empty. She decided to wait until morning, for from that distance she could not make out the cars registration.
That night was restless, thoughts of the girl and her child looping through Marys mind. At dawn a strange dream came: she saw Eleanor standing at the supermarket doors, a shivering infant in her arms, the child blue from cold. Mary pressed the babe close, trying to warm her, but Eleanor said, Im not cold, mum.
Mary removed the childs blanket, exposing a small charm on a necklace.
Looks like a familiar charm, Mary whispered, startled awake. Her gaze fell on the mantel clock opposite her.
Why did I sleep so long? she wondered. It was already nine oclock. She rose quickly and went to the window.
The girl and child were still where they had been. To the right of the supermarket door all seemed normal.
Thank heavens, Mary sighed, crossing herself.
Outside it was New Years Eve, a biting frost hanging over the street. The child had been out for over an hour; she might freeze by nightfall.
Mary fetched more bread, made sandwiches with ham, filled a thermos with sweet tea, and dressed warmly.
Seeing the hurried old woman, the young mother tensed and covered a bruise on her temple with a warm scarf.
Dont worry, dear, Mary said, handing over the food. I wont let you starve.
The girl smiled with her eyes alone and took the sandwiches. She settled on a bench a short way off, devouring the bread greedily, barely chewing, coughing as she swallowed. She watched the infant wailing in anothers arms, gulped the last bite, and washed it down with tea. Then she brushed crumbs from her coat and hurried back to Mary.
Thank you, well manage till seven, then theyll take us away, she said.
Throughout the afternoon Mary kept glancing at the thermometer outside; the frost grew fiercer. By five oclock she ladled stew into a pot and set off for more provisions.
Passing the young woman again, she left a tin of food beside her, slipped a few pennies into her pocket, gave a mysterious wink, and hurried back to the warmth of the shop.
She was not staying long. She needed sausage and pickled cucumbers for the traditional New Years salad. She could not afford a lavish feast, but she would not go hungry. When she emerged, the beggar was gone, and the pot of stew had vanished as well.
Probably eating somewhere, Mary thought, smiling, and hurried home.
She would now slice the appetizers, place the carp in the oven, and set the table, perhaps expecting a visit from an elderly neighbour.
Approaching ten oclock, she looked out again, wanting to be sure the girl had been taken home to warmth.
She scanned the festive lights sparkling before the shopping centre. On a bench beneath a bright lantern sat a familiar figure; her shoulders trembled as she sobbed bitterly.
Mary rushed through the house. The celebration was two hours away, yet a person was still freezing outside. She threw a warm scarf over her shoulders, slipped into her house shoes, and hurried downstairs. She paused beside the beggar, breathing heavily, trying to calm her pounding heart, and sank down beside her.
I have nowhere else to go, the girl whispered mournfully.
Hope flickered in the girls eyes as she clutched a small bundle and, with a trembling hand, placed it in Marys.
In Marys mind the young womans intention became starkly clear. She would not abandon a life that held any chance of happiness. Mary rose with effort, chased after the fleeing figure, caught her, and turned her toward a nearby fivestorey block.
Inside the warm room she took the infant from the womans arms and set him by the heater.
Whats your name? Mary asked, but stopped short when she saw a tiny bearshaped pendant around the girls neck.
The girl followed Marys gaze and said, Dont worry, this is all I have left of my mother.
Mary stared at the pendant, recalling that she had once given a similar charm to her own daughter, Eleanor, when money was scarce. At sixteen she had sold a jeweled brooch to a silversmith who, unwilling to break it, fashioned a pendant from it and paid her in cash, enough to buy a gold chain and still have a little left for a modest celebration with friends.
The girl, now baring her coat, asked timidly, May I use the shower?
Given permission, she disappeared to the bathroom while Mary sipped a calming herbal tonic.
Thus the beggar is her granddaughter but that cannot be, Mary thought.
She then laid the fed child on the sofa and ushered the guest to the set table.
Alice! Mary called out, as if by chance.
How do you know? the girl asked.
Mary waved vaguely, I suppose I heard you eating.
A cold bead of sweat dotted Marys forehead. There was no doubt now she had taken in her own granddaughter. The name had been chosen for the unborn child that Eleanor once imagined.
The girl smiled gratefully, admiring the spread, and began to eat.
Mary watched her closely, searching for familiar features.
Tell me, dear Alice, what happened to you? she asked.
Alice spoke quickly, words tumbling as if unburdening a longheld ache. She said she had lived with her parents until she was five, enjoying a comfortable life even owning a pony. Then her parents quarrelled, divorced, and her mother one day left her at a childrens home, signing a refusal form.
She could not understand why she was cast aside like an unwanted toy. She spent twelve years in the orphanage, then was released into adult life.
Alice found a flat that was meant for an orphan, but was tricked into a condemned block slated for demolition. There she met Vasily, a plumber. When he learned she was pregnant, he vanished. The block was cleared, she was allowed to stay in a rundown dwelling until she gave birth, only to discover that someone else had already taken the new flat.
Alice could not fight for herself, let alone care for a child. She drifted to stations, begging for alms in the underground. There she caught the eye of Igor Grey, a man who ran a shelter for the homeless.
A pretty beggar with a child could fetch decent money, he thought, offering her accommodation in exchange for collected charity.
Thus she and her son lived in a large basement of a tower block, among many others of the same sort the crippled, the sick, the theatrical beggars who painted bruises and faked deformities to draw more coin. The true performers earned the landlord much, unlike Alice, who could not beg effectively.
Days turned into weeks. In the mornings beggars were sent out in groups; in the evenings the takings were divided. Conditions were tolerable, but lately pressure increased. They complained that money was scarce and that a crying child disturbed the others.
One day no one came for her; she was left to her fate. She stared at a halfempty plate.
Thank you, I dont know how we would have survived this night, she whispered, placing her fork down and yawning.
Tomorrow well leave, I just need a little sleep, she added, collapsing into the chair and drifting off.
Mary woke her, led her to a chair, and placed the infant close to her in a deep armchair.
The old woman sat at the New Years table, smiling as the presidents speech crackled on the radio. She would not let her granddaughter and grandson wander off tomorrow or the next day; they would stay with her. In time she would reveal her true identity, help the girl stand on her own feet, raise the boy. For now, she hoped they could settle into a normal life. She had endured enough.
When the clock struck midnight, Mary poured herself a small dram of sweet liqueur and took a sip.
She walked to the window, gazing at the street lit by lanterns, admiring the falling snow. In her heart she whispered, Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing. Farewell, solitude! I have a family again.
