How can one fall so low? Child, arent you ashamed? Your hands and feet are sound, why do you not work? the words were directed at a beggar woman with a baby.
Margaret Hughes shuffled slowly down the aisles of the great Tesco on the high street, her eyes drifting over the bright tins and packets that lined the shelves. She had made this walk a daily ritual, as if it were a job. She needed little to feed a familyshe had none. So each evening the lonely old woman fled the silence of her cramped flat for the lightfilled emporium.
In summer the world seemed kinder; she could sit on the bench outside the market with a few neighbours and share a cuppa. Winter, however, left no choice, and Margaret grew fond of the fresh trips to the new supermarket.
The place thrummed with shoppers, the scent of fresh coffee, soft music in the background. The colourful packaging, like childrens toys, brightened her eyes and coaxed a smile.
She picked up a pot of strawberry yoghurt, squinted at the label, then set it back. Such a treat was beyond her meagre purse, but looking was free.
As she wandered among the abundance, memories of earlier days rose up. She saw in her mind long queues at the ration counters, where shopkeepers, like prowling tigers, fought over scarce goods. She recalled the thick grey paper bags in which purchases were wrapped.
A tender smile touched her lips as she thought of raising her daughter. To please the girl, Margaret had been ready to stand through any line. Thoughts of the child quickened her heart. She paused at a low freezer filled with frozen fish and leaned heavily against it.
The face of her daughter Ethel flooded her mindcopperred curls, large grey eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, cheek dimples that seemed everpresent. She was a beauty, Margaret thought sadly.
Under the shopkeepers disapproving stare she moved toward the bakery display.
Ethel had been the one bright spot in Margarets life. She grew into a clever girl. When she realised that work would not bring her happiness, she turned to surrogacy, just as Margaret had warned her it would bring no good.
At twenty, who heeds a mothers counsel? If only a living father had been there, perhaps things would have been different. Yet how could those scoundrels have involved an inexperienced girl in such a scheme?
Ethel laughed while rubbing her swelling belly, and Margaret shook her head in grief. How could one give away a child that had been nurtured within her own heart for nine months?
Ethel brushed it off: Its not a child, its good money.
Complicated labour followed, and the midwives could not save her. Three days after the birth, the baby girl slipped away. The newborn was handed to the parents immediately; the hospital paid Margaret nothing, for the contract was with her daughter, not with her.
Margaret buried Ethel and sank into a void, as if the world had emptied around her. She shunned any kin, preferring the quiet darkness.
Now she was making her way to the bread aisle, needing to prove she was not simply wandering. She felt the few copper coins in her pocket and headed to the checkout. Todays amusements were enough; she could go home. She counted the required amount, handed it to the cashier, and kept the remainder clutched in her fist.
She remembered spotting a young beggar on the second day after the supermarkets grand opening, almost a month ago. Then the girl had been on her first tour, studying everything with fresh eyes. What had drawn the old womans attention? Perhaps the girls youthful glow, the sorrowful stillness of her pose, or the way she cradled her infant tightly.
How can one fall so low? Margaret thought as she approached the familiar figure. She placed a small tin of spare change on the floor and said, Child, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are whole, why dont you work? You could still earn a living.
The old woman grimaced as a few passersby hurried past, unable to stop because a stout granny blocked the path.
Thank you for the penny, but please go on your way. I must gather more, otherwise Ill be in trouble, the girl replied.
Margaret nodded sadly and moved away, not wishing to be a nuisance or a moraliser. She offered help in the only way she knew, for neither the constabulary nor the social services paid any heed. People had grown so accustomed to beggars that they passed them without a second glance.
All the way home the image of the beggar with her child haunted Margaret. Their grey eyes and youthful voice seemed strangely familiar, as if she had heard them somewhere before. She strained to recall, but the memory stayed just out of reach.
She shut the front door, slipped off her modest boots, turned on the light, and carried a loaf of crusty bread to the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later she was sipping hot tea from her favourite mug, nibbling a slice of oat bread with a thin slice of ham.
How hungry she must be, in such cold! the old woman mused. What a cruel life. She glanced out the window, hoping to spot the young woman, and froze with dread. Two roughlooking men were shoving the girl into a car.
Panic seized her. She reached for the phone to call the police, then stopped, fearing she might only make matters worse.
She peered out again; the forecourt of the supermarket lay empty. Deciding to wait until morning, she retreated inside, unable to make out the cars number from so far.
A restless night passed, thoughts of the girl and child swirling. At dawn a strange dream visited her. She saw Ethel standing at the supermarket entrance, a shivering infant in her arms, the childs skin blue from the cold. Margaret pressed the babe close, trying to warm her, but Ethel said, Im not cold, mother. Margaret lifted the child, brushed away the thin blanket, and noticed a pendant shaped like a bear around the girls neck.
The bear charm, she whispered, startled, and woke with a gasp. Her gaze fell on the wall clock opposite the bed. Why have I slept so long? she wondered. It was already nine oclock. She rose quickly and looked out the window.
The girl with the infant remained where she had been. To the right of the shop door everything was as it should be.
Thank heavens, Margaret sighed, crossing herself. It was New Years Eve, a fierce frost biting the streets. The child had been out for over an hour and might freeze to death before nights end.
Margaret fetched more bread, hastily made ham sandwiches, poured sweet tea into a thermos, and dressed warmly.
Seeing the hurried old woman, the young mother grew nervous and covered a bruise on her temple with a warm scarf.
Dont worry, dear, Margaret said, handing over the food. I wont let you starve. The girl smiled with her eyes alone and took the sandwiches, settling on a bench a short way off. She ate greedily, gulping bites without chewing, coughing as she did. She watched the infant wail in anothers arms, shoved the last bite into her mouth, swallowed it with tea, brushed crumbs from her lips, and hurried back to the elderly woman.
Thank you. This will keep us until seven, then theyll take us away, she whispered.
The rest of the day Margaret kept glancing through the shop window at the thermometer outside; the frost grew teeth. By five in the evening she ladled a pot of hearty pea soup and set off for more provisions.
Passing the young woman again, she placed the soup beside her, slipped a few coins into her pocket, winked mysteriously, and hurried back to the warm aisles.
She had no intention of lingering this time. She needed sausage and pickled cucumbers for a modest New Years salad. She could not afford a lavish feast, but she would not starve. When she left the shop, the beggar was gone, and the pot of soup had vanished as well. She must be eating somewhere, Margaret thought, smiling as she hurried home.
She would now slice the snacks, slip a carp into the oven, and set the table. Perhaps an elderly neighbour would drop by.
The clock neared ten when she again looked out the window, wanting to be sure the girl had been taken home to warmth.
She scanned the festive lights glittering around the shopping centre. On a bench beneath a bright lantern sat a familiar shape; the girls shoulders trembled as she wept bitterly.
Margaret hurried through the house. The party would begin in two hours, yet someone outside still shivered. She threw a warm scarf over her shoulders, slipped into her house slippers, and raced down the stairs. She paused beside the beggar, breathing heavily, trying to calm her pounding heart, and sank next to the girl.
I have nowhere else to go, the girl said, her voice trembling.
Hope flickered in the girls eyes as she clutched a small bundle and shuffled toward the road.
Margarets mind swirled. The young womans intention became clear: she would not simply disappear from a happy life. Margaret rose with effort, chased after the fleeing figure, caught up, and seized her arm.
Come with me! she cried, pointing toward a fivestorey terrace nearby, gripping the girls hand and pulling her along.
In the warm room Margaret placed the infant by the heater.
Whats your name? she asked, then stopped, noticing a tiny bear pendant around the girls neck.
The girl followed Margarets gaze and answered, Dont worry, thats all I have left from my mother.
The old woman stared at the pendant, remembering she had once given a similar charm to her own daughter, Ethel, when money was tight. She had sold a brooch to a jeweller, who, after much bargaining, fashioned a pendant from it and paid her enough for a gold chain and a modest celebration for her daughters friends.
The girl slipped off her coat and asked, May I use the bathroom?
With a nod she disappeared, and Margaret sipped a draught of herbal tonic.
So the beggar is her granddaughter but that cannot be, Margaret thought.
She laid the fed infant on a sofa and seated the guest at the modestly set table.
Alison! she called, as if by chance.
How do you know? the girl asked.
Margaret waved vaguely, I suppose I heard you eating.
A cold bead of sweat formed on Margarets brow. No doubt remained she had taken in her own grandchild. The name Alison had been chosen by the officials for the child Ethel had once carried.
The girl smiled gratefully, admired the dishes, and began to eat.
Margaret watched her closely, seeking familiar features.
Tell me, Alison, what has happened to you? she asked.
The girl, as if waiting for the question, spoke quickly, words tumbling as if she were emptying a chest of longheld sorrow.
She said she had lived with her father and mother until the age of five, even owned a pony. She recalled those days fondly, eyes halfclosed. Then her parents fought, divorced, and her mother one day simply left her at a childrens home, signing a refusal paper.
Why this happened, Alison could not understand. In an instant she was cast out of a happy story like a discarded toy. She spent twelve years in a orphanage before being released into adult life.
Alison found a flat provided for a ward, 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, and she was allowed to stay in a shabby house until she gave birth.
Her new flat was already occupied. She could not fight for herself, let alone with a child in her arms.
So she drifted from station to station, begging at the underground. It was there that Igor Grey, a man who ran a small gang of the homeless, spotted her.
A pretty beggar with a child could fetch decent money, he decided, offering shelter in exchange for the alms she collected.
Thus Alison and her son lived in a large basement of a tower block, among many other vagrantscrippled, sick, and a troupe of theatrical beggars who painted bruises and wounds upon themselves, wore fake hunchbacks and pregnant bellies. Those actors earned the landlord good money, unlike Alison, who could not beg effectively.
Days turned into weeks. In the mornings the beggars were dispatched to collection points; evenings the takings were pooled. The conditions were tolerable, but lately the pressure increased. They complained of scarce money, of a crying child who disturbed the others.
Today no one came for her; she was left to her fate. She stared mournfully at a halfempty plate.
Thank you, I dont know how we would have survived the night, she whispered, placing her fork down and yawning.
In the morning well leave, dont worry, I just need a little sleep, she added, collapsing onto the chair and drifting off.
Margaret roused the girl, led her to a bed, and placed the infant beside her in a deep armchair.
She sat at the modest New Years table, smiling as the presidents speech crackled on the radio. She would not let her granddaughter and grandson go away tomorrow or the day after; they would stay with her, that was right. In time she would reveal the truth of her identity, help the girl stand on her own feet, raise the boy. For now, she would let the child settle into a normal life. She had endured enough.
When the clock struck twelve, Margaret poured herself a small dram of sweet liqueur and took a sip.
She walked to the window and watched the street illuminated by lanterns, admiring the falling snowflakes. Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing, she thought. Farewell, loneliness! I have a family again.
