How could she fall so low? Little one, arent you ashamed? Your hands and feet are sound, why arent you working? The words were tossed at a destitute mother with a child cradled in her arms.
Margaret Whitaker shuffled slowly down the aisles of the sprawling Sainsburys on the towns high street, her eyes lingering on the bright, toylike tins and cartons. She had been coming here each day as if it were a job. She did not have a family to feed; she was alone, and the bustling shop was the only place that pulled her from solitary evenings.
When the weather was mild, she could sit on the bench outside with the other widows and share a cuppa, but winter gave her no respite. The cold drove Margaret to the new supermarket, where the air smelled of fresh coffee, soft music floated in the background, and the colourful packaging lifted her spirits for a moment.
She lifted a pot of strawberry yoghurt, squinted at the label, and placed it back. Such a treat was beyond her modest means, yet merely looking at it was not forbidden. As she surveyed the abundance, memories of earlier days rose unbidden.
She recalled long queues at the corner shop, where shopkeepers guarded scarce goods as fiercely as tigers protecting their prey. She remembered the thick grey paper bags that once carried her purchases. A smile touched her lips when she thought of her daughter, for whom she would have braved any line. The thought of Emily quickened her heart. Margaret paused by the low freezer that held frozen fish and leaned heavily on its side.
The image of her childs laughing face flashed before her: a cascade of ginger curls, large grey eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across the nose, and cheek dimples that seemed forever turned up. She was beautiful, she whispered to herself, a pang of sorrow threading the words.
Under the shopkeepers disapproving stare she moved toward the bakery. Emily had been her sole joy, a clever girl who, when she realised that work would never bring her happiness, turned to surrogacy. Margaret had warned her that such a path would bring no blessing. At twentyone, who listens to a mothers counsel? If only a living father had been there, perhaps the story would have unfolded differently. Yet ruthless men had dragged an innocent girl into that trade.
Emily had laughed, patting her rounded belly, while Margaret shook her head in grief. How can I give away a child that is my own, after carrying it for nine months? she had asked. Emily brushed it off, saying, Its not a child, its good money.
The labour was hard; the midwife could not save the baby, and three days after the birth Emily herself died. The newborn girl was handed to the adoptive parents, and Margaret received not a penny, for the contract was with her daughter, not her.
Margaret buried Emily and sank deeper into solitude, as if swallowed by an empty void. She walked now toward the bread aisle, intent on buying something, to prove she was not merely drifting. She felt a few copper coins in her pocket and headed to the till, having counted the exact amount she could spare, the remainder kept clenched in her fist.
She remembered spotting a young beggar on the second day after the supermarkets opening, nearly a month ago. The girl, fresh to the streets, had drawn Margarets eyeperhaps it was her youthful vigor, the forlorn way she held a infant. Approaching, Margaret laid a small tin of spare change on the floor beside her and asked, Child, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are whole, why do you not work? You still can earn.
The girl answered curtly, Thank you for the penny, but I must go on. I need to collect more, else Ill be in trouble. Margaret, with a sigh, stepped back, not wishing to press further. No one else seemed to careneither the constable nor the childrens servicesso the poor were left to their fate.
All the way home, Margaret could not shake the image of the mother and child: gray eyes, a voice that seemed oddly familiar, as if heard before in some longforgotten corner of her mind. She shut the front door, slipped off her warm slippers, turned on the light, and carried a loaf of rye to the kitchen. After fifteen minutes she was sipping hot tea from her favourite mug, nibbling a slice of crusty bread with a thin slice of ham.
Surely she is starving in that cold, she thought, looking out the window. Two roughlooking men were shoving the young woman into a car. Margarets heart hammered; she reached for the telephone, but fear held her back, worrying she might make matters worse. She peered out againnothing but an empty forecourt. She resolved to wait until morning, for the number plate would be unreadable from her distance.
That night she lay awake, the girls face haunting her. In a dream she saw Emily at the supermarket entrance, a child clutched to her, the infant blue from the cold. Margaret pressed the child close, trying to warm her, but Emily replied, Im not cold, mother. Margaret peeled away the childs blanket, exposing a pendant shaped like a bear. A bears charm, she muttered, then woke with a start, eyes fixed on the hallway clock.
It was already nine oclock. She rose, went to the window, and saw the girl and child still there, the street outside quiet. Thank Heaven, she sighed, crossing herself. It was New Years Eve, the air bitterly frosty, and the child had been out for over an hour.
Margaret fetched more bread, made buttered ham sandwiches, filled a thermos with sweet tea, and dressed quickly. The girl, now visibly nervous, covered the bruise on her temple with a warm scarf.
Dont worry, dear, Margaret said, handing over the food. I wont let you starve. The girls eyes softened, and she accepted the sandwiches, sitting on a bench a short way off. She shoved the bread into her mouth with little chewing, coughing as she swallowed, glancing anxiously at the child who wailed in anothers arms. She gulped the last bite, washed it down with tea, brushed crumbs from her coat, and hurried back to Margaret.
Thank you, well manage till seven, then someone will fetch us, she whispered.
Throughout the afternoon Margaret kept checking the thermometer outside; the frost grew deeper. By five oclock she ladled stew into a pot and set off for more provisions. Passing a young woman, she left a tin of soup beside her, slipped a few pennies into her pocket, winked, and hurried back into the warm aisle.
She bought sausage and pickles for the traditional New Years salad, knowing she could not afford a lavish feast but desperate to avoid hunger. When she emerged, the beggar was gone, the soup tin vanished. She must have found somewhere to eat, Margaret thought, smiling as she hurried home.
At home she would soon carve the festive bites, slip a carp into the oven, and set the table. Perhaps an elderly neighbour would drop by. The clock edged toward ten when she again looked out, wanting to be sure the girl had been taken home.
She watched the festive lights twinkle above the shopping centre. On a bench beneath a bright lantern sat a familiar figure, shoulders shaking as she wept bitterly. Margarets old slippers thumped down the stairs; she wrapped a warm scarf around her shoulders and rushed to the bench.
I have nowhere else to go, the girl said, her voice raw.
Hope flickered in the girls eyes as she handed Margaret a small bundle, then shuffled toward the road. Margarets mind swam. The girls intention was crystal clear: she could not simply slip away from a life shed known. Margaret seized her hand, pulled her toward a nearby fivestorey block, and shouted, Come with me!
Inside a heated room Margaret placed the child next to a turnedon heater. Whats your name? she asked, stopping short when she saw a little bearshaped locket around the girls neck.
Yes, this is all I have left from my mother, the girl replied, her voice trembling.
The old woman sat, the pendant unmistakable it was the very one Margaret had given to Emily years before, when money was scarce and she had sold a brooch to a jeweller. He had struck a deal: the broochs stone became a pendant, and the money earned bought a gold chain and a modest supper for friends at a tearoom.
May I use the shower? the girl asked. Granted permission, she slipped away while Margaret sipped a calming draught.
Then she must be the beggars granddaughter, though it seems impossible, Margaret mused.
She laid the nowfed child on a sofa, set a plate before the guest, and called out, Emily?
How do you know? the girl asked, puzzled.
Margaret waved vaguely, I suppose I heard you eating. A cold sweat gathered on her forehead. No doubt remained she had taken in her own granddaughter, the name the orphanage had once given her: Aline.
Aline smiled gratefully, gazed at the spread, and began to eat. Margaret watched her, searching for familiar traits.
So, Aline, tell me what has happened to you, she prompted.
Aline spoke quickly, words tumbling as if releasing a dam of sorrow. She told of a childhood with a father and mother, a pony she adored, the bitter split of her parents, and how her mother, one day, placed her in a childrens home, signing a refusal form. She had spent twelve years in an orphanage before being released into adult life.
She was given a flat for a ward, only to be placed in a condemned block slated for demolition, where she met Vasily, a plumber. When he learned she was pregnant, he vanished. The block was cleared, she was allowed to stay in a dilapidated house until she gave birth, only to find the new flat already occupied.
She could not fight for herself, let alone with a child in her arms. She drifted between stations, begging for alms in the underground. Thats when Igor Grey, a man who ran a gang of streetdwelling vagrants, noticed her. A pretty beggar with a child will fetch good money, he thought, offering her shelter in exchange for the collected donations.
Thus she and her son lived in a large basement of a tower block, surrounded by many like hercrippled, sick, theatrical beggars who painted bruises on themselves, wore fake hunchbacks and swollen bellies, performing for the gangs master who pocketed the proceeds.
Days turned into weeks. In the mornings the poor were dispatched to collection points; in the evenings the takings were divided. The conditions were bearable, but lately the overseers pressed harder, complaining that a crying child spoiled the peace.
That evening no one came for her; she was left to her fate. She stared at a halfempty plate.
Thank you, I cant imagine how we would have survived this night, she murmured, placing her fork down and yawning.
Tomorrow well leave, I just need a little sleep.
She slumped back, soon drifting off. Margaret woke her, led her to a bed, and settled the child beside 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 slip away tomorrow or the day after; 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 would let them find peace in a proper home.
When the clock struck midnight, Margaret poured herself a dram of sweet liqueur, took a sip, and moved to the window, watching the street bathed in lantern light. Snowflakes drifted down, and she whispered, Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing. Farewell, loneliness; I have a family again.
