13December2025 Diary
Can you not rise from the floor? Young lady, arent you ashamed? Your hands and feet are fine, why arent you working? Those words were muttered at a ragged mother and her infant as they shivered near the entrance of the new Tesco in Manchester.
I have been drifting past those aisles for weeks now, as if the supermarket were my place of employment. I need little to keep me alive there is no family to feed, no bills to settle yet each evening I escape my solitary flat and wander into the bright, humming hall.
When the weather is mild I manage to sit on the bench outside with the other pensioners and share a cuppa. In winter, though, the cold forces me into the stores warming glow, and I have come to love the rustle of carts, the scent of freshly ground coffee, and the soft strains of background music.
The shelves are lined with colourful packets that look like childrens toys, each one a promise of comfort. I lifted a jar of strawberry yoghurt, squinted at the label, and put it back. It was far beyond my modest pocket, but a quick look costs nothing.
Staring at the abundance, memories of the past surged forward. I recalled long queues at the ration shop, where shopkeepers fought like tigers over scarce goods, and the thick grey paper bags that once carried our weekly haul. I smiled, thinking of my own daughter, Agnes, who once made me stand in endless lines just to bring a smile to her face.
The thought of Agnes tightened my chest. I lingered by the freezer section, my hand leaning heavily on the low fridge. In my mind I saw her laughing face: a tumble of fiery curls, greyblue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and the little dimples that always appeared when she grinned.
She was a beauty, I whispered to the empty aisle, a pang of sorrow in my voice.
Under the wary eye of a shop assistant, I moved toward the bakery. Agnes had been my only joy. She grew up clever and bright, but when she realised a ninetofive job would not bring her happiness, she turned to surrogacy, a decision I had warned her against. At twenty, she ignored a mothers counsel; if a proper father had been present, perhaps things would have turned out differently.
She laughed, rubbed her rounded belly, while I shook my head in grief. How could she give away a child she carried for nine months? She brushed it off, saying, Its not a child, its good money. The birth was fraught, and the babyher owndid not survive. The hospital refused any compensation; they dealt with Agnes, not with me.
I buried Agnes and was left alone, my relatives long gone, my world a hollow void. It seemed easier this way.
Now I walked to the bread aisle, pocketing a few copper pennies to pay for a loaf, just to prove I was still present, not merely drifting. I counted the needed amount, handed the small sum to the cashier, and hid the rest in my fist.
A few weeks ago, Id noticed a young beggar on the second day after the store opened. She had just begun her wanderings, eyes wide, clutching a swaddled infant. What drew an old mans attention to a destitute woman? Perhaps her youthful vigour, perhaps the stillalive pose of a mother holding a child.
Can you not rise from the floor? I thought, as I approached her. I placed a copper coin on the nearby counter and asked, Girl, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are whole, why not find work?
She stared back, ignoring the hurried shoppers passing by, shielded by an elderly lady who blocked the path.
Thank you for the coin, but I must be on my way. I need to collect more, otherwise Ill be in trouble, she muttered. I nodded sadly and moved on, not wishing to be a nuisance. No one seemed to care not the police, not social services the city had grown accustomed to the sight of beggars.
All the way home I could not shake the image of that mother and child. Their grey eyes and youthful voice felt oddly familiar, as if I had heard them before. I tried to summon the memory, straining my mind.
Back in my flat I removed my worn slippers, flicked on the lights, and carried the loaf to the kitchen. After fifteen minutes I was sipping hot tea from my favourite mug, nibbling a slice of crusty bread with a thin slice of ham.
How hungry she must be, I mused, looking out the window at the frosty night. Two roughlooking men were shoving a young woman into a car. My heart hammered; I reached for the phone, but fear held me back, fearing I might worsen the situation.
The street outside the shop was empty. I decided to wait until morning, knowing I could not see the cars number plate from my window.
Sleep was restless. In the nights dream I saw Agnes standing at the supermarket doors, clutching a shivering infant. The childs face was blue from the cold, and I pressed her close, trying to warm her.
Im not cold, Mum, the child whispered. I lifted the child, brushed away a ragged blanket, and noticed a small pendant with a bear charm around her neck.
I woke with a start, glancing at the wall clock. Why did I sleep so long? I wondered. It was already nine oclock. I rose quickly, peered out the window the young woman and child were still where I had seen them earlier. Relief washed over me.
Outside it was New Years Eve, the air biting. The girl had been out for over an hour; she could freeze to death before nights end. I fetched more bread, hastily made ham sandwiches, filled a thermos with sweet tea, and dressed quickly.
When I arrived, the frightened girl covered a bruise on her temple with a warm scarf.
Dont worry, love, I said, handing her the food. I wont let you starve.
She smiled with her eyes, took the sandwiches, and settled on a bench a short distance away. She ate greedily, swallowing large bites, coughing as she went. She watched the infant, who cried in anothers arms, and gulped the final bite, washing it down with tea. She then brushed crumbs from her hands and rushed back to me.
Thank you, this will keep us going till seven, after which theyll collect us, she said.
The afternoon passed with me glancing at the thermometer outside; the frost deepened. By five oclock I packed a jar of soup and headed back to the supermarket for more provisions. I slipped a few pennies into my pocket, placed a jar of soup beside the girl, and winked before disappearing into the warm aisle.
I only needed to buy some sausage and pickled cucumbers for a modest New Years salad. I could not afford a lavish feast, but I would not go hungry. When I left the store, the beggar was gone, and the jar of soup had vanished as well. She must have found somewhere to eat, I thought, smiling.
I returned home, set the table, placed a carp in the oven, and prepared the modest spread. Perhaps a neighbour would stop by.
As the clock neared ten, I looked out again. The festive lights of the shopping centre twinkled. On a bench under a streetlamp sat a familiar figure, shoulders trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I hurried downstairs in my slippers, wrapped a warm scarf around my shoulders, and ran to the bench. I slipped a small coin into her hand and said, I have nowhere else to go.
Hope flickered in her eyes. She handed me a bundle, then, with great effort, shuffled toward the road. I felt a surge of purpose and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the nearby fivestorey block.
Inside the warm flat, I placed the infant by a heater.
Whats your name? I asked, but stopped when I saw a tiny bear pendant around her neck.
She glanced at it and said, Dont worry, its all I have left from my mother.
The pendant reminded me of a brooch I had once sold to a jeweller in my teenage years, a piece that later became a modest fortune used to buy a gold chain and fund a small dinner for friends.
May I use your shower? I asked politely. She nodded, and I watched her slip into the bathroom while I sipped a calming tonic.
It struck me then: this ragged woman was my granddaughter, though the name seemed impossible. Alfreda? I murmured, the name I had once chosen for a child that never was.
She smiled gratefully, took a seat at the table, and began to eat. I surveyed her face, searching for any familiar trait.
Tell me, Alfreda, what has happened to you? I prompted.
She talked fast, words tumbling as if she were emptying a sack of sorrow. She told me she had lived with her parents, owned a pony, until they fought and split. Her mother had taken her to a childrens home, then abandoned her. She spent twelve years in a shelter, later moved into a condemned flat, met a plumber named Victor, who vanished when she discovered she was pregnant. She was forced into a cramped basement with other beggars, overseen by a man called Igor Grey, who saw profit in theatrical beggarspeople who painted bruises and pretended injuries for extra alms.
Days blended into nights, the beggars were shuffled around, their earnings collected. The overseers began to press her harder, complaining about the noise of a crying child. One day they left her to fend for herself.
She looked at her empty plate and whispered, Thank you, I dont know how we would have survived the night. She set her fork down and yawned.
Tomorrow well leave, just need a little sleep first, she murmured, drifting off.
I roused her, helped her onto a comfortable chair, and placed the infant beside her.
Now, as the clock struck midnight and the chimes of Big Ben echoed through the street, I poured myself a small dram of brandy, took a sip, and stared out at the snowdusted windows. I thought, Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing. Farewell, solitude; I have found a family again.
Lesson: Compassion, though it may begin as a small coin, can rebuild a life that once seemed irrevocably broken.
