10December
I still cant shake the image of that shivering young mother clutching her baby outside the Tesco on the high street. How can you let yourself fall so low? Dear, arent you ashamed? Your hands and feet are finewhy arent you working? the shop assistant had asked, as if she were scolding a beggar. The words echoed in my mind as I pushed my trolley past the rows of brightlycoloured packaging.
My name is Margaret Thompson, and I have been wandering these aisles for years, more out of habit than necessity. I have no family to feed, no one waiting at home; the supermarket has become my solitary companion, a place where the hum of soft music and the scent of fresh coffee make the world feel less empty. In summer the park bench chats with neighbours keep me company, but winter leaves me with only the glow of fluorescent lights and the promise of a warm loaf.
Today the shelves were stocked with the usual: tins of baked beans, packets of crisps, sacks of potatoes. I lifted a jar of strawberry yoghurt, squinted at the tiny print, and put it back. Its a luxury I could never afford, yet looking at it brings a fleeting comfort. As I roamed the aisles, memories surged forward.
I recalled the long queues during the early 2000s, when shoppers fought like cats over scarce items, and the thick grey paper bags that once held our purchases. A smile slipped onto my face as I thought of my daughter, Emily. She was my only joy, a brighteyed girl with a tumble of red curls, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and cheek dimples that made me swoon. She was beautiful, I whispered to the empty space around me, a tinge of sorrow in my voice.
I paused at the freezer section, leaning heavily on the metal door, and my mind drifted to Emilys laughing face. I imagined her now, grown and clever, who once decided that a respectable job wouldnt bring happiness. She turned to surrogacy, a choice I warned her would bring more sorrow than peace. At twenty, who obeys a mothers counsel? If only a caring father had been there, perhaps things would have been different.
Emily had laughed, rubbed her growing belly, while I shook my head in grief. How can you hand over a child that is yours, after carrying it for nine months? I asked myself. She brushed it off, Its not a child; its good money. The birth was fraught, the baby could not be saved, and three days later Emily herself passed away. The hospital gave us nothing; they dealt with the mother, not with me.
I buried my daughter and have lived alone since, my relatives long gone, the emptiness a familiar friend. Today I made my way to the bakery aisle, feeling the need to prove I was still here, still moving. I fished a handful of coppercoloured coins from my coat pocket, counted them mentally, and handed the exact amount to the cashier, keeping the rest hidden in my fist.
Earlier, on the second day after the store opened, I had noticed a young beggar girl with a baby. Her youthful face and the way she cradled the infant caught my eye. How can you sink so low? I thought as I approached, dropping a few pence into her tin. Girl, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are wholewhy arent you working? I tried to sound gentle. She thanked me curtly and hurried away, not wanting my pity.
The image of that mother and child haunted me all the way home. Their grey eyes and trembling voice felt oddly familiar, as if Id heard them somewhere before. I shut the front door, slipped off my warm slippers, flicked on the light, and carried a fresh loaf to the kitchen. After fifteen minutes I was sipping a mug of hot tea, biting into a slice of crusty bread with a thin slice of ham.
How hungry she must be, I muttered, looking out the window at the frosty night. Two roughlooking men were pushing the young woman into a car, their intentions clear. My heart hammered; I reached for the phone, but fear held me back, worrying I might only make things worse.
I stared at the empty forecourt, deciding to wait until morning. Sleep came uneasy, filled with a dream of Emily standing at the supermarket entrance, a shivering baby in her arms. The child was blue from the cold, and I tried to warm her, but Emily brushed me off.
I’m not cold, mum, she said. I pulled the baby closer, noticing a small bearshaped pendant around her neck. The sight jolted me awake; the clock on the wall read nine oclock. I rose quickly, pulled back the curtains, and saw the same girl and child still waiting by the doors. Thank heavens, I sighed, crossing myself.
The New Years Eve chill was biting; the girl had been out for over an hour. I fetched more bread, made sandwiches with ham, filled a thermos with sweet tea, and hurried to clothe myself. When I reached the girl, she covered the bruise on her temple with a scarf.
Dont worry, love, I said, offering her the sandwiches. She accepted with a weary smile, devouring the food without chewing properly, coughing between bites, eyes flickering to the babys whimpering. That will keep us fed until seven, then theyll take us, she whispered.
Throughout the evening I kept glancing at the thermometer outsidethe cold deepened. By five I was boiling a pot of beef stew, preparing for the next days grocery run. As I passed a young woman on the high street, I left a tin of stew beside her and slipped a few coins into her pocket, winking before I retreated into the warmth of the shop.
I had no intention of lingering. I only needed sausage and pickles for a modest New Years salad. When I emerged, the beggar woman and her baby were gone, and the stew tin had vanished. She must have found somewhere else to eat, I thought, smiling faintly as I made my way home.
Now Ill slice the cold cuts, pop a carp into the oven, and set the table. Perhaps a neighbour will drop by. Its almost ten, and Im still watching the streetlights flicker outside the centre. A familiar figure sits on a bench beneath a lantern, shoulders trembling as tears stain her cheeks.
I rushed downstairs in my slippers, wrapped a warm scarf around my shoulders, and hurried to the bench. I have nowhere else to go, she sobbed, clutching a small bundle. Hope glimmered in her eyes as she handed me a worn parcel. She shuffled toward the road, her steps faltering.
My mind swirled, but her intention became clear: she was not leaving a happy life behind. I grabbed her hand, pulled her toward the fivestorey block nearby, and ushered her inside. In the heated room I placed the baby beside the heater and asked, Whats your name? She swallowed, eyes fixed on a tiny bear pendant around her neck.
Dont worry, its all I have left from my mother, she whispered. The pendant reminded me of a brooch I once sold to a jeweller in my own lean days; he turned it into a pendant and paid me enough for a modest gold chain and a small celebration for my daughter.
She shyly asked, May I use the shower? I nodded, and she slipped out, leaving me with a cup of valerian tea. So the girl is my granddaughter, I mused, though the thought seemed impossible.
I laid the child on the sofa, set a plate before the newcomer, and called, Alison! as if the name had just floated to my lips.
Where did you learn that? she asked, startled.
I waved vaguely, I suppose I heard you eating.
A cold bead formed on my forehead. The certainty settledI had taken in my own granddaughter, the girl the charity had named after the unborn child my daughter never got to raise.
Tell me, Alison, what happened to you? I prompted.
She talked rapidly, words tumbling as if she were emptying a well of pain. She spoke of a happy childhood with a pony, of parents who fought and split, of being thrust into a childrens home, then into a shabby flat that was supposed to be demolished. She met a plumber, Vas, who vanished when she discovered she was pregnant. The flat was reassigned, and she drifted to railway stations, begging for coins.
A man named Ian Grey, who ran a makeshift shelter for the homeless, approached her. A pretty beggar with a baby can bring in decent cash, he thought, offering her a squat in a basement filled with other beggars, the crippled and the sick. They called themselves theatrical beggars because they painted bruises and wore fake casts to earn more.
Days blurred; mornings the beggars were dispatched to collection points, evenings the money was tallied. The conditions were bearable until the shelter master demanded more money, complaining that a crying baby disturbed the other residents. Today, no one came for her; she was left alone with a halfempty plate.
Thank you, she murmured, I dont know how we would have survived the night.
She set down her fork, yawned, and said, Well leave in the morning; I just need a little sleep. She collapsed onto the chair and drifted off.
I woke her gently, helped her into a bed, and placed the baby beside her in a deep armchair.
Later, the television blared the Prime Ministers New Years address. I sat at the table, smiling, knowing I would never let my granddaughter and her son go. In due time I would reveal my true identity, help her stand on her own feet, and give the boy a proper upbringing.
When the clock struck midnight, I poured a small measure of brandy, took a sip, and stared out the window at the street illuminated by lanterns and falling snow.
Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing, I whispered. Farewell, solitude. I have a family again.
