Long ago, on a dreary afternoon in Manchester, I sought refuge from the relentless rain in a cosy little tea shop, cradling my infant granddaughter. Strangers turned cold stares upon us, and before long, the constables were summoned. Days later, my story unfolded in the local gazette.
I bore my daughter, Margaret, late in lifea blessing at forty. She grew into a bright, compassionate soul, full of promise. At one-and-thirty, she was finally with child, but fate proved cruel. The birth claimed her, and she never held her babe. The father, overwhelmed, vanished, leaving only meagre monthly chequesscarcely enough for nappies.
Now, at two-and-seventy, its just me and little Beatrice, named for my own dear mother. Tired as I am, she has no one else.
That wretched day began as so many doexhausting. The physicians surgery had been crowded, and Beatrice wailed through her examination. By the time we left, my back ached fiercely, and the heavens had opened. Spotting a tearoom across the street, I hurried inside, shielding the pram with my coat.
The air was thick with the scent of tea and warm scones. I settled near the window, lifting Beatrice as she fretted. Hush now, my love, I murmured. Grandmamas here. Well soon be warm.
Before I could prepare her bottle, a woman at the next table sniffed disdainfully. This isnt a nursery. Some of us came for peace, not this racket.
My cheeks flamed. Then her companion, a sharp-faced man, leaned in. Take that squalling child outside. Weve paid good pounds for our quiet.
Other patrons averted their eyes. Where could I go? Back into the downpour?
I meant no trouble, I stammered. I only needed shelter to feed her.
The woman rolled her eyes. Couldnt you do that in your motorcar? If you cant quiet her, stay home.
The man nodded. Have some consideration. Step out until shes silent.
My hands shook as I fumbled for the bottle. Then the waitressa timid girlapproached, clutching her tray like armour. Perhaps, madam, you might step outside? The other guests
I gaped. Where was the kindness of old? Once, folk wouldve offered aid, not scorn.
Just then, Beatrice stilled, her tiny hand reaching past me. I turned to see two constables at the door, rain glistening on their uniforms.
The elder, a stout fellow with greying temples, spoke first. Maam, weve had reports of a disturbance.
Someone called the law on me? I gasped.
The younger constable, barely more than a lad, glanced at the waitress. Whats the trouble?
She faltered, then scurried off, returning with the managera sour-faced man named Higgins.
Officers, I only sought shelter, I pleaded. Shell sleep once fed.
The elder constable arched a brow. The disturbance is a hungry babe?
Higgins scowled. She refuses to leave. Shes not even ordered.
Bring us three teas and treacle tarts, the constable said firmly, gesturing to my table. Higgins spluttered but retreated.
The younger constableJamestook Beatrice effortlessly. My sister has four. Ive a way with babes. And indeed, she quieted at once.
Over tea, they listened as I spoke of Margaret, of loss, of raising Beatrice alone. When we finished, they paid despite my protests. Then James asked, Might I take your likeness? For the records.
I agreed, smiling beside the pram. What began as misery had turned kind.
Days later, my niece Edith shrieked down the telephone: Agnes! Youre in the papers! James had sent the photo to his sister, a journalist. Her account of a grandmother scorned spread like wildfire.
When next I saw James, he confessed his role but brought glad tidings: Higgins had been sacked. A new sign now graced the tearoom door: All Babes Welcome. No Purchase Needed.
Returning, the same waitress beckoned me in, grinning. Order what you willits our treat.
I chuckled. Treacle tart, then. And as she hurried off, I knew her tip would be generous indeed.
