Dear Diary,
How could you let yourself fall so low? Little one, are you ashamed? Your hands and feet are wholewhy arent you working? those words were hurled at a destitute woman with a baby clutched to her chest.
Margaret Thompson shuffled down the aisles of the massive supermarket in Birmingham, her eyes drifting over the rows of brightly coloured packs. She has been coming here every day for months, more out of habit than necessity. There are no mouths to feed now; the family she once had is gone. Yet each evening she escapes her solitary flat and steps into the lightfilled shop.
When the weather is mild, she finds solace on the bench outside with the other local widows, swapping stories over a cuppa. The bitter winter offers no such relief, and it is then that Margaret has grown fond of wandering the new megastore.
The place hums with shoppers, the scent of freshly brewed tea wafts through the air, soft music plays in the background. The garish packaging of the biscuits and snack bars looks almost childlike, bright enough to coax a smile from anyone.
She lifted a pot of strawberry yoghurt, squinting at the tiny print, then placed it back. Its a luxury she cant afford, but merely looking at it isnt a crime.
As she lingered among the endless shelves, memories surged forward. She recalled the endless queues at the ration shop after the war, where shopkeepers fought like tigers over scarce goods. She saw in her mind the thick grey paper bags that once held the weeks provisions.
A smile crept across her face as she thought of her daughter. Margaret would have stood in any line just to bring a little joy to her child. Those thoughts quickened her heartbeat. She paused by the frozen fish case, leaning heavily on it.
The image of her daughter, Rosie, flashed before hercopperred curls, a cascade of freckles across her nose, grey eyes that seemed to hold the whole sky, and cheek dimples that always made Margarets heart ache.
She was a beautiful thing, Margaret murmured to herself, a hint of sorrow in her voice.
She approached the bakery counter despite the clerks disapproving stare. Rosie had been the only bright spot in Margarets life. A clever girl, she had once decided that work would never bring her happiness and turned to surrogate motherhood, just as Margaret had warned her it would lead nowhere.
At twenty, who listens to mothers? If only a living father had been there, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Yet the unscrupulous men who lured a naïve girl into that world had no mercy.
Rosie laughed, rubbing her growing belly, while Margaret shook her head in grief. How could she give away a child she had carried for nine months? Rosie brushed it off: Its not a baby, its good money.
The birth was difficult, and doctors could not save Rosie. Within three days of the babys arrival, the child died. The newborn was handed to its parents, and Margaret received not a penny; the contract had been with Rosie, not with her.
Margaret buried her daughter and sank deeper into solitude. With no relatives left, she drifted into an empty void that felt easier than trying to climb out.
Now she headed for the bread aisle, determined to prove she was still capable of a purpose. She felt a few pennies in her pocket and walked to the till, having counted the exact amount she could afford, handing it to the cashier and keeping the rest hidden in her fist.
Earlier that week, she had noticed a young beggar on the second day after the supermarkets reopening. The girls youth and the way she clutched a baby had drawn Margarets eye. How could you sink so low? Margaret thought, as she approached the familiar figure. She set down a small tin of coins beside the girl and said, Little one, arent you ashamed? Your limbs are wholewhy arent you working? You still can.
A few passersby hurried past, distracted by their own errands. The girl replied politely, Thank you for the coin, but I must move on. I need to collect more, otherwise Ill be in trouble. Margaret gave a rueful shake of her head and retreated, not wanting to be a nuisance. No one seemed to careneither the police nor social servicesabout those who asked for alms on the pavement.
All the way home, Margaret could not shake the image of the beggar and her child. The girls grey eyes and youthful voice felt oddly familiar, as if she had heard them somewhere before. She tried to recall, straining her memory.
She closed the front door, slipped off her warm slippers, turned on the lights, and carried the loaf of bread into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later she was sipping hot tea from her favourite mug, nibbling a slice of crusty bread with a thin slice of ham.
How hungry she must be, Margaret thought, out in that cold! What a cruel life. She glanced out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young woman, and froze in shock. Two scruffy men were shoving the girl into a car.
Panic rose in Margarets chest. She lunged for the phone, but a fear of making things worse stopped her. She paced to the window again and saw the forecourt empty. Deciding to wait until morning, she retreated back inside. From that distance she could not make out the cars registration.
That night she lay awake, haunted by the girls image. In a restless dream she saw Rosie standing at the supermarket entrance, a shivering infant in her arms. The child was blue from the cold, and Margaret pressed her close, trying to warm her, but Rosie said, Im not cold, Mum.
Margaret took the child from Rosies arms, lifted the thin blanket that covered the babys face, and saw a small pendant shaped like a bear. A familiar pendant, she whispered, then jolted awake. The bedside clock read nine oclock.
She hopped out of bed, hurried to the window and saw the same scene outside: the girl and her baby, still waiting. Thank heavens, she breathed, crossing herself. The streets were slick with frost on the eve of New Years, and a lone child had been out for over an hour.
Margaret fetched more bread, made hastily assembled ham sandwiches, filled a thermos with sweet tea, and slipped on her coat. The girl, startled by Margarets sudden appearance, covered a bruise on her temple with a warm scarf.
Dont worry, love, Margaret said, handing over the food. I wont let you starve. The girls eyes lit up, and she devoured the sandwiches, swallowing hurriedly, coughing between bites, glancing anxiously at the infant in her arms. She gulped the last piece, washed it down with tea, brushed crumbs from her coat and rushed back to Margaret.
Thank you, she said, well manage until seven, then someone will pick us up. Margaret spent the rest of the afternoon watching the thermometer through the shop window; the chill was deepening.
By five in the evening she boiled a pot of stew, then set off for more supplies. As she passed a young woman, she placed a small tin of food beside her, slipped a few pennies into her pocket, gave a conspiratorial wink, and hurried back into the warm aisles.
She needed to buy a few slices of ham and some pickled cucumbers for a modest New Years salad. She could not afford a lavish feast, but she would not go hungry. When she emerged, the beggars spot was empty, and the tin of stew was gone. She must be eating somewhere, Margaret thought, smiling faintly, and made her way home.
She would now slice the bites, pop a carp into the oven, and set the table. Perhaps an elderly neighbour would drop by.
Approaching ten oclock, she looked out again, reassuring herself that the girl had been taken home. The festive lights twinkled outside the shopping centre, and on a bench under a streetlamp a familiar figure sat, shoulders trembling, tears streaming.
Margaret rushed downstairs in her slippers, grabbed a warm scarf, and hurried to the bench. I have nowhere else to go, the girl whispered, her voice breaking.
Please look after him, the girl said, thrusting a small bundle into Margarets hands before shuffling toward the road.
Margarets mind swirled. The young womans intent was clear: she could not simply disappear from a life that held a child. With a strained effort she chased after her, caught up, and grabbed her arm.
Where are you off to? Come with me! Margaret shouted, pulling the girl toward the nearby fivestorey block.
Inside the heated flat, Margaret laid the baby by a radiators. Whats your name? she asked, only to notice a tiny bear pendant around the girls neck.
Dont worry, the girl replied, thats all I have left from my mother. Margaret recognised the pendant; it was the same one she had given to Rosie years ago when money was scarce, a small gold medallion she had sold to a jeweller who turned it into a charm.
The girl, now shivering, asked, May I use the shower? Margaret nodded, and the girl slipped away to freshen up while Margaret sipped a glass of herbal tonic.
Could she be my granddaughter? Margaret wondered, a chill rising on her forehead. She tucked the fed infant onto a sofa and set a place at the modest spread.
Alison! she called out, halflaughing. How did you know my name? The girl, startled, answered, I heard you were eating. A bead of cold sweat formed on Margarets brow. No doubtshe had taken in her own grandchild, the name the welfare workers had destined for the unborn child.
Alison smiled gratefully, eyes scanning the dishes, and began to eat. Margaret watched her closely, searching for any familiar trait.
So, Alison, what happened to you? Margaret asked.
Alison spoke quickly, words tumbling out as if unburdening a lifetime of pain. She said she had lived with both parents until she was five, owned a pony, then they fought and split. Her mother, one day, simply left her at a childrens home. Twelve years later she left the orphanage, moved into a council flat that turned out to be a condemned block, met a plumber named Vic, who vanished when he learned she was pregnant. She was shuffled into a shabby basement with other beggars, theatrical ones who feigned bruises and swollen bellies to earn more.
She described how she was sold to a man named Ian Grey, who promised shelter in exchange for the scraps she collected. He housed her and the baby in a damp cellar, surrounded by other vagrants, the stagehand crowd who acted out injuries for extra coins. The overseer pressed for more money, complaining that a crying infant disturbed the rest.
Tonight, no one came to collect her allowance; she stared at an almost empty plate. Thank you, I dont know how we would have survived the night, she whispered, placing her fork down and yawning. Well leave at dawn, just need a little sleep.
Margaret lifted Alison onto a comfortable armchair, covered the baby with a blanket, and settled them in. The old woman sat at the New Years table, listening to the presidents speech on the telly, determined not to let her granddaughter and grandson slip away again. In time she would reveal who she truly was, help Alison stand on her own, and give the boy a proper upbringing. For now, she would let them rest.
When the clock struck midnight, Margaret poured herself a small measure of sweet liqueur, took a sip, and walked to the window, watching the snowflakes drift past the street lamps. She whispered, Thank you, Lord, for this unexpected blessing. Farewell, loneliness; I have a family again.
