Granny Edith was frying potatoes.
It didnt matter that it was already eight oclock in the eveningnor that her stomach had started to rebel the very moment the warm, earthy smell of frying potatoes drifted through her little terraced flat in Sheffield. Happiness in old age required so little. Besides, at her age, Edith had long since stopped fretting about missing dinner deadlines or sparing a tetchy pancreas. Through the window, fat flurries of snow spun silently; in the kitchen, the sizzling potatoes promised a rare bit of comfort.
Loneliness, however, gnawed at her. Her son and daughter-in-law had lived abroad for years nowCanada, of all places. The grandchildren, as lovely as they were, chattered away over video calls in a muddle of accents and slang, flashing their even, white smiles. They were well, thank goodness; they were settled, their lives carrying them further and further away. For Edith, solace came from her television and the petty gossip shared on the bench outside the housing estate.
So thats life, is it? she sighed. Didnt walk, just zipped right by.
A sudden, shrill knock on the door yanked her from her gloomy ruminations.
Probably that old bat Mrs. Wainwright again, forgotten her salt or wants to borrow a bit of flour, Edith griped under her breath as she hobbled over to the door. If my potatoes burn, shell have me to answer to.
Behind the door stood not Mrs. Wainwright, but a colossal heap swaddled in battered coats and scarves. Perched atop it was a battered flat cap, while beneath that bristled a wild ginger beard. Granny Edith nearly dropped her walking stick in fright. A tramp, surely. Robbers dressed like that these days? So this was it? Her end?
Good evening, the heap said in a deep, unexpectedly gentle voice. Sorry to disturb you so late, but Im in a spot of bother. Im no thief, honest. Just…well, lifes had its way with me, as you see. All Im after is a bit of warm tap water, if you can spare it.
A wind-cracked hand appeared from the folds, holding out a battered plastic bottleridiculously tiny in his palm.
My little Mollyshes poorly, poor thing, cant stop coughing, feels a bit warm. Needs something to drink, but Ive only got cold water, and she needs it warm. Please. Just a bit.
Edith hesitated. Of course, he looked every bit the vagrant, but he spoke so politely, so thoughtfullyMolly, he worried about her, not himself. His wife, perhaps? Or, God forbid, a daughter? And it was freezing out, snow swirling ever thicker beyond his shoulders.
Well, come on in then, if youre asking kindly, Edith replied at last, voice quivering more from decision than fear. Tell me what happened while youre heremaybe I can do more to help.
The man shuffled from one foot to the other. Clearly, he longed for the warmth, for the smell of fried potatoes wafting across the threshold, but…
Sorry, missus, but Im filthybeen roughing it on the streets, a year now. Me and Molly both…wouldnt want to dirty up your place.
Dont you take liberties with me, son, Granny Edith snapped, her inner steel showing through. Years working at the young offenders centre had left her immune to sob stories and excuses. You let me be the judge of whats welcome in my home!
Wheres your Molly, then? she barked, peering over his shoulder.
Always with me, madam. Shes all Ive got since He fumbled through his coats, and a timid grey cats face appeared amongst the tatters. Seven years now, weve been together. Belonged to my Valeriemy wife, God rest her. When she died last year, we lost everything. Mollys all Ive got.
With more strength than one would expect, Edith seized the mans sleeve and tugged him inside.
Well, dont just stand there letting the cold income along with you, and bring Molly here. Those coats off and straight into the bathroomtheres some of my Harrys old things in there from his rugby days, theyll fit. Mollyll join me in the kitchen, and Ill warm her some proper milk.
He protested, but Edith was a force of natureonce she decided to lend a hand, not even Heaven or Hell was going to stop her.
In an hour, content and warm, Molly napped under the radiator curled up in an old fruit crate Edith had lined with soft towels. At the kitchen table, under the gentle glow of an old lamp, Edith and her unexpected guestwho, it turned out, wasnt nearly as old as despair made him lookshared the last of the potatoes and talked over steaming mugs of English Breakfast tea.
How did you end up on the street? she asked, eyeing him shrewdly. Drink your home away?
No, never touched a drop. Sold it…my only room in a flat-share. All for my Valerie. Dreamed of a little place in the country, she did. Sold up, bought a ramshackle cottage down south.
Why arent you living there, then?
They wouldnt let me. It all passed to her son Simonyou see, me and Val werent wed proper, just lived together these last ten years. She was widowed, Id always been alone. When she diedcancer took her quickthe place went to Simon. I wasnt thinking straight, after the funeral… Simon sent me to a rest home to recover, he said. When I got back a fortnight later, there was nothingno home, no Molly, no papers. They tossed me out. Police just laughed. Found Molly in the alley behind, lucky I did. Neighbours had been feeding her a bit. Found out Simon had sold the lot, cottage, everything, thrown out Vals thingsand Molly, too. Im nothing to him, but Molly was everything to Valerie.
Whats your name, then? Edith asked firmly. Youre not sitting in my kitchen a second hour without a proper introduction.
Arthur, he answered, a sad smile twisting his lips, Arthur Baker, once upon a time. Now…I suppose just Arthur the tramp. Anyway, weve outstayed our welcome. Thank you, truly, for the meal. Been a long time since either of us had anything like it.
Arthur stood, glancing tenderly at Molly.
Perhaps she could stay here a while? Too cold out now. Ill manage, but her…Val would never forgive me if anything happened.
His eyes glistened, hope and shame wrestling in their depths.
Edith softened, though her tone never did. Listen here, Arthur. Thingsll look brighter in the morning. Dont arguetheres a spare bed made up for you in the lounge, take it or leave it. No more chat till breakfast! But write down your old address, and your and Valeries details. I need to know Im not harbouring some escaped convict.
When all was quiet in the flat, Edith reached for her old address book and her battered mobile. Once, many years ago, she had been Dr. Edith Hargravetop surgeon, gold hands, her old professor said. Fatebad marriage, loss of her only childhad sent her to war zones as a medic. Shed patched up more than her share, soldier and criminal alike; her reputation for skill and silence earned her loyal friends in every circle. She seldom called in favours, but if anyone could check up on a lost man like Arthur, she could.
Evening, Alfie, she murmured into the phone. Still with us, you old rogue?
You dont get rid of me that easy, Edith! Whats this, thencant sleep? Or is it business as usual?
Business. Need you to run a check on a couple of names for meArthur and Valerie Baker, last known address in Croydon. Most curious about her son Simon, but check Arthur, too.
Just like old times, eh? A queen even in retirement. Give me the details…
Edith rattled off what she knew, the conversation flowing in a well-practised code that no outsider would follow. She called one more numberher most colourful friend from her dodgy past. Her tone slipped a little, into the wide vowels and sharp wit of her youth.
Put Camille on, love, Ediths askingand after a quick, businesslike chat, she closed the phone, slipped into bed, and, for the first night in months, drifted off with a real sense of purpose.
***
Dawn brought a surprise. Molly was curled up warmly on Ediths chest, purring in her sleep, while from the kitchen drifted the unmistakable aroma of fried eggs and sausages. Arthur, bashful, hovered at the stove.
I hope you dont mind, missus, I…erm…just thought Id make a start on breakfast.
No one had cooked her breakfast in years, not since Harry, her late husband. It tugged at something soft inside her.
No need to apologise. Come on, lets eatnothing gets sorted on an empty stomach, she said, her voice trembling just a bit.
Afterwards, she laid down the law: Arthur, youll stay here for now. My house, my rulesdont you dare argue. If you dont like it, be off, freeze your tail off on the riverbanks. But Molly stays with me. Clear?
Arthur didnt arguehow could he? Warmth and a roof in December werent to be sniffed at. He did his best, running errands, cooking, even rescuing a sad-eyed mongrel from a skip out back one day. Granny Edith called him every name under the sun for dragging in another stray, but she didnt throw him out. Soon, the four of themEdith, Arthur, Molly, and the pupbecame a fixture in the local park.
Meanwhile, events brewed behind the scenes. Edith didnt let the grass grow under her feetafter everyone was asleep, out came her old contacts, her phone calls brief and efficient.
Simon, Valeries son, was neck-deep in gambling debts. Ediths mate Camille ran the local betting syndicate, and ensured Simons downfall by calling in every penny he owed. Bent and battered, Simon was forced to sell flat, cottage, even his car, to repay the loans. He lost his job after some subtle hinting from Ediths friend Alfie, now a senior council official. Word in the business dried up for Simonno one would employ him. He left the city, disappeared for good. Edith never heard a peep from him again.
Arthur never got his property backfavours could only go so far, after allbut at least they sorted out his papers, and soon enough he had a proper pension coming in.
A full year passed.
Sit down, Arthur Baker, we need to talk, Edith said one evening, a rare seriousness settling between them.
What is it, Edith? You all right? Something wrong with your family?
For the record, Ediths son and daughter-in-law had accepted Arthur, even cherished the knowledge that their beloved mum wasnt so alone anymore.
No, nothings wrong, love. But its time we sorted this out properly.
Sorted what out?
Our living together, thats what! So, will you marry me, or are we to keep living in sin at our age?
The wedding was a simple register office affairher family gathered round, grandchildren lisping in an accent neither Edith nor Arthur could quite follow, and a few sharply-suited guests whose air betrayed secrets not fit for the vicars ears.
If ever you spot, in a Sheffield park, an unusual paira stern-faced granny and a big, gentle grandad with a great ginger beard, trailed by a dignified grey cat and a lolloping, floppy-eared dogknow that youve seen the living proof that even as life rushes by, it still makes time for second chances.
