Gran Molly was frying potatoes.
Gran Molly was frying potatoes. Never mind that it was 8 in the evening, never mind that her stomach grumbled with faint threats from the delicious aromas wafting through the kitchen. At her age, what did it matter? A bit of happiness on a chilly nightwhat more could one ask for in old age? Snow was tumbling against the windows, flakes swirling as the frying pan sizzled on the hob.
She felt a distinct boredom, a heavy twinge of loneliness. Her son and daughter-in-law had been abroad for years, the grandchildren were bright, warm kids, but whenever they called on video from across the sea, chattering away in an accent she couldnt follow, all white teeth and digital smiles, she could only muster a thin smile herself. Healthy, well-off and settled, thank goodness. But distractions were few: the telly and a perching spot on the communal garden bench. Life hasnt just gone by, Molly sighed to herself, it flew past. She was jarred from her reverie by a ring at the door.
Old Madge again, I beteither shes forgotten the salt or she needs a hand with something silly, she muttered, wiping her hands on her pinny as she trudged to the door. Potatoesll burn if I stand here gabbing.
Behind the door stood a towering pile of clothing, topped with a battered woolly hat. From under the brim, tufts of beard stuck out as wildly as overgrown hedges. Gran Molly felt her heart start with fear. A thug, come for my end, she thought, her mind spinning.
Good evening, boomed a deep, careful voice. Sorry to trouble you so late, but Im in a bit of a fix. Dont worry, Im not here to rob or frighten. Lifes just turned out like this, and I just need a bit of warm tap waterif you could spare it.
The mound stirred and a large, wind-chapped hand emerged, clutching a small plastic bottle that looked like a toy in its palm.
Its my Maisie, you seeshes not well, coughing badly, might have a fever. Needs warm drinks, but weve only cold out there. Shes so thirsty. Forgive me, but could you help?
Molly stood gripping the doorframe. Well, clearly a tramp, but what lovely manners, and so worried about Maisiehis wife? Heaven forbid, his daughter? At any rate, no rough wildman, and it was cold enough outside to chill the bones.
Well, come in, sir, if you mean no trouble, she replied after a pause. And tell me whats happened; maybe I can help more than just hot water.
He shuffled his feet, eyes darting inward. Clearly the warmth of her home and the smell of fizzling potatoes drew him, but something held him back.
Forgive me, maam, but Im filthybeen rough sleeping a year now. Me and little Maisie. Wouldnt want to bring it in on you.
Oh, nonsense! Molly flared. Let me decide what offends me and what doesnt. Dont you dare guess for me! Her voice was sharp, honed by years working in a young offenders home, which had made her firm as old oak.
Wheres this Maisie, then? she barked at the shuffling man.
With me, always, he replied. The great bundle parted and, from the folds of dingy clothes, poked the grey, pinched face of a cat. Seven years weve been together. She was my Vals favourite, but when Val passed last year, we lost our home as well.
Molly seized his arm, surprisingly strong for her thin frame. Dont dawdle then, get in. Im not standing here in the draft chit-chatting. Strip that snowy mess off and head for the bath. Ill find some of old Berts clotheshe was a big man too, rest his soul. Hand over your Maisie; shell come in the kitchen for warm milk.
He huffed and tried to protest, but Molly, once she decided to see justice done, would not be budged.
An hour later, Maisie was curled up, full of warm milk, purring on a cushion beneath the radiator. At the kitchen table, beneath the mellow glow of the wall lamp, sat a man and a woman who, for all their years, did not look so old after all. The potatoes had been demolished, and the tea smelled wonderful as they sat talking in gentle tones.
Howd you end up sleeping rough? Gamble away your flat, did you? Molly asked.
No, sold it, he replied, picking at a crust. It wasnt much, just a bedsit in a shared house. My wife, Vala real dreamerlonged for a garden, a little place of our own. Sold the flat, bought ourselves a dotty old cottage.
Why not live there?
It all went to Vals son, by law. We werent married, you see. Shed been a widow; Id never had anyone else. Met just ten years back. She put everything in his name, to make things easy when we go. We had no idea itd be so soonVal was younger, robust one day, gone the next. When she died, it wasnt houses or deeds that mattered.
So what, then?
It all happened in a fog. After her funeral, I couldnt think straight. Her son, Andrew, sent me off to a seaside convalescent home. Said I needed rest. When I came back after two weeksdifferent people in the house, none of my things, not even papers. Thrown out. The police laughed me off. But thats when I found Maisie, Vals catneighbours said shed been thrown out too, but was being fed by folk in the yard. Heard Andrew sold everything, house, cottage, even put out the cat. He didnt owe me a thing, but Maisieoh, poor Val would turn in her grave.
And your name, after all this time and tea, you havent said?
Arthur. Arthur Johnstone, from before. Now just Artie the Tramp, he gave a sad little grin. Im overstaying, really. But thanks for the meal. Havent tasted home-cooked food in a year.
He rose, glancing at Maisie. Could she stay a while? Its bitter cold for her; shes not used to it. I could manage, but I dont know if I can keep her safe. Val would never forgive me.
Arthurs eyes glistened.
Well, Artie my dear, Molly chuckled, mornings cleverer than night. Beds made up in the sitting room, on the sofa. Off you gono arguments! Just leave your address and names here, for my peace of mind. Got to know youre not a criminal or worse.
As the flat fell silent, Gran Molly fished out her ancient mobile and battered address book. These days, she was Gran Molly to everyone, but once upon a time well, there were stories enough for a library, though none for the grandkids ears.
***
As a young woman, Molly had been a surgeona fearsome one, top of her field. The professor said her hands were blessed, she worked with soul, a great future ahead. But life twisted out of shape: a husbands betrayal, losing her first baby in the final months, and off she went to war zones, stitching wounded soldiers for three harsh years. Came back to London, saved many livessome even on the wrong side of the law. But whos without their stories? Back then, you survived how you could.
Principles are for those with full pockets, she used to mutter to herself, patching up a battered acquaintance. You could hardly refuse, or youd reap worse. Besides, shed brought her son back from the war, his father lost to fighting. What strange, sharp-edged days they were.
But people respected Molly, for her golden hands, for her discretion. Friends in all sorts of placesold favours could turn up gold. Shed rarely called them in, but its the way of things, not just the way of people.
Hello, Stan, she said down the mobile line, voice husky.
Not gone yet, Molly-love, came a cracked old cockney reply. Job for me, or just insomnia?
Job, she said. Need to chase up someoneArthur Johnstone. Address as follows. And I want everything on this Andrew too, thats Vals boy. Never know.
Same old Molly. Queen of the back room, you never change. Details were swapped, names jotted. We ought to meet, Stan ventured shyly. For a chat, yknow.
No, no, Stan, were too old, and the past is past. Speak soon.
The next call took longer to answer. A brash female voice; Molly cut through with, Put me through to Clive, love. Tell him its Molly Queenie. There was a mutter and another gruff man came on. It was a brief, efficient chat. With that done, she let herself drift into sleep.
***
Morning brought a little miracle. Maisie perched herself atop Mollys chest, providing a warm furry weight, and from the kitchen came the sizzle and pop of breakfast on.
Sorry, maam, I justwell Arthur stepped back from the table, where a humble fry-up, scrambled eggs and sliced sausage, plus a small heap of salad, was waiting. No one had made her breakfast in years, not even the step-husband whod been so devoted to her son.
You dont mind, do you? For taking the liberty?
Not at all. Thank you, Molly replied, voice quivering lightly. Now sit! Business cant be done on empty bellies.
Arthur started to speak, but her stern glance silenced him. He set to his plate quietly. Maisie curled at their feet, content and healthier already.
So, Artie, Molly declared after breakfast, youll stay with me a whileand dont argue, its my home. If you wont, well, off you trot into the frost, but Maisies staying. Clear?
Not much of a choiceand Arthur didnt fight it, grateful for warmth. He chipped in: shopping, cooking breakfast, andafter a montha new guest joined the small family. One afternoon, Arthur shuffled in from the bins with a floppy-eared, sodden puppy. Molly railed at both of them, using language worthy of her younger days. But she didnt send them awaythey started walking together in the park, swapping stories, taking in the winter sunshine.
Meanwhile, Molly kept a careful watch on affairs, phone in hand each night once the house was quiet.
Andrew, Vals son, had a gambling streak that landed him in serious debtor so it was whispered, and Clive had a hand in the betting clubs around town, even if he was getting on himself. Andrew was beaten up a few times, forced to sell off the flat, the cottage, the car, and all the rest to pay up. Trouble at work followed: investigation after investigation, until someone suggested he let a colleague go to make things easier. He did, and soon after found himself let go as well. Blacklisted for workStans influence, no doubt, being someone big in the council.
Arthur never got his property back, of coursefavours in England arent free after all. But his papers were sorted, even pension put through. Andrew drifted from job to job, then disappeared abroad, never to be heard from again.
A year passed.
Sit down, Arthur Johnstone, we need to talk, Molly said, more serious than usual.
Are you unwell, Molly? he asked. Or is it the children?
In truth, Mollys son and daughter-in-law had grown to like Arthur, happy their mum had a friend, not left all alone at last.
No, Artie. Nothings wrong. But something has to be settled about us.
What do you mean?
I mean, will you have me, or not? Time you made an honest woman of mecant have neighbours talking, even at our age.
The little wedding was small but lively. Mollys son and daughter-in-law were there, grandchildren tumbling over themselves with unfamiliar words and eager hugs, and a handful of men in sharp suitsone with a Parliamentarians air, the other a hint of East End hardcase, never mind the tie.
So if you ever see a peculiar couple in the parkan old lady with a piercing, steely eye, a burly man with a generous beard and gentle, twinkling gaze, trailed by a dignified grey cat and a lolloping hound with floppy earsthose, my friend, are the heroes of this storyAfterwards, in the hush after the last toast, Molly and Arthur stepped from the community hall into the mellow dusk. Snow had gone, replaced by an early spring breeze stirring the daffodils planted beside their battered block of flats. Maisie, prim in her wedding ribbon, pranced at their heels, while the puppynow officially theirsleapt about in circles, tangling his lead and drawing laughter from the knot of well-wishers waving goodbye.
Arthur squeezed Mollys hand, feeling every ridge and line of her life-worn palm. She glanced up at him, eyes sharp as ever. What are you thinking, woman? he asked.
Im thinking, she said, that beginning again is not for the young. The young dont know how. Its for uswrinkled, battered, and stubborn enough to plant ourselves anywhere, and stubborn enough to bloom.
He cocked his head, bemused, still a little shy after all these months. You keep talking in riddles. What dyou mean?
She grinned. Means I love you, you daft old sod. Now come on, lets go find our dinner, before your dog eats it all.
They ambled home, stray tears glimmering in Mollys eyes as laughter followed them up the steps, the dog yapping, Maisies tail held high. Inside, their little flat glowed with the warmth of years past and years yet to come. No riches, no great deeds, only supper on the stove and hands entwinedenough, at last, for happiness.
And as the neighbourhood flickered into night, the old woman who had once stitched broken boys back together, and the man who had nothing left but a cat, sat side by side at their window, watching lights bloom across the citycertain, finally, that life keeps offering second chances, if youre brave (and stubborn) enough to answer the door.
