Coincidences Are No Accident
Gran Tom was frying potatoes on a chilly evening. It was already eight oclock, her pancreas protested at every scent, but at her age she cared little for such complaints and never ate after six. Snow fell softly outside, and the skillet sizzled merrily.
Gran Tom felt a damp boredom settle over her. Her son and daughterinlaw had been working abroad for years, the grandchildren were polite but their video calls sounded foreign and their smiles were all teeth. All was well, thank heavenshealthy, settled, and respectable. Her only diversions were the telly and a bench in the garden. Life has passed, or rather flown by, she sighed, when a sudden knock at the door broke her thoughts.
Another one, my dear, either an old fool or someone whos forgotten to buy salt or flour, she muttered to herself as she went to answer. The potatoes will burn, Ill give the devil for a bit of help.
Standing there was a massive heap of rags crowned by a shaggy Russian hat, the fringe of a wild beard spilling in every direction. Gran Toms heart leapt. A bandit, thats what I ammy death has arrived, she thought.
Good evening, the stranger said, his voice oddly gentle. Im sorry for disturbing you so late, but Im in a desperate bind. Im not a thief. I simply need a little warm water from the tap.
A crusted hand emerged from the pile, offering a battered plastic bottle that looked like a childs toy.
My little Emily is illshe coughs fiercely and runs a fever. She needs warm drinks, but I only have cold water. Could you help me, please?
Gran Tom stood stunned. The mans speech was smooth, his plea about Emilyperhaps his wife, perhaps his daughterfelt oddly sincere. The wind howled outside, the night was bitter.
Come in, stranger, if you come with goodwill, Gran Tom said after a moments pause. Tell me whats happened; perhaps I can aid you.
The ragman shuffled his feet, clearly longing for the heat and the scent of fried potatoes.
Forgive me, lady, Im filthy, Ive been on the streets for a year. Both I and Emily. I know Ill be an eyesore.
Gran Tom snapped, What dare you decide what I like or dislike! Im not one to be contradictedmy years in a juvenile detention centre have taught me that.
Where is your Emily? she asked sharply at the moving heap.
Shes with me always, the heap answered, its folds parting to reveal a sallow cats face. Shes been with me seven yearsmy dear Vals cat, taken from me when she died last year, and they threw us both out.
Gran Tom seized the ragbundle with her frail yet firm hands.
Come in, you wretched soul, dont freeze my hearth. Ill talk with you until the carrots are boiled! Slip out of those rags and into the bath; Ill put you in a coat my grandfather left behindhe was as robust as a bull. Bring Emily here; Ill set her in the kitchen with warm milk.
The heap struggled, but Gran Toms resolve to do good and restore justice left it with little choice.
An hour later a small box beneath the radiators cradled Emily, asleep on a soft blanket, a little bowl of warm milk beside her. At the kitchen table, under the soft glow of a lantern, a notquiteold man and woman ate the potatoes, sipping fragrant tea.
Why did you end up on the streets, sir? the woman asked.
I sold my flat, a single room in a council house, to buy a cottage for my late wife Val, who always dreamed of a garden. I sold it, we bought the cottage, then I lost everything after she passed away.
Why didnt you stay there?
The council evicted us. The cottage went to her son. We werent married, she was a widow, I was alone. Ten years ago we met, moved in together, and she left the house and cottage to her son to spare him trouble after we were gone. She was healthy, younger than me by seven years, then fell ill and died within a month. There was no time for property.
How did they drive you out?
It was all a blur. After the funeral I was sent to a sanatorium by her son Victor, supposedly for my health. Two weeks later, when I returned, strangers lived in my flat, my things gone. The police laughed. Emily was taken in by neighbours who fed her. Victor sold the flat and the cottage in a heartbeat, tossed everything, even my cat. He felt no remorse; after all, the cat had been Vals beloved.
Whats your name? the woman pressed.
Anthony McArthur, the man replied, a rueful smile curling his lips. Now they call me Tosh, a vagrant. Im grateful for your dinner; I havent had a proper homecooked meal in ages.
He gazed sadly at Emily.
May I keep her here a while? Its freezing outside for her, and I fear Val would not forgive me if anything happened.
His eyes flickered.
Listen, Tosh, Gran Tom said with a wry grin. Morning is wiser than evening. Take a seat on the sofa; Ive laid a blanket for you. No more talking until tomorrow. Write down your address and your wifes name, lest I think youre a criminal.
When the house fell silent, Gran Tom fetched her old mobile and a weathered notebook, recalling memories she would one day recount to her greatgrandchildren.
—
In her youth Gran Tomthen Margaret Tomlinsonhad been a surgeon of the highest order, a professor once praised her hands as golden, promising a bright future. Betrayal by her husband and the loss of her first child in the final months of pregnancy sent her into the turmoil of wartime field hospitals. She spent three years drifting between military bases before settling in London, where countless livesboth respectable and nefariouswere saved by her skilled hands.
She often whispered to herself, Principles matter little when money is needed, as she patched up a street kid. Refusing work was not an option; she needed to support the son shed unexpectedly brought home from a distant front, the boy whose father had perished there. Those were grim, knifeedge times.
Her reputation for steady, silent competence earned her friends across all walks of life, who, in gratitude, sometimes offered help. She rarely called on them, for life is what it is.
One night she dialed the number of Stanley Perkins, a former police sergeant turned informant.
Hello, Stanley, you still smoking?
Youll have to wait, Tom, crackled a hoarse voice. Whats the business?
I need a favortrack a man through your contacts.
Same old tune, Tom. The queen of our times changes nothing.
She dictated an address and details that Anthony had given her.
Im most interested in Victor, but check Anthony toojust in case.
Dont you want to meet in person? Stanley asked, a hint of embarrassment in his tone.
No, Stanley. My grandchildren keep me busy. Our affairs belong to the past.
Will you stay in touch?
Always.
Later, a weary female voice answered her call.
Cameron, call her beautiful, Gran Tom said, her tone soft. Theresa wants to speak with her.
The brief conversation ended, and Gran Tom retired to bed.
Morning brought a pleasant surprise. Emily curled on Gran Toms chest, warming her, while the kitchen filled with the aroma of a simple breakfastscrambled eggs, sausages, and a fresh salad.
Dont be angry, love, Im just a bit Anthony began, stepping back from the table.
No anger, thank you, Gran Tom replied, her voice trembling. Sit and eat; hunger wont solve anything.
He swallowed his question, eyes fixed on his plate, while Emily purred contentedly.
Now, Tosh, youll stay with me as long as you like, and you wont argue with me. This is my flat, I decide what happens here. If you wont, you can go back to the cold and die. Understood?
He could not argue; the winter wind was far harsher than any indoor heat. He helped with shopping, cooked breakfasts, and after a month a stray, shivering puppyonce found in a rubbish binjoined the household. Gran Toms sharp tongue never softened, but she never drove him away. They walked together in the park, talking of everything and nothing.
Meanwhile, Gran Tom kept her phone close, listening for any silence that might signal trouble. Victor, Vals son, had fallen into gambling, racking up debts. Cameron, though older, ran part of the citys betting ring. Victor lost his cottage, flat, careverythingto settle his scores. At work, endless inspections and commissions piled up, and finally a whisper suggested someone should be fired. The suggestion was acted upon; Victor became unemployable, a black mark on his record.
Anthonys property never returned, and even friendly gestures required compensation. Yet his pension was finally arranged. Victor vanished after a stint abroad, his fate unknown.
A year slipped by.
Sit down, Anthony, Gran Tom said, unusually stern. We need to discuss our living arrangements.
Whats wrong, Tom? he asked. His son and daughterinlaw had welcomed him, happy that their mother and grandmother were no longer alone.
Nothing hurts, but we must decidewill you marry me or not? We cant keep living in sin at our ages.
At the small ceremony, the son, his wife, brighttoothed grandchildren chattering in their own slang, and a few suited menone clearly a politician, another a former gang memberwere present.
If you ever see a peculiar pair in the parka stern grandmother and a bearded old man with kind eyes, a grey cat perched nearby, and a floppyeared dog trotting beside themknow theyre the heroes of this tale.
