The little corner shop on the outskirts of Whitstable was a staple for locals—good food, honest portions, and warm-hearted shopkeepers. Margaret Bennett had worked there fifteen years, first at the scales, then managing the deli counter. She knew everything—who liked extra stuffed peppers, who needed reminding about the barley stew, and who deserved a generous scoop just to be kind.
One afternoon, she hurried from the back room with a tray of pork pies. Just as she placed them in the display, her eye caught a familiar figure—a tall man in a worn overcoat, eyes heavy with sadness, lingering by the counter as if searching for someone.
Margaret stepped forward.
“If you’re looking for Becky, she’s off sick. Back next week. The usual for you then—mince pies and ribs?”
The man blinked in surprise.
“You remember my usual order?”
“Course I do. You’re one of our regulars,” Margaret said, cheeks warming.
He hesitated, then murmured, “Funny, I always meant to come to your till, Margaret, and somehow end up at Becky’s. Fair bothers me.”
“How’d you know my name?”
He pointed at her name badge with a small smile.
From behind them, Madge Thompson tutted loudly.
“Oi, love! There’s a queue forming! Ten people behind you!”
He startled.
“Right, sorry. Just the mince pies, please…”
Then, quieter, meeting her eyes:
“Maybe one day, a kind woman might make me proper homemade pies. Forgive me asking, Margaret—no ring on your finger… If you’re free, could I walk you home after your shift? I live just across the road.”
Margaret gave the faintest nod as she handed him the bag, her heart pounding like she was seventeen again.
“See you tonight, then,” he smiled. “Oh—I’m Arthur, by the way.”
The rest of her shift passed in a haze. Even Madge noticed.
“Blimey, Maggie, you all right? Cheeks red as a girl off to her first dance!”
“Fine, Madge. Just in good spirits, is all.”
At closing, Margaret touched up her lipstick, wrapped her scarf tight, and stepped outside. Arthur was waiting.
“Fancy a walk? Maybe catch a film?”
The weather was miserable—wet snow sticking to their lashes. They strolled along the high street, chatting easily, as if they’d known each other for years. At one point, he glanced at her.
“Come round mine, Maggie? Warm up with a cuppa. I’m just round the corner.”
“Bit fast, this, isn’t it? We’ve only just met…”
“Met? I’ve been watching you a year now. Coming in, admiring how you are with folks—kind to the elderly, patient with kids. Feels like I’ve known you ages. Don’t you feel it too?”
She laughed softly.
“All right, Arthur. Lead on. I’m soaked through.”
His flat was simple but cosy. He took her coat, set her boots by the radiator, brewed tea with lemon, laid out biscuits.
When the storm outside worsened, he suddenly said,
“Stay. I’ll take the sofa. Where’d you go in this?”
Margaret looked around—warm, safe, her heart telling her not to run.
“Alright. I’ll stay…”
She took the bed. He took the kitchen floor. But by morning, they’d found their way together—sleeping apart hadn’t worked.
When Becky returned from sick leave, she spotted Arthur meeting Margaret after work.
“Bloody hell, didn’t waste time! I take one week off, and you’ve nicked my best customer!” she teased.
Truth was, Becky was chuffed. Happy Margaret was like sunshine—warming everyone around her. And real happiness, the kind that’s true, shines bright enough for miles. Even the pies and ribs sold faster that week.
