The Only Man in the House Over breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, glanced at her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” She turned the phone to show the string of numbers: 11.11.11 – November 11th, 2011. “It’s your lucky number, Dad – 11, and today there are three in a row. You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Val chucked. “That’s right, Dad,” Nadya chimed in, her eyes never leaving her screen. “Horoscopes say that Scorpios are due for a life-changing gift today!” “Brilliant. Probably some rich unknown relation in America or Europe just died and left everything to us… Millionaires, no—billionaires!” “Come on, Dad, you’d need to dream bigger!” Vera joked. “Imagine what we could do with all that money—buy a villa in the English countryside, or a place on the Cornish coast? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter!” Nadya squealed. “I want my own helicopter!” “Sorted. One helicopter for you. And for you, Vera?” “I want to act in a BBC drama with Benedict Cumberbatch!” “No problem, I’ll call someone at the Beeb, sort it out… All right, daydreamers, finish up—we need to head out.” “Aww, can’t we dream a bit longer?” Nadya sighed. “Dreams are important,” Val smiled, finishing his tea, “but don’t forget you’ve got school.” That morning chat popped into Val’s mind at the end of a very ordinary, not-so-lucky day. He was packing groceries into bags at Sainsbury’s, exhausted after staying late at work—no sign of good fortune, no life-changing meetings, let alone gifts. “Happiness just flew over, like a paper plane past the London Eye,” he snorted to himself as he left the shop. By his battered old Vauxhall, a scruffy boy loitered, shouting with everything about him that he was homeless: torn clothes, mismatched shoes—one worn-out boot, one odd sneaker with a frayed lace tied with blue electrical wire. On his head, a greasy winter hat, one earflap half-burned. “Mister, I… I’m hungry—could you spare some bread?” the boy asked in a stilted, rehearsed voice. It wasn’t the boy’s pitiful look, nor the Dickensian phrase, that struck Val—it was the way he said it. Val, who’d once trained with the local am-dram, recognised the telltale pause of an actor pretending. The boy was lying. All of it, a performance. Val nearly smiled. “All right, let’s play your game. My daughters love a detective story…” “Bread won’t fill you up. How about soup, then roasties with a bit of kipper, and pudding—apple crumble, perhaps?” The boy flinched, not expecting the offer, then returned to his part, eyes narrowing. Val dragged out the moment, fiddling with keys and the shopping, waiting to see if the lad would run—with real homeless kids, their exit instincts were strong. This one stayed, clutching the bag. “Right, into the car you get, dinner’s on.” Val’s home was a cottage just outside a quiet market town where he worked as a gas repair engineer—a single dad with no close family but heaps of love for his girls, and a special soft spot for kids in need, being an orphan himself. The girls dashed out to meet them, goggling at their father’s new companion. “Is this our life-changing gift?” Nadya asked, peering under the boy’s hat. “Dad, are you sure he’s our present and not someone else’s—a faulty one at that?” The siblings whisked the boy inside, falling immediately into a game of “good cop, bad cop.” In the kitchen, the mask finally cracked. The boy washed up, stripped of his disguise, revealed his name—Spartacus Bull—his ginger hair wild and clear blue eyes nervous yet honest. Over dinner, the tale spilled out. His father had died a hero’s death, his mother lost in heartbreak, and Spartacus and his little sisters had survived together thanks to his eldest sister, Sophie. Now Sophie, at 23, was smitten—with none other than Val. She was scared, worried her brood might put off any man. Spartacus, the “only man in the house,” had staged his orphan street act to see for himself if Val and his daughters would welcome his beloved sister. Would they love her—and her “bunch of kids”—as family? The family, in true English spirit, roared with laughter at the boy’s cheek—and, in the next moment, warmly welcomed both Spartacus and the prospect of a bigger, rowdier, perhaps even happier blended family. As Nadya declared, “See, Dad, you were granted the best gift after all—a big, brilliant, loving family—just like you always wanted.”

The Only Man in the Family

Friday, 11th November 2011

This morning, as we sat around the kitchen table, Grace, my eldest, was glued to her phone. She popped her head up and asked, Dad, have you seen what day it is?

I shook my head, stretching my arms. No, why? Is it Friday the thirteenth or something?

She turned her phone toward me, her blue eyes bright with mischief. On the screen: 11.11.11. It was a line of ones, 11th November, 2011.

Thats your lucky number, Dadeleven. And today its tripled! Ought to be a smashing day!

If your words were honey, Id have my tea sweetened for life, I chuckled, amused by her faith in numerology.

Young Emily, meanwhile, had her own phone out, barely looking up. Dad, it says here Scorpios are in for a happy encounter and a lifelong gift today.

Brilliant! I said, tongue firmly in cheek. Lets hope theres a great-uncle in America we never knew about, kicked the bucket, and left the entire fortune to us. No doubt, were sole heirs

No, billionaire, Dad, Grace grinned. Millionaire would be pocket change for you!

Too right, not worth our trouble, I winked. Lets say we buy a villa in Italy or maybe down in Cornwall first? Then a yacht

And a helicopter! Emily piped up. Ive always wanted my own helicopter.

No problem. A helicopter it is, with your name on it. And Grace, your wish?

I want to act in a film in Bollywood, with Salman Khan.

Easy, peasycall up Amitabh Bachchan, sort it out. But now, come on, dreamers, down your toast, school wont wait.

Emily sighed, You never let us dream, Dad.

Of course I do, I replied, wiping crumbs from my hands. Dreams are a mustjust dont forget maths homework.

Now, as Im packing shopping into bags at Sainsburys at the end of a rather unremarkable day, those breakfast giggles return to my mind. If only the day had been as magical as my daughters predicted. Far from a windfall, Id had extra paperwork and was so knackered I could barely lift the shopping bags. Not a sniff of a pleasant new acquaintance or a lifelong gift.

Happiness passed by me today like a paper plane over Paris, I snorted to myself as I left the shop.

By my battered but steadfast Ford Cortinaa family fixture for nearly twenty-five yearsI found a lad loitering, no parent in sight. His whole appearance screamed trouble; tattered jacket, different shoes on each footone muddy trainer, one battered black boot tied with a bit of blue wire. His woolly hat had a singed ear flap.

Sir, Im… hungry. Please some bread? the boy mumbled as I neared the car.

He stumbled a bit over the words, which tugged an old memorymy youth in the local theatre group, learning how a pause tells if an actor is truthful or just reciting lines. A tiny pause can let an audience know the difference between truth and fib.

The boy was lying. I could feel ita sixth sense from all those years dealing with waifs and strays. It was all an act, like pantomime. But why? Somehow, I knew all this was put on for my benefit, as if Id been chosen as todays audience.

All right, mate, I thought. Lets see your game. My girls will love this. Theyre always up for a spot of detective work.

You wont fill up on just bread, my lad. How about some stew and mash, a glass of squash, and a sultana bun afterwards? Sound good?

He froze in shock for a moment, taken aback, but pulled himself together, narrowing his eyes at me suspiciously.

Well? I asked. Yes or no?

Yes, he whispered.

Good on you. Hold this a sec, will you?

This was my test. True runaways, when given a bag of food, always tried to dash offbut hunger and exhaustion slowed them, and it was never hard to catch up, give a soft cuff round the ears and a lecture: Youre not an animal, son

I made a show of fumbling for my keys and pretending to phone home.

Grace, have you started the potatoes? Salad prepped? Good girls. Could you also put a bit of stew on the stove for a quick reheat? Ill be home in twenty. Cheers, love.

Fake runaway still didnt bolt. He clung to the bag, toe tracing circles on the tarmac, head hanging.

Thank you, lad, I thought with relief. Dont fancy sprinting today.

At last I found my keys, loaded the shopping, then opened the door for him.

Step right in, young siryour coach awaits for tonights feast.

With a sigh, he edged into the passenger seat. We rode in silence. Our little house was in a village Seven miles from the local town, where Ive been a gas engineer for over a decade. A former foster kid myself, Id never had close family, just the two girls. I adored them, and they loved me back in spades. My own childhoodno mum or dadleft a soft spot for lost children. If I could, Id have adopted a dozen, but the council forever tells me a single father, two kids, no space, not enough moneynot suitable. Anyone would think a care home is better. Ridiculous. I know from bitter experience what lonely, loveless childhood is like. In our home, a child might lack a big house, but theres love beyond measurethe bit that matters.

Fools, all those so-called social workers. They know there are thousands of unhappy kids in perfect homes, overlooked or even worse. Thats legal. But my family is the abnormal oneNo child allowed.

Idiots! I muttered, glancing worriedly at the lad as though he might hear my thoughts.

He was hunched, head down, hat pulled over his face, quiet as a mouse. Maybe his mind was racing too. Strange boynot streetwise like the others, silent and a bit lost. Not a foster kid either, Id wager. Perhaps hes just run away from home. Still green, still scared.

Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe hes just in shock, I thought. Thatd explain the acting Never mind, well get him fed, cleaned up, and loved. Once he settles, hell tell us everything.

Grace and Emily were waiting on the porch, pouncing as soon as the car stopped.

Whos this, Dad? Emily spotted the boy at last.

That? I winked. This is the surprise you predicteda happy encounter, your lifelong gift.

Brilliant, Dad! Emily squealed, pulling open the car door and peering under the boys hat. Some present. Are you sure you found the right one?

Clung to my leg at the shop, yelling he was my prize. No escape, Im afraid.

Whats his name, then? asked Grace.

No idea.

No label? No price tag?

Afraid not.

Looks like you got a faulty one this year, Emily sighed, mock-tragic. Dont worry, Dad, well bin him if he doesnt work.

The boy tensed even more, ready to bolt, so Emily grabbed his shoulder and gave the top of his hat a gentle pat. Hello? Anybody in there?

He pulled into himself even tighter.

Not picking up, Grace shrugged. Maybe the WiFis better inside.

She flashed meaning in her eyesa code we had, thanks to many shared years. I knew what she meant; he was closed off, needed the old good-cop-bad-cop routine, which the girls had perfected over time. I flashed back, Five minutes. NO more. Spreading out a hand for emphasis.

Please, Dad, well be done in three, Grace silently answered.

Right, Emily, bring our guest inside. Time to investigate this Unknown Walking Object!

A moment later Emily all but dragged our stray in, as if he weighed nothing. He squirmed, muttering.

Dad, hes got something rattling inside, Emily whispered, still grinning.

Maybe a bolt loose, or a wires come off, Grace mimicked her, giggling. Dad, fetch pliers and a soldering iron from the shed. Well take him apart, see what makes him tick.

Girls and guest, bags and all, went inside. I went through my evening routineparked the car, wiped it down, tinkered with the bit that always acts up. About fifteen minutes later, Emily burst into the shed.

Dad, the boys lying!

How do you know?

Elementary, Dad. She grinned. He doesnt smell like a street kid. Hes house-trained.

You sniffed him?

Yes. And guess what he smells of?

No idea. Fairy Liquid? Custard creams? Toast?

Three wrong guesses. She shoved her hand under my noseblack smudges all over.

Soot?

Nope, she tapped her hand for me to sniff.

I scratched at a patch. Stage makeup?

Spot on! Hes caked himself in charcoal or somethingso wed feel sorry for him.

He said his names Ben OxleyBen the Bull. I looked it up. Bulls are for breeding.

I snorted. Thats good eating, that is. We could fatten him up, sell him to the butcher

Dad! Emily interrupted, serious now. Really though, Im sure he targeted you on purpose, dressed up like that. Why go to all that effort?

Good question. Grace is trying to crack him now. Shell get to the truth any minute.

Emily hurried off when Grace dashed out, calling, Dad, have you still got that acid in the shed?

Yes, half a bottle left, Emily replied, grabbing a random canister and dashing inside. If he doesnt talk, we dissolve him in the bath!

Monsters! I called after them, still laughing.

Dad! called Grace from the kitchen. Wash your hands, dinners on!

Were starving, might have to gnaw an arm off Ben, Emily teased.

Milk-fedhell be tender, Grace joined in.

What little wolves! I muttered as I washed up, smiling. Poor lad, hope they havent scared him witless.

The poor kid sat in the kitchens centre on a stool, towel-drying bright ginger hair, stripped to a stripy vest and faded blue jeans. For the first time, he looked like any other ten-year-old. He was straightening up, looking us in the eye, acting like just another member of the familyno sign hed been in the gutter half an hour before.

Oi, Bendo you eat real dinner or want some hay? Emily teased.

Or pelleted feed? Grace giggled.

Girls, enough now, I gave my dad-glare. Eat your food.

Aye aye, Captain, they chimed.

Watching sideways, I marvelled at how quickly Ben changedno longer hunched, but sitting tall, quietly taking us in.

Whats your real story, son? I wondered. Youre not here to rob us or anything bad You wanted to be here. Why?

Dad, you all right? Grace broke my spell. You went off again. Want more food?

No, thanks. That was lovely. Good on you both. I took a sip of tea. How long was I out?

Oh, ages, Emily replied. Grace and I grew up and married. These are your grandkids.

Is this your boyfriend? I pointed at Ben, passing my cup to Grace.

This is our house bull, Emily said, ruffling Bens hair.

Were fattening him up. They say beef will be dear next summer, Grace added.

Beef, not bullock Emily corrected, still playing with Bens hair. She suddenly grabbed a lock, twisting it.

Thats enough! Ben jumped off his stool, then, blushing, stammered, Grace, Emily, please I give up. Mr. Benson, Im sorry. I just didnt know how else to do this

Sit, lad. Calm down. Tell us the whole story, I said gently.

Yeah, and the truth, Emily added. No fibbing, or Ill know.

Alright, no lies. I promise

As the truth poured out, even my girls were stunned. Wed imagined everything but this.

His name was Ben Oxley, and he was just a day older than Emilyeleven. His dad died in Afghanistan before Ben was born, leaving Mum heavily pregnant. Only Bens baby sister made italso called Emily. Four of them managed alone, barely any family left. Big sister Lucy was barely old enough to be Mum but fought tooth and nail so the kids wouldnt be split up into foster care. They wobbled through, growing up a bit too quickly.

Last month, Ben noticed Lucy acting oddthin, distracted. He was terrified of losing her too. Turns out, Lucy had fallen madly, hopelessly in lovebut was scared to admit it, even to Ben. Finally, she broke: she was smitten with a bloke she met whilst volunteering, a gas engineer called Mr. Bensonme, as it turned out. Shed heard I sometimes helped vulnerable kids find homes, and was a single dad myself. That gave Ben an idea: act the lost waif, get into our house, see if I was genuine and, most importantly, if my girls were worthy.

Hed planned it all, not realising Grace and Emily would crack him in minutes with their good cop, mad cop act.

I really like you all, Ben said honestly, fidgeting. Grace, Emilyyoure awesome. Mr. Benson, would you please take my sister as your wife? You wouldnt regret it. Shes so lovelyjust like Mum. She wanted to say it herself, but shes afraid.

Of what? Grace asked softly.

That you wouldnt want her because, well, shes got quite a few of us to go with her.

Three times and seven for luck! Emily snorted. You daft thing, quite a few kids isnt a problem. Your manners need sharpening up, though.

Well handle that, Emily said, all business. Dad, why are you so quiet? Are you in shock, or shall we go propose to Lucy ourselves? Or do you not want to get married again?

Its funnylike a film, this, I said, smiling. Ive noticed Lucy for a while, always seemed right somehow. I was married before. Initially, my wife was greatbut she tired of being mum to two. Flew off, left me with the girls Now, with a big bunch of kids will Lucy even want that?

Shes already 23, Ben burst out. She can handle it.

Dad, youre only ten years older. Thats nothing, Emily said.

Youll inspire each other, Grace smiled. Well help out, wont we, Ben?

We will, he nodded.

Nod once for yes, Emily laughed, and both girls pressed close to my shoulders, faces upturned. Come on, Dad! Can we? Please?

Yes but we must ask Lucy

She says yes! Ben jumped up, held out a hand. Thank you, Mr. Benson. As the only man of the family, I give you my sisters hand in marriage.

I shook his handfirm and properand pulled him into a hug. I even shed a tear, though I tried to hide it. Grace had to sniffle, too.

Dad, Emily piped up, switching the mood. This morning you laughed at our predictions, and its turned out exactly as I saida happy new friend and a lifelong presenta big, loving family. Thats what youve always wanted, Dad. And now youve got it.We all burst out laughing then, the tension melting like fog in summer sun. Ben grinnedthe first real, wide grin Id seen from himand in that moment it felt as though every missing piece in our ramshackle puzzle finally clicked into place. There we were: a not-quite-family, daring to try again.

Emily jumped up, squinting at the clock. Its exactly eleven minutes past eleven, Dad! You see? Eleven, elevenon eleven, eleven, eleven. Told you happy things come true!

Your lucky day after all, Dad, Grace whispered, squeezing my hand.

And somehow, as I gazed around that battered kitchenat my girls, this bright-eyed, hopeful boy, crumbs and laughter everywhereI thought, maybe fate did listen. Maybe all those longing little hopes, sent out into the grey, stick sometimes. Maybe today, of all days, when all the ones lined up, wed started something new.

I pulled the lot of them into a clumsy family huddle. Someones elbow went into my ribs. Someones hair was in my face, and Ben giggled so hard he hiccupped. But I didnt mindnot a bit.

Right then, I was the luckiest man alive. Even the only mansurrounded by women, children, stray boys, and the noisy, messy certainty that, against all odds and social worker logic, love finds its own way home.

And as we stood together, I realised: family isnt about blood, or ticking boxes. Its about who you let inand who refuses to leave.

That night, as I tucked in my girls and Ben at last, I caught myself hoping Lucy would come soon. Tomorrow would hold its own adventure, andwhatever happenedall of us would face it together.

Happy encounter. Lifelong gift. Id never believed in magic numbers before, but eleven never looked so lucky.