Granddad, eat! the little boy clutched at the coattail of the lanky, overcoated man, his hands trembling, his other fingers probing his lips.
John Telford gave his grandson a sideways glance, tightened the redandblack checkered scarf around his neck a long, woollen, frayed thing with a fringe.
The fringe always got in Sams face whenever his grandfather leaned in and tried to speak. Now the stray strands brushed the boys chilled cheeks, sending a prickling sting through his reddened nose.
Sam scrunched his face, rubbed his cheeks, then stared at John with that pleading look that only a child can muster.
Come on, the old man growled, his voice low and rough. Whats that? Eatsay it proper, do you hear? Say Im hungry! He peered into Sams eyes with his own redveined stare.
Their eyes were mirror images, one a tiny replica of the other. Johns eyes had seen too much, never shedding tears, burning only with a stern, unbending resolve. Sams eyes saw only home and nursery, and on rare occasions the pub where his granddad took him to meet his old mates. Sams eyes wept silently, so quietly that no one would scold him.
Eat, the boy whispered.
Eat! bellowed the grandfather.
Ee, Sam tried again.
They could have stared at each other forever, while snow fell in endless sheets, wrapping the two kin in a white blanket of misunderstandingif a woman hadnt stepped in. It was Margaret Whitaker, the cook from the workers canteen All For Soup, her cheeks lit by the string lights draped over the doorway.
Sam? Is that you? Margaret called, coughing loudly. Whats that scarf, dear? Red as a robinsare you trying to summon Father Christmas?
Its mine, John grumbled, straightening up and thrusting his nose toward Margarets ample chest. Ive had this scarf for ages. No need to fuss.
Right, youre getting cantankerous, Margaret replied, shaking her head. Did they send the lad to you again? Has Lucy gone off on a work trip?
Lucys away on assignment, John said, spitting out the words. Shes out for the month.
Ah, shes left you a load of trouble, isnt she? Didnt your boys father show up? Margaret teased, brushing the snow off Sams hat with her gloved hand.
Johns face hardened. I remembered his first night. He hasnt turned up. Hes got his own problems, a proper bloke. Understand, Sam? He gave the boy a crooked smile. Sam shrugged. I dont get it. Maybe its better this way.
Whether its right or wrong isnt for us to decide, Margaret said, blowing a puff of soupscented air onto Sams face. Whats all this bickering about?
She smelled of broth, meatballs and something sweet. Sam didnt recognize it, but his stomach rumbled.
Its simple, John began, his eyebrows knotted. He doesnt eat in the garden, the caretakerGwenclaims the boy will turn out a drudge. Hes taken him home, fed him scraps, and the lad keeps whining ee. Let him learn to say Im hungry, then Ill buy him a bun. Thats my final word. He pressed his forehead together, as if sealing a deal.
Margaret stared at him a moment, hands on her hips, biting her lower lip, then slapped Sams thin back hard enough to make John wobble.
My final word then, she said. I wont let a starving child go hungry. Hes no invalid, hes just slow. Hell catch up. You think you can, Sam?
Sam stared at her, feeling an odd knot in his belly.
So, lets go to the canteen. Im off today, so Ill look after you. Therell be enough room at the stove for everyone. Follow me, you little wretches! She waved a hand as if leading a battalion.
Weve no time for that, John muttered, turning away. Its time to go home.
He didnt want to wander strangers streets. Better to limp up to his flat on the eighth floor, press the lift button for Sam, count the seconds as the boy fidgeted. Sam would pull his arm, whine, and John would curse the boys stubbornness.
Sam would fall silent, then start his ee againspeechless, mute.
And off they went, while Margaret watched them go with a sigh. She wanted to care for someone; it didnt matter who, just to warm, feed, and soothe. Not John, of coursehe wasnt her type. But the shy little Sam
Winter never seemed to end. Lucy hopped from one assignment to another, the grandfather still took Sam to the garden, grumbling as he fastened the boys cap, buttoning his coat with shaking hands. They trudged on, their red scarf flashing like a beacon in the blizzard over the sleepy, tired town. Margaret watched their passage from the doorway.
One particularly bleak day, she could no longer stand the sight and dragged them into her canteen.
Dont go home, Sam! Alexander! John roared, reaching for his grandsons hand.
He knew theyd reached a limit. Beyond it lay darkness and despair. Whether Sam understood or not was another matter; the lad often searched for his mothers scent in the hallway, clutched at her coat, and feared his grandfather.
Sometimes Sam cried in his sleep, reaching for someone; John slipped a hand over his, but Sam pushed it away.
That foolish love of yours! John snarled. You dont need a mother! Shes at the pub, glass in hand, while you whine here
Seeing the endless evenings of suffering, John finally agreed to visit Margarets workplace.
Right then, John! Whats at home? Ive got a cake! Come on! she shouted, leading the way, men of all sizes trailing behind.
The canteen was packed to the brimcheap, hearty, and comforting, just like home cooking. The menu: soup, roast, buttered peas, a simple salad, and sometimes a pilaf. Margaret had learned to make it from a lover, never in a big pot but still turning out something that tasted like a sigh of relief. Sweet carrots, finely diced onion, rice grains separate, buttery, glossy, meat in just the right amount.
Enjoy, lads! Margaret chirped as they thanked her.
She cooked as if feeding her own familyplump children and a hardworking husband. Hed sip a dram, chew a salty herring, jabber about politics, then sing a song. Shed always wanted three kids, gender irrelevant; she just craved a warm little bundle nursing at her breast. Shed make porridge, compote, soupsfeed them well. But life never went that way.
Why was Margaret alone? She never told anyone. She just lived, and that was that. The world has many women like her.
A few heads turned as they passed the dining hall, nodding at the triograndfather, grandson, and cook. Regulars tipped their hats.
Margaret opened the staff room doora modest room with two tables, a bed, a wardrobe. Come in, Sam, hungry boy, she said, ushering him to a tiny stool. Sit, little bear. She placed a chair for the grandfather and then, with a mockstern fist, pretended to lift a horse.
John reluctantly stripped off his coat, shivering. Hed been feverish for days, bones aching, wishing for tea and a bun. And now Sam
Sams mother, Lucy, had informed his father right after the birth that something was wrong.
Did we drop him? John asked, frowning. Did you miss something?
No, I didnt want to go out. It would have been better if Id never been born, Lucy muttered, irritated.
Dont worry, well manage, John tried to reassure. Sam! Sam! he called, leaning over the cot where the infant wriggled.
Months passed, then Lucy disappeared, leaving John to care for Sam alone. He took him to the garden, washed him, fed him, fried two eggs for them both. They ate in silence, forks clinking. John sipped a dram, and a teacher inside him woke.
After washing dishes, hed sit with sleepy Sam on the sofa, hold him, and watch Youth after episode after episode. Sam struggled to look at pictures, but John pointed with his finger, urging the boy to repeat words.
Sam tried. He watched Johns lips, mimicked, then stammered something. John would get angry, throw a magazine, and Sam would go to bed.
Did John love his grandson? He didnt know. He loved, perhaps, in his own clumsy way.
Come on, lads, grab a spoon! Margaret burst into the room with a tray piled high.
Sam turned away and began to sob.
In the garden, Mrs. Gill, a neighbour, squeezed his lips, trying to feed him soup. He twisted, and she cursed.
Margaret settled beside a stool, took a breath, and began to eat. Warmth spread through Johns cold body, scented with bay leaves and pickles.
Weve known each other for how long? Margaret asked Sam. Thirty years, right? Weve fought, made up, even I once called him husband! She chuckled, pushing a spoonful of broth into Sams mouth. Good? See, you must always eat well. Life is for joy.
Where does joy come from when a child is alone, without mum, and I cant help? Sam protested. Maybe a doctors pills? Margaret replied sharply.
Joy comes from everywhere, she said, firm. You must grin and carry on.
Sam opened his mouth, reached for a spoon, and clumsily brushed Margarets shoulder.
Sorry, love, she murmured, scooping a bigger portion.
The soup vanished, followed by a meatball dripping with gravy, then mashed potatoes on which Margaret drew funny faces, smearing them into a smooth field.
Tea came with a slice of apple cakeher special treatshared with Johns wife, who welcomed it without jealousy, and John loved hearing Margaret sing.
Her low voice, deep from the chest, filled the room, making Johns own hum echo. Sam echoed the hum, then whispered the last line of a song about a horse sprinting across a poppy field.
Sam was that horseyoung, unsteady, stumbling, scared.
Later, Margaret helped Sam into his coat, then said, John, give me a call if you need anything.
John nodded.
A few days later John fell ill, couldnt get out of bed. He still had to wake Sam, feed him, take him to the nursery, get himself ready for workcough gnawed at him, a fever dizzying his head, and night fell.
Sam, frightened, sat on the edge of his grandfathers bed, pulling on his socks and sweater.
Look at you, all dressed, John whispered, smiling. Sam, I love you, hear? I love you very much!
It was the first time hed said it outright. Hed been shy before.
Sam lunged onto Johns chest, pressed his lips to the chin, then hugged his neck tightly.
John felt he was everyone Sam neededmother, father, anyone. Sam finally understood.
Margaret knocked on their door, urging Sam to open it. When it finally swung, John stood there, grey and frail.
What now? Margaret snarled. Youll die, you fool? Lucy will fetch you from the coffin! Ill do it too! She dragged bags into the kitchen.
She later gave John painful injections in his fifth point.
Sam turned his head to Johns scalp and stroked his hair.
Dont cry, Margaret whispered, itll pass. She administered another shot.
John groaned, then roared with laughter, flipping Sam onto his lap, shaking him.
Dont lie, lad! Im not whining. Ive got you, so why should I complain? he muttered.
Something clicked in Sam; words began to flow. In summer, sitting on the riverbank with his grandfather, Sam swatted a mosquito off Johns hand and said clearly:
I love you, understand?
Understood, John shrugged, then weptjoyful tears. Margaret told them to be glad. She was right; happiness sat beside them, barefoot, chatting. Lucy had run off with the boy, so what of her?
The pair became regulars at All For Soup, and Margaret always kept an eye out for them, peeking through the window on her shift.
Lets strike a deal, love, John said one day. Just friendship and respect, no funny business.
Of course! Margaret laughed. You still need feeding, after all.
John felt a sting of pride, then bought her a bouquet of chrysanthemums from the florist.
Theyre blooming late, Sam noted, recalling a song Margaret often sang.
The love lives on in my ailing heart, John said, tapping his chest.
Sam darted after him, hopping joyfully. A good day. But the chrysanthemumswere they worth the fuss? Time will tell.
