The Only Man in the House Over breakfast, Vera, the eldest daughter, peered at her phone and asked, “Dad, did you see today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” Instead of answering, she turned her phone to him: on the screen— a row of numbers: 11.11.11, that is, the 11th of November 2011. “That’s your lucky number, Dad—eleven. And today you get three in a row. It’s bound to be an amazing day.” “If only your words came with honey,” Valery chuckled. “Yes, Daddy,” chipped in younger daughter Nadya, eyes glued to her mobile, “Horoscope says Scorpios should expect a pleasant encounter and a lifelong gift.” “Brilliant. Perhaps some distant relative in Europe or America we’ve never met has passed away, and we’re the only heirs—millionaires…” “Billionaires, Dad,” Vera laughed. “Millions would be petty for you.” “Honestly, even billions—what would we do with all that? Buy a villa in Italy? Maldives? A yacht next?” “And a helicopter, Dad,” Nadya squealed, “I want my own helicopter!” “No problem, sweetheart, you’ll have a helicopter. And you, Vera?” “I want to star in a Bollywood film with Salman Khan.” “Oh, that’s easy! I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort it out…Anyway, dreamers, finish up, we’ve got to leave for school.” “Oh, we’re not even allowed to dream?” Nadya sighed. “Not true—dreaming is a must,” said Valery, finishing his tea and standing up from the table. “Just don’t forget about school…” This morning chat came back to him in the supermarket as he loaded groceries into bags. The day was almost done, and it hadn’t turned out special at all. More work, overtime, and tired as a dog. No magical encounters, let alone a lifelong present. “Happiness just flew past, like plywood over Paris,” Valery grinned to himself as he left the shop. By his faithful, twenty-five-year-old British banger, a boy was loitering. Obvious down-and-out. His clothes a patchwork of rags; on his feet one unlaced trainer and a battered boot, held by a blue electrical wire. His hat was an old beat-up earflap cap, with the right flap half-burnt. “Please, sir… I’m hungry… could I have some bread?” the boy rasped as Valery approached the car. It was the slight, very real hesitation in his voice that struck Valery—his years at the local am-dram theatre had taught him to spot truth from acting. This boy was faking. The mask, the shabby look—all a performance, but why? If there’s a sixth sense, Valery felt it now—it was all for his benefit. “Alright, mate, let’s play your game. My girls will love it—they absolutely live for detective stories.” “Bread won’t fill you up,” Valery said to the kid. “How about a bowl of stew, some potatoes with herring, and plum compote with a couple of hot Chelsea buns?” For a moment the boy froze, not expecting this. Then he nodded, clutching the grocery bag handed to him. This was Valery’s test. True runaways always legged it with the food. Not this lad. He stood, fidgeting, but didn’t run. “Come along, sir,” Valery beckoned, holding open the car door. “Your carriage awaits. Spuds are on the boil, soup is warming.” The journey home was quiet. Valery, a welder for over a decade, lived with his daughters in a village outside the county town. Himself a care-leaver, he’d always tried to help unfortunate children, taking them in until new families were found. If it weren’t for the idiotic rules and frozen-hearted officials, he’d have adopted every single one. “Material conditions, single father, already two kids”—as if loveless state care beat a family home where love overflowed. But the system thought otherwise… Arriving home, the girls ran to meet the car. When they spotted the boy: “What’s this, Dad?” “This?” Valery grinned, “This is that pleasant acquaintance and lifelong present you predicted, remember?” “Awesome, Dad,” Nadya said, peering under the boy’s hat. “Maybe you took the wrong one—it looks second-hand.” “If only—he latched on to my leg, wouldn’t let go!” “What’s his name?” Vera asked, dragging the bags inside. “No label, no price tag.” “Shame. Dad, you got a defective one…” The boy grew tense again; Nadya, noticing, clamped him by the shoulder, patting his cap. “Hello? Anyone home?” The boy buried his head turtle-like inside his coat. “Signal’s bad out here,” Vera mimed, “let’s try indoors.” The three of them bustled into the house, the boy squeezed between them “like he was in a vice,” bags in hand—while Valery parked the car and grinned over their antics. Soon, Nadya exploded back in: “Dad, he’s lying!” “How do you know?” “Elementary, Watson—he doesn’t even smell like a street kid! Just… home!” “You sniffed him?” “I did. Want a guess what it is?” “I give up—a bun? Baby soap? Clotted cream?” She held out her hand with black smudges. “Makeup?” “Prize for Dad—it’s theatrical makeup. He slathered it on so we’d think he was a poor, dirty waif.” “He said his name’s Bull,” Nadya carried on, “but it’s an obvious street nickname, like ‘Ox.’ I asked Google, it means ‘breeding bull’…” “…Fat chance, we’ll plump him up and cash in…” “Dad, get serious!” Nadya exclaimed, dropping the jokes. “I’m sure he targeted you on purpose. Dressed up, caked on makeup—theatre of one actor. Why?” “…He’s hiding something, playing a role,” agreed Vera. “Let’s see if we can crack him.” Inside, Valery finally saw the boy cleaned up: about ten, flaming ginger hair, blue eyes, striped vest with “UK” stencilled across it, ripped jeans, bare feet hidden under the chair. He sat at the table, spine straight, shoulders back, as if among family, not strangers. The change was remarkable. After a bit of banter, the pressure was too much for the boy. He admitted the truth. It turned out his name was Sam Buckley; he was only a day older than Nadya—also eleven. His father had died in service overseas, and his mother passed in childbirth. He and his sisters were raised by his eldest sibling, nearly an adult herself, who fought tooth and nail to keep the family together. They muddled through alright, growing up fast together. A while ago, Sam’s sister Sophie had fallen for someone but was too shy to admit it—even to herself. Eventually, Sam found out the chosen one was Valery Boris Zvyagintsev—sober, gentle welder, single father of two. Sam knew Valery sometimes fostered lost children. That inspired his idea: to dress as a vagrant, infiltrate the Zvyagintsevs’ home, investigate them from the inside, and see if they were good enough for his big sister. “I really like you lot, I do. Vera, Nadya, you’re wonderful. Mr. Zvyagintsev, please marry my sister. She’s lovely, you’ll love her—she’s good, kind, just like my mum… She wanted to speak to you herself but was scared you wouldn’t want her because… well, because she’s got a few kids in her care…” “Pfft!” scoffed Vera. “Don’t be daft—‘a few kids.’ Honestly, you need raising properly!” “We’ll sort that,” Nadya announced. “Dad, stop gawping—do we have a deal? Are we going to propose, or not?” Valery smiled. “You know, I noticed Sophie myself… I hesitated—remarriage is a big step. My first wife bailed after two kids; Sophie’s young, with a houseful…” “She’s twenty-three, Dad!” Sam broke in. “That’s not so much older than you, Dad,” Nadya added. “Exactly—you’re experienced, she’s kind, we’ll all help.” “I agree!” Sam said. “Say yes, Dad?” his daughters pleaded, squeezing in tight. Valery grinned through tears. “Alright—let’s go meet the bride…” “Sophie says yes!” Sam shook his hand, pulling him into a hug, “As the only man in my family, I give Sophie’s hand to you…” The girls cheered, Valery hugged Sam, and their new, big, boisterous family began—exactly the lifelong gift they’d been hoping for. The Only Man in the House

The Only Man in the House

11 November 2011

Breakfast always brings chatter, but this morning stood out. My eldest, Emily, was glued to her phone when she piped up, Dad, have you seen the date?

I shook my head, sipping the last of my tea. No, whats special about it?

Without a word, Emily spun her phone around. The screen flashed: 11.11.11. November 11th, 2011.

Thats your lucky number, Dad! Three elevens, all in a row. Todays going to be brilliant for you.

If only fortune worked that way, Em, I chuckled, trying not to drip jam on my shirt.

My youngest, Molly, chimed in without tearing her eyes from her own phone. Horoscope says Scorpios will meet someone special and get a life-changing gift today.

Fantastic, I replied, spreading more marmalade. Perhaps a rich relative in Europe snuffed it, and surprise, surprise, were the only heirsmillionaires!

Billionaires, Dad, Emily grinned, warming to the joke. Millionaires a bit small fry for you.

Oh, right, just think of what we could do with that heap of dosh. First, a villa in the Lake District or maybe down in Cornwall? Then a yacht

And a helicopter! Mollys eyes sparkled. I want my very own heli, Dad!

Of course, darling. And you, Emily? Any dreams?

Id like to be in a filmmaybe with Tom Hiddleston.

Piece of cake. Ill ring up the director, sort it out. Right, girls, finish up. School doesnt wait for daydreamers.

Dreams are all were left with, Molly sighed as she scraped the last of her toast.

Its right to dream, sweetheart, I said, draining my mug and standing. Just dont forget your maths homework.

Those morning jokes kept replaying in my mind all day. Funny how small moments stick. Now, at the Sainsburys till at sunset, loading shopping bags into the car, I reflected on how disappointingly ordinary my day had beenif anything, just the opposite of lucky. More paperwork at the depot, overtime, and no surprise windfalls. Certainly no life-changing gifts.

Happiness went whizzing by, like a crisp packet in the London wind, I smirked as I wrestled a shopping bag onto the back seat of my battered old Ford Escort.

Someone caught my eye a scruffy boy, about ten, loitering near my car. Proper ragged; hair unwashed, clothes more holes than fabric, wearing odd shoesa worn-out trainer on one foot, a cracked Wellington boot on the other, blue wire for a lace. The sort of sight you dont expect in twenty-first century England. His beanie was greasy, one ear-flap half-burnt.

Mister, Im starving have you got any bread? His voice stuttered, oddly formal.

Something about his hesitation, more than his state, made me pause. Reminded me of amateur dramatics back at the village hall as a lad: in stage speech, a real emotion shows in stumbles and breaks, not in the lines themselves.

The boy was acting.

Still, my curiosity was piqued. You dont want just bread. I decided to go along. Fancy a proper meal? Hot stew, potatoes, and maybe sticky toffee pudding?

He falteredjust for a secondbut then nodded.

I handed him a heavy bag of groceries, deliberately fiddling with my keys and taking a call with my back to him. Real street kids used to bolt the second food touched their handsknown that from experience. Nothing like a bit of distraction to see what someones really about.

Molly answered the phone. Did you peel the spuds yet, love? Start the salad? Good. Pop a bit of stew in a pan for me; Ill be home in twenty.

I found the boy still stuck to the spot, clutching the bag, staring at his shoes and scuffing the Tarmac.

No escape plans, eh? I thought with relief, sick of chasing after tearaway boys all the time.

Here you go, lad, I said, patting the passenger door. Your carriage awaits. Stew on, kettle boilinglets get you fed.

He slid in, silent.

We drove through the dusk, me stealing glances. The girls had been nattering, barely able to wait for me at the door when we pulled infront step full of anticipation.

Dad, whos this? Emily demanded as she reached for shopping bags.

That, I grinned, is your mornings prophecy come true: a pleasant encounter and a life-long gift.

Brilliant, Dad, Molly giggled, tugging at the lads sleeve, peering under his hat. Maybe you picked up the wrong present?

He clung to my trouser leg and insisted Im your new gift, I played along.

Whats his name? Emily asked warily.

Says he hasnt got one.

Unlabelled merchandise, Dad? Emily affected a deep sigh. Theyve landed you a dud. We can always bin him after tea.

The boy stiffened. Seeing this, Molly clung to him, joking, Who lives in that hat, then?

Silence. Not even snails tuck in tighter.

Emily nudged us inside: Come on, poor signal out here. Maybe hell work properly in the kitchen.

In the hallway, she shot me a look that said: use the good cop-bad cop routineour old trick for coaxing nervous kids. I flashed five fingers for five-minute limit this time, and Emily gave me a wink, Threes plenty!

Right, in you go, bring our new Unknown Walking Object. Lets see what hes made of, she announced, and with a gentle, practiced grip, my girls ushered the lad in like he was part of the weekly shop.

After putting the car away, the inevitable investigation began. Molly sprinted to the garage, waving ink-stained hands. Dad! Hes fibbing!

Oh? How dyou tell?

Elementary, Holmes. He doesnt reek of the streetshe smells like home.

You sniffed him? I tried to keep a straight face.

She flashed her hands under my nose. Go on, sniff.

I paused, then laughed. Greasepaint, not grime.

Prize for you, Dad! Hes lathered in stage makeuppretending to be grubby.

He says hes called Bull, she added. Probably a made-up nickname. Online says bull means a strong, leading male

Well fatten him up and send him to market then, I joked weakly.

Dad, be serious! Im sure he came straight for you, in costume, with a plan.

Before she could finish, Emilys voice rang from the kitchen, Are we out of sulphuric acid?

Half a bottle left! Molly quipped, grabbing a random canister. We use it to dissolve evidence now, Dad!

The two conspired down the hall, hamming it up for our guest. I washed up, listening to giggles, hoping they werent scaring the life out of him.

Finally, I slipped into the kitchen. The boy was perched on a stool, dripping hair from a recent wash, eyes darting from casserole to salad. His freckles, auburn fringe, and shy smile reminded me heartbreakingly of someone I couldnt quite place.

Sit up to table, Bull, Molly said, shoving a plate his way. You want hay or table scraps?

I shot the girls a look. Enough. Eat your dinner, please.

But as the meal went on, the lad transformed. From hunched and nervous to sitting tall, revealing his real selfclever, curious eyes, quick mind. The girls noticed too, and sent each other puzzled looks. He had a home somewhere, of that I was certain.

After dinner, Emily pulled my sleeve, Dad? You still with us? Want more tea?

Im all right, thanks. Nice spread as always.

Your girls are all grown, Dad, Molly teased. This boys our new pet bull.

Just fattening up for winter, Emily played along.

Molly twisted a lock of the boys hair. He jerked away and at last spoke up, voice trembling, Emily, Molly please stop. I give in. Mr. Barrett, Im sorry. I didnt mean to be silly. Can I explain?

I nodded, and he took a deep breath, launching into an incredible story.

His name was Arthur Bullman (and to prove it, he flashed a battered birth certificate). He was just a day older than Molly, both eleven. His father had been a British soldier lost in Afghanistan before Arthur was born, leaving his mum expecting. A difficult birth nearly took both mum and baby sister, Nadia. Four of them survived. Their big sister, Sophie, barely out of school herself, fought off social services to keep the family together.

Arthur explained that recently, Sophie became withdrawn and sadeventually confessing to Arthur that she was smitten with someone she could never hope to marry: me. All she knew was that I worked as a welder, didnt drink, raised my girls alone after the girls mum left for Spain with someone else. She also knewthanks, I suppose, to nosy neighboursthat I often helped abandoned kids find homes because Id once been in care myself.

Arthur, the only man in the house, felt responsible for Sophies happiness. So hed concocted his street-child act to see what sort of man I was, and whether Id make a good husband for his sister.

Were not some lot you can just vet, Arthur! Emily huffed, half teasing, half touched.

Arthur hung his head. I like you all so much. Please, Mr. Barrett, will you marry my sister Sophie? Shes the kindest person. I was meant to scout, not lie, but I couldnt think what else to do

The girls leapt in, Molly declaring, Hes right, Dad! Sophies lovely. And youre not old at alljust wise!

The girls pressed on, all giggles and pleading faces.

I realised Id been thinking of Sophie tooa lovely, gentle woman whod stood out at the playgroup and the school gates for months, but Id always held back. My first wife had left when the girls were tinycould I risk another heartbreak, especially with a whole ready-made family?

But as the laughter bounced off the kitchen tiles, I realised this, right here, was the happiness Id always wanted but never dared hope for againa busy, noisy, loving home. Maybe dreams did owe us a little kindness.

As Arthur solemnly shook my hand, offering his sisters in marriage, I eyed the girls welling up and grumbled, Look at this, all these tears over a dinner guest!

Molly poked me, grinning. See, Dad? You didnt believe in lucky days, but we were right! You got your new friend and a family-sized gift: the biggest, messiest, happiest family you always dreamed of.

And, today, I think shes right.