The winter of 1987 is one of those winters people remember not for how cold it got, but for how long the queues were. The snow is heavy, yet the city is always up before it. By five in the morning, outside the corner shop on the estate, the lights are still off, but the queues already started.
No ones really sure whats arriving today. Someones heard therell be milk and meat. People turn up clutching empty bottles in shopping bags, wrapped in thick coats and looking weary. They settle into the queue, one after the other, slowly, as though its something theyve done all their lives.
Margaret is sixth in line. Shes thirty-eight and works at a clothing factory. She set her alarm for half past four, drank her tea in the dark, and slipped out of her flat without making a sound. Back home, her husband is still sleeping, quietly hoping there might be a little extra on the table today.
The queue lengthens quickly. People scribble down their names on scraps of paper. Someone remembers the order; someone else pops home and then returns. Tea is shared from a flask, and short, dry jokes are swapped as a way to get by. No one complains out loudtheres no point.
At some point, halfway down the line, Margaret spots her.
Shes huddled at the back by the building wall, pressed tight against the cold bricks. Small, with a thin headscarf knotted tightly under her chin and an old coat far too light for this chill. Her hands shake visibly, her shopping carrier dangling from her fingers.
Its Mrs. Violet.
Margaret recognises her straight away. She lives two blocks over. She lost her husband just two months agohe passed suddenly, and since then, you hardly ever see her out. Now, there she stands in the queue alone, silent, staring at the pavement.
Mrs. Violet, Margaret calls out.
The old lady lifts her head, as if she hadnt expected to hear a familiar voice. When she sees who it is, she offers a faded smile.
Margaret glances at her own place in the queueshe was fifteenth. Then she looks back at the elder.
Come on, stand up here with me. Its too cold for you back there.
Mrs. Violet tries to protest, but Margaret is already making space. People around them understand without needing any explanation. Someone quietly mutters, “Let her through, love.” The old lady moves up to Margarets spot, and Margaret heads further back herself.
Time slips byalmost forty minutes. The queue creeps forward slowly. When the shop finally opens, the word spreads as usual, abrupt and without sympathy: the milk and eggs will only stretch to the first twelve people.
Margaret does the maths and knows she wont get anything this morning. Yet shes glad that at least Mrs. Violet, now near the front thanks to Margarets kindness, wont go home empty-handed.
Where are you going? Come back herethis place was meant for you! Im an old woman, I dont need much. You shouldnt go home with nothing, the elder calls after her.
No need, Mrs. Violet. I was happy to move back. Ill manage until next time something comes in.
My dear, come here. Take my place. Im leaving now, cant be doing with this anymore.
Others in the line watch, a strange combination of wonder and respect in their faces. Its hard to be generous on an empty stomach, and these acts of kindness are growing rare to see out in the open.
Margaret steps forward to the old lady, a little surprised by her stubbornness. She threads her arm through Mrs. Violets and says,
Mrs., dont go. Well just wait together, and when its our turn, well split whatever we get. Just dont leave with nothing.
Mrs. Violet just nods, nothing more. They huddle closer, almost for warmth. Arm in arm, two small figures bracing themselves as the line inches forward.
When they finally reach the counter, theres just one lot left. Thats it. Milk, a few eggs and a scant piece of meat. Margaret speaks up right away,
Well share.
The shop assistant looks at them, at their red-knuckled hands, at how Mrs. Violet leans on Margaret, at the calm acceptancethey seem more intent on making sure neither leaves empty-handed. She says nothing, hesitates for a few seconds, then puts down the scales. Quietly, she draws the blind a little, to block the view from the rest of the queue. Then, from under the counter, she pulls out a bottle of milkone last bottle, kept hidden just in case. She slips it carefully into their bag, silent about it.
She splits the meat, drops half into each basket, and ties the bags with tight knots.
This ways better, she murmurs. Youll both have something.
Margaret tries to thank her, but the words catch in her throat. Mrs. Violet bows her head and whispers a God bless you, lost in the chatter of the crowded shop.
The assistant waves them on with a flick of her hand. Go on, youve had enough of the cold.
They step out into the snow without a backward glance. The line is thinning now. People who witnessed the moment dont say a thingbut theyll remember.
Not many ever knew this story. It stayed with those few who were there that cold winter morning, at an ordinary queue outside the corner shop. It landed exactly where it was neededwith folk who needed a quiet reminder they werent alone, even if theyd never say so out loud.
Later, the tale is passed from person to person, simply told, stripped of embellishment. You know what happened once in a queue? Thats how these stories begin. No one makes them out to be something great. Theyre just memories.
Because in those years, the queues werent just about food. They were about people. About how they recognised each other at a glance, how they saved each others place, how someone always moved aside for an elder or someone more tired. About how, from everyones little bit, something like normal life could still take hold.
Margaret and Mrs. Violets story is just one of many. Things like it happened outside scores of corner shops, on countless chilly mornings. Not all ended happily. But there were enough to last in memory.
Sometimes, in the midst of want, the only thing that never ran out was kindness.
If this story has brought a memory to mind, do share your experience in the comments. Some stories need nothing more than to be passed on.
