When They Brought Young Robbie Rogov Home from the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Said, “What a Strapping Lad. He’ll Be a Real Giant One Day.” His Mother Said Nothing—She Was Already Looking at the Bundle in Her Arms as If He Were Not Her Own. Robbie Never Became a Giant. He Became the Odd One Out: Born, but With Nowhere to Belong. “Your odd son’s in the sandpit again, scaring off all the children!” Auntie Linda, the neighbourhood watchdog, would shout from her second-floor balcony. Robbie’s mother, weary and hollow-eyed, would snap back, “Don’t like it? Don’t look. He’s not bothering anyone.” In truth, Robbie bothered no one. Big, awkward, head always down, long arms hanging at his sides. At five, he was silent. At seven, he’d grunt. At ten, he finally spoke—in a voice so raspy and cracked you’d wish he hadn’t. At school, he was relegated to the back of the classroom. Teachers would sigh at his vacant gaze. “Rogov, are you listening?” the maths teacher would ask, tapping the board with chalk. Robbie would nod. He was listening. He just saw no point in answering. Why? They’d give him a pass to keep up the stats and send him on his way. His classmates didn’t bully him—they were afraid. Robbie was built like a young ox. But they didn’t befriend him either, circling wide as one would a deep puddle—careful, almost squeamish. Home was no better. His stepdad arrived when Robbie turned twelve and laid down the law: “I don’t want to see him when I get home from work. Eats a lot, good for nothing.” So Robbie disappeared. Roamed building sites, hid in basements. Learned to become invisible—his only skill: blending into walls, cement, grime underfoot. On the night his life changed, a miserable drizzle filled the air. Fifteen now, Robbie sat on a stairwell between the fifth and sixth floors. Home was off-limits; stepdad’s friends were over—loud, smoky, and likely violent. The door across the hall creaked open. Robbie shrank further into the corner. Out stepped Mrs. Tamsin Ilchester, an odd, spry woman in her sixties who carried herself like she was forty. The whole block thought she was strange. She didn’t gossip on the benches or complain about the price of tea, always walked with her back straight. She looked at Robbie—not with pity or disgust, but analytically, as one might a broken gadget, weighing if it was fixable. “Why are you loitering?” she said in a low, commanding tone. Robbie sniffed. “Just am.” “Just cats are born ‘just am’,” she shot back. “Are you hungry?” Robbie was. Always hungry. At home, the fridge was home to little but air. “Well? I don’t offer twice.” He stood, awkward and massive, and followed. Mrs. Ilchester’s flat was unlike any other: books—everywhere, the scent of old paper and something delicious, meaty. “Sit,” she nodded at a stool. “Wash your hands first—there’s soap.” He obeyed. She served him a proper meal—potatoes and real beef stew. He hadn’t tasted actual meat in years. He ate fast, barely chewing. She watched, chin perched in hand. “No one’s taking it from you. Chew properly, or your stomach will curse you,” she said calmly. He slowed. “Thank you,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t use your sleeve. Napkins exist, you know,” she pushed a packet towards him. “You, my boy, are wild. Where’s your mum?” “At home. With him.” “Thought so. Not wanted in your own family.” She said it matter-of-factly, like reporting the rain or that bread’s gone up in price. “Listen, Rogov,” she said sharply. “You’ve two options. Drift on, loiter about—and you’ll end up lost before your time. Or get your act together. You’re strong—I can see—but you’ve air between your ears.” “I’m thick,” Robbie admitted. “That’s what school says.” “School says all sorts. That’s a place for average minds. You’re not average. You’re different. Those hands of yours—put them to use.” He looked at his broad, battered knuckles. “Don’t know how.” “We’ll see. Tomorrow, come fix my tap—drips like a leaky roof and calling a plumber is daylight robbery. I’ll lend you tools.” So began his apprenticeship with Mrs. Ilchester—taps, then sockets, then locks. Turned out, his hands were magic. He understood how things fit together, not with words but an almost animal intuition. She showed no mercy—taught him properly. “Not like that!” she barked. “Who holds a screwdriver like a spoon? Get some leverage!” And would rap his knuckles with a wooden ruler. She gave him books—not textbooks, but tales of real people overcoming the worst, stories of explorers, inventors, pioneers. “Read. Or your brain will rot. Think you’re the only one like you? Millions were—yet they made it. You, too.” He slowly learned her story: Mrs. Ilchester had spent her life as an engineer at the local factory. Widowed early, no children. The factory closed in the nineties; she scraped by on pensions and a bit of technical translating, but she never broke. Never grew bitter. Just lived—straight-backed, stern, and solitary. “I’ve got no one,” she said once. “And you, well, you’ve no one either. But that’s not an end. That’s a start. Understand?” Robbie wasn’t sure he did. But he nodded. When Robbie turned eighteen and the time came for national service, she called him for a serious talk—set the table, even baked pies. “Listen, Robert,”—the first time she used his full name—“don’t come back here. This place will drag you under. It never changes—same block, same people, same hopelessness. Once you’ve served, find a new life. Go north, work the building sites—anywhere but here, understood?” “I understand.” She pressed an envelope into his hand. “Thirty thousand. Every penny I’ve saved. Enough to start if you’re smart. And remember: you owe nothing to anyone—but yourself. Become someone, Robert. Not for me—for you.” He wanted to refuse, but saw in her stern eyes—he couldn’t. This was her final lesson, her last command. He left. And didn’t look back. Twenty years passed. The estate changed. Old poplars felled, tarmac poured over for car parks. The benches by the entry were cold, metal. The building, stubborn, weather-beaten, but still standing. A black Range Rover pulled up. Out stepped a man: tall, broad, weathered by northern winds, but with a calm, assured gaze. It was Robert Rogov—now Robert Ilchester, as his team called him. Owner of a major construction firm in the North. One hundred and twenty staff, three major projects underway, known for doing things right. He’d built himself up from the ground—labourer, foreman, manager, studied at night, earned his qual, saved, invested, failed twice, rebuilt twice. The thirty grand Mrs. Ilchester had given him, he’d repaid many times over—sent her money every month, though she scolded and threatened to bin it. But she always took it. Then, the transfers started coming back. “Recipient not found.” He stared at the fifth floor window. Dark. Women now sat in the courtyard—strangers; the old crowd long gone. “Excuse me,” he asked one, “do you know who’s in forty-five? Mrs. Ilchester?” They perked up—a man like that, turning up. “Oh love, Mrs. Ilchester… Well, she got real bad. Memory went, started getting muddled. Signed her flat over to some so-called family, and now… Last we heard, whisked off to some village. Nicky, remember the name?” “Sunnyside, I think—that old cottage. Some nephew showed up, but she never had family. Something fishy. The flat’s getting sold.” A cold dread crept up his spine. He knew this scam well: lonely old folk, tricked into signing deeds, shuffled off to nowhere—if they’re lucky. “Where’s this Sunnyside?” “Forty miles past the town—roads’ bad, but you’ll manage.” He nodded, jumped in his 4×4, and sped off. Sunnyside was a dying village of three streets, half boarded up, puddles everywhere, only a handful of pensioners and families with nowhere else to go. Locals helped him find the place: a slumping cottage, fence half down, mud and neglect everywhere. Ragged laundry flapped on a line. Robert nudged the gate—it groaned. A man appeared: unshaven, thin-eyed, morning drinker by the look. “What d’you want, mate? Lost?” “Mrs. Ilchester?” “There’s no Ilchester here. Off you go.” Robert didn’t argue—he stepped forward, took the man by the collar, moved him aside as easily as shifting a stick. Inside, the stench of damp, mould, and waste. Dirty plates, empty bottles. And in the back— On an iron bed, she lay—tiny, spent, hair matted, earthy complexion, deep shadows under her eyes, lips cracked. But it was her—his Mrs. Ilchester, who taught him tools, taught him belief, gave him everything. Her eyes opened—clouded, unfocused. “Who’s there?” Her voice was frail, broken. “It’s me, Mrs. Ilchester. Robbie. Rogov. Remember? Fixed your taps.” For a long moment she blinked, the tears welling. “Robbie…” she whispered. “You came back… Grown so big. A real man…” “A man, Mrs. Ilchester. Because of you.” He wrapped her—so light—carefully in a blanket, scooped her up. Beneath the hospital smell he caught a whiff of old paper and soap—her. “Where are we going?” she asked, fearful. “Home. My home. It’s warm there. And there are books—many books. You’ll love it.” At the door, the man tried to block them: “Hey, where you off with her? Show your papers! She left me the house, I look after her!” Robert stopped, met his eyes—calm, not angry. That calm was scarier than rage. “My lawyers can sort what she’s left you,” Robert said evenly. “So can the police. The courts, too. And if you tricked her here—it will all come out, and I’ll make sure you get what’s coming. Understood?” The man nodded, shrinking. It took months: assessments, courts, paperwork. Proved the gift invalid—signed in confusion. The man, a small-time con artist, was convicted. The flat returned. He was sent away. But Mrs. Ilchester no longer needed the flat. Robert built a home. Not a mansion, but a genuine, solid timber house on the edge of a northern city. Thick larch, real fire, big windows. Mrs. Ilchester lived on the sunniest ground floor. The best doctors, a gentle carer, good food. She filled out, colour came back. Memory never fully returned—she’d mix up dates, faces—but her spirit stayed. She read again, told off the cleaner for dust. “What’s with the cobwebs—this a home or a shed?” It made Robert smile. He didn’t stop there. One day, he returned from work with a thin, guarded young lad—sharp cheek scar, baggy clothes. “Meet Alex,” he told Mrs. Ilchester, ushering him into the lounge. “Found him on the site. No home. Care-leaver, just eighteen. Golden hands, mind’s a bit adrift.” Mrs. Ilchester closed her book, adjusted her glasses, and examined him. “Well, don’t just stand there like a statue—hands washed, then dinner. Soap’s in the loo. We’re having meatballs.” A month later, a girl appeared—Katie, twelve, a limp in one leg, always looking down. Robert took her in—her mother lost custody for drink and abuse. The house filled. This was no charity for show. This was family—the family of those no one wanted. The family of the outcast, who found one another. Robert watched as Mrs. Ilchester taught Alex to hold a plane, smacking his knuckles with the old wooden ruler; as Katie, perched in a chair, slowly, shyly read a book aloud. “Robert!” Mrs. Ilchester would bark. “Don’t just stand there! Lend a hand—the kids can’t shift the bookcase alone!” “Coming!” he’d call. He’d go to them—this strange, awkward, wonderful family. For the first time in forty years, he felt he belonged. He was not the odd one out anymore. “So, Alex,” he asked one night as the house slept. “How are you finding it here?” The boy sat on the porch, staring at the vast northern stars. “All right, Mr. Rob. Just… “What?” “It’s weird, that’s all. Why’d you bother? I’m nobody.” Rob sat beside him, offered him an apple. “You know, someone once told me—‘Only cats are born for no reason.’” Alex snorted. “What’s that mean?” “It means nothing truly happens for nothing. Not the good, nor the bad. You’re here now—not by accident. Nor am I.” Inside, Mrs. Ilchester’s lamp burned late—reading, against doctor’s orders. Robert shook his head. “Get some sleep, Alex. Tomorrow’s busy—we’re fixing the fence.” “Yeah. ’Night, Mr. Rob.” “’Night.” He stayed a moment in the hush—no shouts, no squabbles, no fear. Just insects and the distant hum of the road. He knew he couldn’t save everyone—even all the strays tossed by life’s roadside. But these—he’d saved. Mrs. Ilchester, too. Himself, as well. And for now—that was enough. And tomorrow, he’d carry on the way she taught him.

When Charlie Rowe was brought out of the maternity ward, the nurse nodded at his mum and said, My, what a big lad. Hell be a real bruiser one day. His mum said nothing. Even back then, she looked at her bundle as though he was not really hers at all.

Charlie didnt grow up to be a bruiser. Instead, he became the one no one quite knew what to do with. You know the typeborn, but with no obvious place in the world.

Your odd childs scaring off all the others in the sandpit again! Auntie Linda would shout from her first floor balcony, ever the neighbourhood activist and self-appointed judge of all playground politics.

Charlies mum, worn out and hollow-eyed, would just snap back, Then dont watch. Hes not bothering anyone.

And it was trueCharlie never bothered a soul. He was tall, lanky, always looking at the ground, with long arms that hung by his sides. He was silent at five, grunted at seven, and by ten, he spoke, but in a hoarse, cracked voice that made you wish he hadnt.

At school, they put him at the very back. Teachers would sigh and glance at his vacant stare.

Rowe, are you even listening? the maths teacher would ask, rapping chalk against the board.

Charlie always nodded. He was listening. He just didnt see the point of replying. Why bother? Theyd slap a C on his report to keep the stats up and send him on his way, regardless.

Nobody picked on himhe was sturdy, built like a young ox. But nobody befriended him either. The kids skirted around him like a deep puddleuncomfortable, avoiding any contact.

Home wasnt any better. His stepdad turned up when Charlie was twelve and made his stance clear from the get-go:

I dont want to see him when I get home. Eats loads, but useless.

So Charlie vanished. He wandered construction sites, loitered in basements. He learned to blend into the background, to be invisible. That was his only skillmelding into the walls, the grey concrete, even the muck under his feet.

The night everything changed, it was drizzling that wet, pitiful kind of rain England does so well. Fifteen-year-old Charlie was sitting on the stairwell between the fifth and sixth floors of his block. Home was off limitsstepdad had mates over, so thered be noise, smoke, and maybe even a smack or two.

Across the way, a door creaked open. Charlie cringed into the corner, trying to make himself smaller.

Out stepped Mrs. Margaret Townsend. Lived alone, well past sixty, but held herself like she was not a day over forty. The whole estate thought she was oddnever gossiped on the benches, never bemoaned supermarket prices, always walked tall.

She eyed Charlienot with pity, not with disgust, but appraisingly, like a faulty gadget she might be able to fix.

What are you doing sitting there? she asked, firm and direct.

Charlie sniffed. Just sitting.

Kittens are born for no reason at all, she shot back. Are you hungry?

Charlie was always hungry. His body was eating itself, but the fridge at home was a wasteland.

Well? Im not offering twice.

He stumbled to his feet, uncurling his height awkwardly, and followed her inside.

Her flat wasnt like the others. Books everywhereon shelves, the floor, chairs. The air thick with that smell of old paper and something meaty.

Sit, she nodded towards the stool. But wash your hands first. Theres soap by the sink. Use it.

Charlie washed his hands, obedient. She placed a big plate of mash and stew in front of him. Real chunks of beef, not sausages or cheap hamproper meat. He couldnt remember the last time hed had such a feast.

He ate like a wild thing, barely chewing. Margaret watched him, head propped on her hand.

No need to rush, she said calmly. Chew your food. Your tummyll thank you.

Charlie slowed down.

Ta, he mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Not on your sleeve. Thats what napkins are for. She slid a packet toward him. Youve not exactly been tamed, have you? Wheres your mum?

At home. With my stepdad.

I see. Spare part in your own family.

She said it so matter-of-factly that Charlie didnt even feel sad. It was just cold reality, like its raining or breads gone up again.

Listen up, Rowe, she said, suddenly sharp. Youve got two choices. Let your life drift and youll end up slouching about, fading out young. Or you can sort yourself out. Youve got brawnI can see that. But upstairs she tapped her head, its all a bit drafty, isnt it?

Im thick, Charlie admitted. Teachers tell me all the time.

Teachers say all sorts, she snorted. Schools are for average brains. Youre not average. Youre just different. What can you do with your hands, eh?

Charlie glanced at his big, battered knuckles. Dunno.

Well soon find out. Come round tomorrow. My taps leakingwont pay a plumber that much. Ill lend you the tools.

From then on, Charlie went to see Margaret almost every evening. First it was leaky taps, then sockets and locks. Turned out, his hands really were magiche could feel how to fix things, almost by instinct.

Mrs. Townsend didnt coddle. She taught himblunt and demanding.

Not like that! she barked. Youre gripping the screwdriver like its a spoonput your weight behind it!

Shed rap his knuckles with a wooden rulerpainful, mind.

Shed toss him booksnot textbooks, but life stories: survival tales, explorers, inventors, pioneers.

Read, shed say. Keep your mind moving, or itll go stale. Think youre the only one? Millions like youthey found a way out. Why cant you?

Bit by bit, Charlie learned about her life. Margaret had been an engineer at a factory. Husband died young, never had kids. The factory closed in the nineties; she scraped by on her pension and the odd bit translating technical bits. Didnt turn bitter. Just livedstraight-backed, stern, solitary.

Ive got no one, she told him one day. Reckon you havent got anyone either. But thats not an ending. Its a beginning. Get it?

Charlie didnt really, but he nodded.

When Charlie turned eighteen, time for call-up came. Margaret called him in for a proper grown-up talk. She laid out a spread like it was Christmaspies, jams, the lot.

Listen here, Charles, she used his full name for the first time, you cant come back here. Youll get stucksame estate, same faces, same hopelessness. Serve your time, find yourself somewhere new. Go north, get on the building sites, anywhere. Just not back here. Understand?

Yes, he muttered.

She handed him an envelope. Theres thirty grand in hereall Ive got. Should keep you afloat for a bit if youre careful. Remember, you only owe yourself. Be someone, Charles. Not for me. For you.

He wanted to refuse, to say he wouldnt take her last penny. But one look in her stern eyes, and he knewthis was the final lesson. The last command.

He left.

And he didnt look back.

Twenty years slipped by.

The old estate looked different. The tall trees cut down, the green replaced with hard flat tarmac for car parks. Benches now were cold, awkward metal. The block itself had aged, paint peeling, but still standing stubbornly, nowhere else to go.

A black Range Rover pulled up outside. Out stepped a broad-shouldered, weathered man in a sharp but understated coat. His face looked toughened by bitter winds from the north, but his eyes were steady, confident.

Charlie Rowenow Charles Rowe, Mr. Rowe to his staff. Owner of a major construction firm up north. Over a hundred on the payroll, several huge projects, a reputation for doing things right.

Hed built himself from nothing on those building sites. Started on the tools, then led a team, then ran entire projects. Studied at night, earned his credentials, saved every pound, invested, took chances. Lost it all twice, built it back up again. The thirty grand Margaret had given was long paid backhed sent her money monthly, even when she barked at him to stop it. But she always accepted.

And then, the payments started coming backaddressee not found.

He stood staring up at the fifth-floor window. The light was out.

In the courtyard, groups of womennew faces. The old lot were long gone.

Excuse me, he asked, do you know who lives in flat forty-five? Mrs. Margaret Townsend?

The women perked upa man like that, in a car like that? Worth a gossip.

Oh, love, one answered softly, Margarets not well. Lost her memory, started talking nonsense. She signed her place over to some relatives, and they carted her off, didnt they, Susan?

Yeah, took her out to Pinehamtiny village up past the market town. Some nephew, apparently. Everyone knows she was always on her own though. Now theyre selling the flat.

Charlies stomach turned. Hed seen this before: someone finds a lonely old woman, wins her trust, gets a will signed, then shoves her off somewhere remoteif shes lucky to survive at all.

How do I get to Pineham?

Out past Oakley, forty minute drive. Roads are grim, but youll get through.

Charlie nodded, jumped in his car and sped off.

Pineham was dying, barely three streets, half the houses boarded up, roads torn up by the rain. A handful of old dears and families with no other choice.

Locals pointed him to a weary old cottage, broken fence fallen flat. The garden a muddy mess, sad laundry flapping on the line.

He pushed through the gate, which groaned miserably.

A scruffy bloke came out on the porch, stubbly and sullen, with the eyes of a man who starts drinking in the morning.

What dyou want, mate? Lost, are you?

Im here for Mrs. Townsend.

What Margaret? No one here by that name. Go onclear off!

Charlie didnt bother with chat. He just stepped forward, grabbed the man by the shirt and moved him aside, like he weighed nothing. The man yelped, crashing to the railings.

Inside, the air reeked of damp and sourness. Dirty dishes and empty bottles in the first room. In the second

There she lay, a shriveled, tiny thing on an iron bed. Hair knotted, skin grey, deep shadows under her eyes. Her lips were chapped.

But it was her. Margaret Townsend. The one who taught him screwdrivers and self-belief. The one whod handed him all her savings and told him to become someone.

Her eyes flickered open, cloudy and unfocused.

Whos there? Her voice, weak, raspy.

Its me, Mrs. Townsend. Charlie. Charlie Rowe. Remember? Used to fix things for you.

She stared for ages, blinking hard, trying to bring him into focus. Eventually, tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

Charlie she breathed. You came back Thought I was seeing things. Look at you. Youve grown youre a man now

A man, Mrs. Townsend. Because of you.

He wrapped her, light as a feather, in a blanket and gently picked her up. She smelt of illness, of wet wood, but beneath it allstill her, faint hints of old paper and soap.

Where are we going? she asked, afraid.

Home. My home. Its warm there. Loads of booksyoull love it.

Outside, that bloke tried to block his way.

Oi, wherere you taking her? Show me her papers! She left the house to me, Ive been looking after her!

Charlie stopped and fixed him with that calm, hard stare. The man shrank away, white as a sheet.

You can explain everything to my solicitor, Charlie said, cold but steady. And to the police. And if it turns out you tricked her, and it will, youll face the lot. Understood?

Mumbling, the man ducked out of his way.

It took monthsexams, paper trails, courts. Six months fighting to void the dodgy transferdone after Margaret had lost her senses. The bloke was a petty fraud with a record. The authority returned her flat, and the con went to open prison.

But the flat meant nothing to Margaret anymore.

Charlie built her a home. Not a show-off mansion, but a proper, solid house out near the citywooden, with big sunny windows.

She had the brightest room on the ground floor. The best doctors, a nurse, good home cooking. She got better, rosier. Her memory never fully returnedmixed up names and facesbut her spirit stayed fierce. She read again, her thick glasses sliding down her nose, bossing the cleaner for dust everywhere.

Whats all this cobweb business, then? shed grumble. Is this a home or a cowshed?

Charlie would just grin.

He didnt stop there.

One evening, he pulled up with a lad from worka scrawny kid with wary eyes and secondhand clothes hanging off his bones, an old scar on his cheek.

Mrs. Townsend, meet Jamie. He showed up at the building site, nowhere to live, just turned eighteen. Good with his hands, but heads full of clouds.

Margaret looked him up and down, fixed her glasses, and said, Dont stand there gawping. Wash up for dinnersoaps there. Were having cottage pie.

Jamie glanced, nervous, at Charlie, who nodded and gave him a tiny smile.

A month later, Charlie brought home a girl tooLucy, twelve, a limp from a bad leg, head down from too many rough years. Charlie took her in after her mum lost parental rights.

The house filled up. It wasnt charityjust family. A family for those no one else wanted. Outcasts who had found each other.

Charlie watched Margaret teaching Jamie to hold a plane, smacking his hand with that same wooden ruler. Watched Lucy curled up, reading aloud from a battered bookhalting, stumbling, but reading.

Charlie, Margaret would shout, dont just stand therehelp out! The kids cant move the wardrobe themselves!

On my way! he called.

He headed for themhis odd, misshapen, unlikely family. And for the first time in forty years, Charlie felt like he belonged. Like hed finally found his spot in the world.

So, Jamie, he asked one night, once everyone had gone to bed, how do you like it here?

The lad sat on the stoop, looking up at the stars. The northern sky was huge, stark, full of cold light.

Its alright, Mr. Rowe. Just odd, thats all. Whyd you bother? Im nobody.

Charlie sat beside him, dug out an apple for him.

You know, someone once told me, Only kittens are born for nothing.

Jamie smirked.

Whats that mean?

It means nothing happens for no reason. Good or bad. Theres always a reason, always a result. Youre here for a reason. So am I.

In the house, the light was still on in Margarets roomreading past doctors orders, as ever.

Charlie shook his head.

Off to bed, Jamie. Plenty of work tomorrowfence needs fixing.

Night, Mr. Rowe.

Night.

He sat out on the steps, the only sounds the crickets and the faint hum from the far-off road. No neighbours shouting through the walls, no rows, no fear. Just peace and the night.

He knew he couldnt save everyoneevery lost cub shunted aside by the worldbut hed saved these few. Margaret. Himself.

For now, that was enough.

And when time called, hed carry onjust as shed taught him to.