Youve dropped a potato.
Margaret Fletcher turns round. Two boys, identical and skinny, wearing coats several sizes too big, stand awkwardly behind her street food stall. One picks up the potato, wipes it on his sleeve and hands it back. The other stares at the tray of boiled potatoes like he hasnt eaten in days.
Thanks. What are you two doing here again? This is the third time today Ive seen you hovering about.
The older one shrugs his shoulders.
Just hanging around.
She knows what that just hanging around means. She wraps two potatoes in a newspaper, adds a pickled cucumber.
If you come by tomorrow and help shift some crates, well call it even. Deal?
They snatch the bundle and disappear wordlessly.
That evening, as Margaret struggles home with a sack of water for her tiny garden, the boys reappear. Silently, they take the sack from her, carry it up to her gate. The older one digs about in his pocket and produces two old pennies, tarnished and worn.
They were Dads. He was a baker, but… he died a few years ago. We wont part with them, but you can have a look.
She understands immediately: its all they have.
Ben and Samuel show up every day. Margaret feeds them what she can spare from her own larder, and in return they carry boxes and sacks for her. They eat in silence, never lifting their heads. One day she asks,
Where do you two sleep?
Theres a cellar on Forge Lane, Samuel replies. Its dry. Dont worry about us.
Well, of course Ill worry. Thats why Im asking.
Ben finally looks up.
Were not beggars. When were grown, were going to open a bakery. Like Dad.
Margaret nods. No more questions. She sees the pride in them, and the iron discipline. Theyre not about to fall apart.
But trouble brews at the market. Bill Parsons, the security man whose wife hawks dried fish to disinterested shoppers, starts to pester her. Whenever her stall draws a crowd and his doesnt, hell pass by muttering,
Think youre some sort of charity, feeding waifs?
Mind your own business.
It is my business. I keep order around here.
He takes notes in his little book, shoots the boys hateful glances. Margaret senses mischief, but not how far it will go.
Everything happens on a Wednesday. A car pulls up by her stall, and out step two women and a community officer. Ben and Samuel are stacking potatoes and freeze in place.
Ben and Samuel Collins?
Yes, says the older.
Come along. Youre needed at the Council office.
Margaret leaps forward.
Where do you think youre taking them? Theyre helping me, Im responsible for them.
Youre exploiting minors, says one woman, jerking her head at Bill Parsons whos standing arms folded by the gate. We received a report. These children must be placed in care.
Im not exploiting them! Im feeding them!
Aunty Maggie, dont, says Ben quietly. Dont get mixed up with them.
Samuel is silent, fists clenched. Someone takes his shoulder, steering him to the car. Margaret lunges, clutching at the womans sleeve.
Wait! I could apply for guardianship, I
You’re a pensioner. Step aside. The boys will be allocated separately, to different homes.
Separately?
But the car doors have already slammed. Margaret stands in the market square watching Bens face pressed against the window. His lips part: Thank you.
Bill Parsons strolls past, whistling a delighted tune.
Twenty years pass.
Margaret Fletcher no longer works at the market. She lives in a ramshackle cottage at the edge of the village, just making ends meet. She often wonders about her boys. Did they survive? Did they find each other? Sometimes at night she dreams theyre still at her stall, eating potatoes, and shes ruffling their hair.
Bill Parsons still lives across the road, grey and stooped but every now and then hell see her and give a smirking,
Still brooding over your street urchins, are you, Mrs Fletcher?
She doesnt reply. Whats the use?
One Saturday, as Margarets working in the veg patch, two large black cars roll up outside. No one in the village has ever seen anything so posh. Neighbours flock to their gates, muttering and gawping.
The cars stop at her front fence.
Two tall men climb out, both sharply dressed, identical right down to moles under their left eye. Margaret straightens up, dropping her trowel.
Aunt Maggie?
His voice trembles. She recognises the eyes just as they were twenty years ago.
Ben…?
He nods. Samuel stands beside him, quiet, but his mouth breaks into a smile. Then Ben steps forward, pulls a chain from beneath his shirt. A penny dangles from it, the same old one.
Samuel and I wear it all the time. We never let it go.
Margaret hugs them both as tightly as she can, holding on as if afraid this will all vanish.
The neighbours can only stare. Samuel wipes his eyes with a hand.
Weve been looking for you for three years. The markets long gone, people scattered. We had to dig through old records, electoral rolls. Wed almost given up.
Ben takes her hand.
Weve come to take you home. We built up Dads old dream seventeen bakeries across the south. They split us up, but we found each other, escaped the foster system, and built everything from scratch. All the while we remembered you the only one who ever stopped for us.
Oh boys, Im fine here really…
Fine? Samuel sweeps a glance over the crooked little house. Aunt Maggie, you used to share your last crumb with us. Now its time we looked after you. Youll move in with me. Or with Ben. We havent stopped arguing about it for a week.
Its nearer the hospital by me, says Ben. But Sams got a bigger garden.
They start chattering at once, just as they did all those years ago, and Margaret quietly weeps.
Behind the fence, Bill Parsons peers out. He glances from the cars to the men, struggling to take it all in. Ben meets his look and steps closer.
Bill Parsons? You were the market warden, werent you?
He nods, stiff.
Youre the one who reported us, put us in care?
A silence. Then the old man jerks his chin.
Thats right. It was the law. Children couldnt be put to work.
Samuel gives a crooked grin.
You know, it might be the best thing you ever did. Wed probably have died in that cellar. Instead, we got split up, but six years later we found each other, ran away, started again. You can say you changed our lives.
Ben hands over a business card.
Here, just in case. Collins & Collins Bakeries. We dont bear grudges. Not like some.
Parsons turns the card over with shaking fingers, reads it, his face slackening. He turns and shuffles home, bent as if the world itself weighed upon his back.
Margaret packs up in half an hour not that theres much to take. Ben and Samuel settle her into the back seat, cover her with a blanket.
As the cars drive away, Margaret glances back. Bill Parsons is there at his window, watching. Theres no victory in his eyes, no resentment just the emptiness of a man who spent life hurting others and in the end, has only himself.
Aunt Maggie, Ben looks at her through the mirror. Do you remember, we promised to open a bakery one day?
I remember.
The main shops called Maggies. Every day, kids eat for free there kids with nowhere else to go.
Margaret closes her eyes. Twenty years ago she gave two hungry boys a meal and didnt turn away. Now, theyve returned, giving her the world in return.
The cars merge onto the motorway. The old village disappears behind them. Ahead lies a new chapter. One shes earned, simply by being human.
