Grandfather Arthur Whitmore, his coat too long for his thin frame, shuffled through the drifts of the Yorkshire moors, his redandblack checkered scarf fluttering about his neck. Little Sammy clutched his elbow, tugging at the old man’s hand, his small fingers probing his own lips as if searching for a word.
Arthur gave his grandson a sideways glance, tightening the woollen scarf further. The frayed fringe always brushed against Sammys cheek whenever the old man leaned forward to speak, and on this bitter morning the stray threads pinched the boys frostnipped face.
Sammy winced, rubbed his cheeks, then looked up at Arthur with a pleading stare.
Enough! the grandfather barked, his voice rough as gravel. What did you say? Ek? Say YES!say what Im asking, understand? He peered into Sammys eyes with a gaze etched in thin, red lines, as if comparing two mirrors.
Their eyes were alike, twin reflections. Yet Arthurs eyes had seen much, and chose not to shed tears; they burned with a stern defiance that could scorch. Sammys eyes, by contrast, knew only his cottage and the local school, the occasional trip to the village inn where his grandfather called his mates old chaps. Those eyes wept in secret, soft enough to avoid scolding.
Ek the boy whispered.
YES! Arthur roared.
Ek, ek
They could have stared at each other while the snow fell endlessly, wrapping the two kin in a white shroud, if not for the sudden appearance of a woman, Doris Bentley, the cook from the All the Tins canteen, her cheeks glowing with the reflected lights of garlands strung across the doorway.
Arthur, you there? Doris called, clearing her throat. And look at that scarf, dear! Red as a robins breastwhat, are you trying to summon Father Christmas?
Its mine, its been with me for years. No need to fuss, Arthur muttered, turning his nose toward the warm silhouette of Doriss figure.
Ah, youre being a sourpuss, Doris chuckled, pushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Whats this about the lad? Has Lucy gone off on a work trip again?
Lucys away on assignment, Arthur replied, his tone flat. Shell be back next month. Shes left him with me.
Poor thing, Doris said, leaning forward and sweeping the snow from the brim of Sammys hat with a heavy, mittenclad hand. She never visits her son, does she?
Arthurs eyes narrowed. She hasnt been around for a fortnight. The mans been left to juggle his own ailments and a new baby theyre raisingsupposedly a normal one. Do you follow, Sammy?
Sammy shrugged. I dont get it. Maybe its better this way.
Whether its right or wrong isnt for us to judge, Doris said, her breath scented with soup and a hint of sweet pastry. Whats all this bickering about?
The lad never says Im hungry, only ek, ek, Arthur grumbled. If he learned to say YES, Id buy him a loaf. Thats my final word.
Doris stared at him a moment, hand pressed to her side, then gave a swift slap to Arthurs thin back, making him wobble as if a gust had caught him.
My final word, she declared, is that I wont let a starving child go unfed. He isnt an invalid, as you claim, Arthur. Hell catch up soon enough, wont he, Sammy?
Sammy stared back, his stomach tightening with an uneasy knot.
Come with me to the canteen, Doris said, waving a hand as if leading a troop of soldiers. Todays my day off, Lucys covering for me. Therell be room at the stove for everyone. Follow me, you wretched lot!
Not now, Arthur replied, we must get home.
He had no desire to wander strangers corners at that hour. Better to trudge home, lift Sammy to the flats eighth floor, and press the lift buttons with a thumb that trembled. Sammy would squirm, Arthur would mutter, and the old man would curse his grandsons slow growth.
Sammy fell silent, then, with a sigh, began his soft ek again, the muteness of a boy who could not yet speak clearly.
They left, and Doris watched them go with a melancholy smile. She longed to carethough not for Arthur, whose temperament she found disagreeable, but for the timid little boy.
Winter lingered, Lucy hopping from one assignment to another, Arthur still hauling Sammy to the garden, grumbling as he tugged on the boys cap, fastening the boys coat with shaking hands. They trudged through the swirling snow, the bright red scarf a beacon in the blizzard over the weary town. Doris observed their passage, her eyes following their steps.
One particularly harsh day, when the cold seemed to press upon their very souls, Doris could bear it no longer and dragged the pair into her canteen.
Enough, Arthur! Home, Sammy! he shouted, thrusting a hand toward her. Yet even he sensed that they had reached a boundary beyond which darkness and despair waited. Sammy, sometimes searching for his mothers scent in the hallway, would retreat, fearing his grandfathers touch.
Your love is foolish! Arthur snapped one night, his voice ragged. Your mother is at the tavern, glass in hand, while you curl here like a lost kitten.
Recalling those evenings, Arthur finally consented to step into Doriss kitchen.
Right, Arthur, whats on the table? she asked, setting a plate of steaming stew before him. Ive got a slice of Victoria sponge!
The canteen was packed to the brimcheap, hearty fare that reminded one of home. The menu was simple: broth, roast, buckwheat, a modest salad, and sometimes a fragrant pilaf that Doris learned from a wandering lover. She served it with a flourish, sprinkling carrots, onions, and rice into separate piles, each grain shining like a dropped coin.
Enjoy, lads! she called when the children thanked her. She cooked as if for a large family, with plump, rosy children and a hardworking husband who might sip a dram with a salty herring, discuss politics, and burst into song. She dreamed of three childrengender mattered not, only the warm presence of a suckling babe. Yet that dream never materialised.
Why Doris remained alone, she never disclosed. She lived, and that was enough. Mothers on this earth, she mused, are many.
A brief glance over the heads of the patronsmen, a boy, and the cooksaw the trio. Some regulars bowed, nodding in respect to the canteens keeper, grateful that the master did not drive them away.
Doris welcomed them all. Come in, Sammy, hungry lad! she said, opening the staff room door to a modest chamber with two tables, a bed, and a wardrobe. Sit, warm yourselves. Heres a stool just right for a little bear. She placed a chair for the grandfather and, with a clenched fist, pretended to be a horse, then vanished behind the door.
Arthur reluctantly undressed, shivering. Hed been feverish for days, bones aching, longing for tea, a crust, and a bed. Yet now Sammy
The tale of Sammys birth had been told to his father straight from the maternity ward. Did they drop him? the doctor asked. No, just a difficult delivery. Lucy, furious, muttered that she would have preferred not to have him at all.
Dont worry, a young man had coaxed, cradling the infant. Everything will be fine, Sammy, my boy. He leaned over the cot many times, then vanished.
Lucy realised shed borne a child for herself, not for anyones promises. She wept, remembered her father, and whispered into the phone: Arthur? He had not spoken to her for a year and a half, after an argument at her birthday feast when she had expelled him, saying his presence was a burden. He moved into a cramped flat left by relatives; his wife was long gone.
Years later, tickets to the ballet The Nutcracker at the Royal Opera House had arrived by chance, a bright spot for Lucy, who had a new dress and a taxi on standby. Yet an ambulance arrived, her mother was carried away, and the tickets were discarded. Since then Arthur despised The Nutcracker, and Lucy resented the father who barred her from the palace.
Lucy, you dont understand, Arthur whispered, his hands clutching a crumpled tie. Your mother is dead. Yet Lucy seemed deaf, cold as stone, always demanding what was owed, and expecting Sam to meet impossible standards.
Lucys frequent trips left Arthur to look after his grandson. Each morning he walked him to the garden, washed him, fried two eggs, and ate in silence, the clink of cutlery a metronome. Hed sip his whisky, and a teachers heart would stir within him. After washing dishes, hed sit with a sleepy Sam on the settee, turn on the old blackandwhite series Youth, and point at the screen, urging his grandson to repeat the words.
Sammy tried, watching his grandfathers lips, then forming his own, stumbling over the sounds. Arthur would grow frustrated, the magazine would flutter to the floor, and Sam would curl up to sleep.
Did Arthur love his boy? He didnt know. Perhaps love was hidden beneath misunderstanding. He could not fathom how to help.
Come on, lad, fetch the spoon! Doris burst in, balancing a tray of dishes. The boy turned away and began to weep.
In the garden, Mrs. Gillian, a neighbour, pressed a spoonful of broth into Sams mouth, his lips twisting in pain. She cursed under her breath.
The scene unfolded far from what anyone had imagined.
Doris placed a stool, inhaled, and began to eat. Warmth spread through Arthurs chilled body, a soothing mix of lavender and salted cucumbers.
Weve known each other for thirty years, havent we? Doris said, looking at Sam. Time flies. We fought, we made up, and I even proposed to you once, dear! She poured a mouthful of soup into Sams tiny mouth. Delicious, isnt it? Always eat well, Sam. Lifes a feast when you enjoy it.
Where does this joy come from, Doris? Hes a boy without a mother, I cant manage him, Arthur retorted, his voice cracking. Maybe a doctors prescription would help, but Lucy refuses any diagnosis. Its tearing his life apart!
Joy is everywhere, Doris answered firmly. Without it, were lost. You must grin and carry on.
Sammy opened his mouth like a fledgling, reaching for the dangling spoon, then awkwardly brushed Doriss shoulder.
Sorry, I got distracted, she said, scooping a larger portion of broth, feeding him with gentle patience.
The soup vanished quickly, followed by a meat patty, mashed potatoes, and a slice of Victoria sponge that Doris presented with a flourish. She even drew smiling faces on the mash with a fork, turning the plate into a miniature canvas.
Tea followed, with a slice of the promised sponge cake. Doris chatted with Arthurs wife, who never baked, accepting the pastries with gratitude, never suspecting any rivalry.
She sang then, a low, resonant voice that filled the room, making the fire crackle in time. Arthur hummed along, and Sam, still learning words, managed a faint echo of the final line about a horse galloping across a field of poppies.
Later, at Aunt Doriss modest cottage, Arthur rose abruptly, shaking off sleep, and instructed Sam to prepare for the journey home. Doris helped the boy into his coat, then, standing tall, said, Arthur, ring me if you need anything. Ill be here.
He nodded.
Five days later Arthur fell ill, unable to rise. He needed Sam to be woken, fed, taken to the garden, and to prepare for work, yet his cough hammered him, forcing him to hunch beneath the blankets. A wave of nausea hit, darkness fell.
A frightened Sam perched on the edge of his grandfathers bed, pulling on his own thin socks and sweater.
Look at you, all dressed up, Arthur whispered with a smile. Sam, I love you, you hear? I love you very much.
It was the first time he had spoken those words aloud. Earlier hed been shy, now he understood the necessity of saying them.
Sammys eyes widened. You dont understand, do you? Poor thing
He threw himself onto Arthurs chest, planting a kiss on the chin, then clutched the old mans neck tightly. In that embrace Arthur became everything: mother, father, every caring soul Sam had ever known.
Soon Doris knocked at the door, urging Sam to open it. Inside stood a pale Arthur, his shoulders slumped.
Whats the matter? Doris snarled, her voice like a winter wind. Dont you have a cough? Youre a hypochondriac! Lucy will tear you from the grave! She huffed, carrying bags to the kitchen.
She later administered painful injections to Arthur, pinpricks in the most vulnerable spot.
Sam, in those moments, would turn his head to Arthurs bald scalp and run his fingers over the fine hairs.
Dont shout, love, Sam whispered, his voice trembling. All fell silent; Doris nearly dropped the syringe.
The boy will be alright, she murmured, just a little prick, then it will pass. She administered another injection.
Arthur winced, then roared with a harsh laugh, flipping Sam onto his back, cradling him under his arms.
Youre lying, lad! Im not whining! Why should I moan when youre here? he muttered.
Something clicked in Sam; words began to form. By summer, sitting with his grandfather on the riverbank, Sam, after swatting a mosquito on Arthurs arm, declared clearly,
I love you, understand?
I understand, Arthur replied, shoulders shrugging, tears spilling from his eyestears of joy.
Doris urged them to cherish that happiness. It was right there, barefoot on the grass, the world humming.
Thus the pairgrandfather and grandsonbecame regulars at All the Tins. Doris always kept an eye on the window, waiting for their shift, and would always welcome them in, even when her own duties were elsewhere.
Lets settle this over a pint, Arthur said one evening, Between us theres only friendship and respect, no mischief.
Of course! Doris laughed. You still need to be fed proper, then well both be happy.
Arthur felt a sting of pride, but soon softened. He bought Doris a bouquet of chrysanthemums from the market, their heads drooping like old memories.
Theyre past their bloom, Sam observed, recalling a song Doris often sang.
The love still lives in my ailing heart, Arthur crooned, placing a hand over his chest.
Sam chased after him, hopping merrily. It was a good day, and the old man seemed content, even with the chrysanthemums.
Soon after, they sat at Aunt Doriss, sipping tea and sharing stories, the world outside a cold, indifferent place. Their bond endured, a quiet flame in the long English winter.
