Excuse Me, Sir, Please Mind the Queue. Oh—Is That Smell Coming from You? — A Chance Encounter in a Village Shop Leads Rita, on the Brink of Renovations, to Hire a Down-on-His-Luck Stranger Whose Sapphire Eyes Hide a Past as a Physics Teacher, Setting Off an Unexpected Romance, Family Drama, and a New Start in Middle Age

Author Walton MerrittReading 13 minViews 3

– Sir, please, theres no need to push. Good heavens, is that smell coming from you?
– Apologies, the man muttered, shuffling aside.
He mumbled something else beneath his breath, something disgruntled and sorrowful. He stood off to the side, counting a few coins in his rough palm. Lana couldnt help but think he was short of a few shillings for a bottle. Yet something about him made her look closer at his face. Odd he didnt seem drunk at all.
– Sir Im sorrydidnt mean to offend. Something stopped her from simply turning away.
– Its quite alright.
He raised his gaze to meet hersstriking blue eyes, untouched by age. Though they were likely about the same age, those eyes startled her. She hadnt seen such eyes, even when she was young.
Lana firmly took him by the elbow and steered him away from the small queue for the till.
– Did something happen? Perhaps you need help? she tried her best not to wrinkle her nose.
She finally realised the smella stale trace of sweat, nothing more. He stayed silent and slid the coins back into his pocket. It seemed almost painful for him to speak about his woes. Especially with a stranger, and a well-kept woman at that.
– Im Lana. And you are?
– Arthur.
– Do you need help then? She suddenly felt she must be coming across as a busybody.
To some homeless man no less. He shot her a wary glance with those blue eyes and glanced away again. Well, what did it matter? She was preparing to leave when, shifting uncomfortably, he muttered,
– I need work. Do you know where a bloke might earn a little on the side? Bit of odd jobs, perhapsrepairs, gardening. Its a big place youve got here, but I dont know a soul. Sorry
Lana listened silently; by the time he finished, Arthur was mumbling to himself once more, clearly embarrassed. She hesitatedshould she really invite some stranger into her home? Yet she was planning to have her bathroom retiled. Her son had promised to handle it himselfwas always pleading with her not to hire any clumsy tradesmenbut he was too busy to get to it.
– Do you know how to lay tile? she asked.
– I do.
– How much would you charge for a bathroom, say, about ten square metres?
He grunted in surpriseclearly not expecting such a size for a bathroom.
– Id have to see. Frankly, whatever you think its worth.
Arthur set to work, and he did a fine, thorough job. First, he politely asked if he might take a shower. Lana was grateful hed thought of it himself, only hoping he wouldnt leave any trouble behind. She found some of her late husbands clothes to loan him, and he washed his own. He finished everything over the weekend, chipping away old tiles, cleaning up immaculately. His tools were wiped and set back as hed found them. By Sunday evening, the fresh tile gleamed across floors and walls. Lana felt oddly anxious now that Arthur was finishing up. It was clear he was without a place to stayshould she invite him to spend the night? It seemed unorthodox. But what of sending him out into the night?
She barely slept Saturdaylocked away in her room, listening for any noise. But Arthur seemed exhausted; he slept soundly on the living room sofa.
– Do come and inspect the work, Miss Lana! he called.
There was no arguing: the repair was perfect.
– Arthur, whats your trade? she asked, admiring the work.
– Physics teacher, actually. Graduated from Kings College, London.
– Oh? she asked in surprise.
– Was Kings back in my day. As for the tilingevery proper Englishman should know how to handle himself about the house. At least, thats what I think.
Lana nodded, bringing out the money shed readied. She wasnt stingy; she paid him what shed have given any builder. Arthur didnt even count it, just tucked it away and went to fetch his shoes. His clothes had dried, and he changed back into them.
– Wait, so youre just off like that? Lana asked, half offended.
– What do you mean? he looked up at her with those impossibly blue eyes.
– At least eat something! You worked all day, just had tea, refused any breaks.
Arthur shifted awkwardly, then waved a hand.
– Well, alright then. Id not say no, thank you.
Lana joined him for some fish, although she almost never ate after six. Truth be told, she enjoyed his company. Arthur was charming, easy to talk to, and exceptionally clever. Yet… there was a kind of lostness about him, a mark that no bath nor warm talk could erase. Perhaps only time could.
– Arthur what happened to you, really? Forgive the question.
He paused, then said,
– If I start telling you, it will sound all heroic, silly, or just contrived. Eight years in and out of shelters, Ive heard enough such stories to fill an opera. Only my story really happened. Why trouble yourself with it?
– I suppose because its remarkable to find someone like you in such a desperate situation…
He studied her intently before they both stood at once. Awkward shuffling, and then, quite naturally, they collided on their way to the door. What followed seemed to happen of its own accord. Lana could never have imagined, at fifty-three, that she might experience such fiery, consuming passion again. Shed thought all that belonged to the young.
Later, Arthur explained: eight years prior, hed tried to help a gifted student from a rough family whod fallen in with the wrong crowd. The boy wanted out but couldnt escape alone. So, Arthurthe boys form teacherconfronted the gangs leader, a dangerous young fellow of twenty-two with not a shred of decency. It turned violentthey set on Arthur, not realising hed trained in judo all his life. He handled them handily, but the ringleader met with a concrete wall, shattering his spine and dying instantly. Arthur himself called the constable and ambulance, convinced hed only be accused of excessive self-defence, if that. But they charged him for manslaughtertwelve years, though he served only eight for good behaviour.
– And there are people living in those places, too, he said quietly of the prison.
Back home, no one waited for him. His mother had died, having sold her flat and lived out her days with Arthurs brother. The brothers wife wasted no time:
– I dont want a jailbird in this house, not for a single day.
And Arthurs own wife had divorced him long ago, remarried, moved away. So he left London for Manchester, but luck was worse than on a rainy bank holiday. No one would take him on after his time inside. He looked for small jobs, odd tasks in villages he drifted into by chance, but everywhere he found suspicion, disgust, sometimes outright hostility. In time, he had nowhere to stay, nothing to live oneven the mate whod let him crash for a bit kindly asked him to move on.
– How long have you been like this? asked Lana, watching his cigarette ember in the dusk.
– Two weeks or so now.
He was smoking her cigarettes, as it happened. Lana had a pack for rare occasionsonce a blue moon, really. Arthur wanted to go out and buy his own, but she stopped him. She imagined what it was like, living in limbo for two weeks.
There, in the darkness, the glow of his cigarette made confession easier. Lana had welcomed him into her bed; there was no sense hiding that now.
– You do at least have a passport, dont you?
– I do, he chuckled, but no address. Thats the root of it all.
Arthur stayed on. For the first time in ages, things began to look up. Lana sorted his papers so he could get workgranted, not teaching, but he was glad for anything. A sales position in a local hardware shop got him started. He tutored on weekends, and slowly gained pupils. In the warmth of spring and the comfort of their new bond, two and a half months flew by. That was when Lanas son came for a visit. He took one look round the house, pulled Lana aside.
– You need to get rid of him, Mum.
– What?
They had long agreed not to interfere in each others lives.
– I saidget rid. You dont need some vagrant sponging off you. Why dyou think hes hanging round? Hes got nowhere else. Youre being a fool!
She slapped him.
– Dont you dare! Dont meddle in my life.
– Mum, have you forgotten? Im your heir, and I dont want to share anything with some stranger. Marry him, and if anything happens, hell be after his piece.
– Good grief, are you writing me off already? Lana snapped, stung. What are you expecting to inherit, exactly!? I might outlive you yet.
– Mum, dont force me to act unpleasantly. I wont let you two live here, my interests come first. Cant blame me. If youd picked a proper man, someone established, Id say nothing. As it is
– Oh, so its proper as long as he has money? Whats become of you? Did I raise you to be like this?
– Mum Ive said all I came to say. Ill be back in a week. Hed better be gone. Youve been warned.
Lana held back tears as she re-entered the house.
– Is he a copper? Arthur asked quietly.
– Sorry, I should have told you.
– Nonsense. Its fine.
– He works for the Crown Prosecution Service as a detective. Hes good, Arthur. Just cautious. Wants to protect me.
– What do you want to do? Arthur looked her in the eyes.
Lana sat by the table, overwhelmed. What could she do? She knew full well her son would make life hell for them both if he said he wouldmight even try to see Arthur sent back to prison, if Lana refused to throw him out herself. She disliked considering her son capable of such things, yet struggled to rule out the possibility. He seemed genuinely angry.
– Springtime Arthur said, as though to himself. Havent thought of anything? If youre at a loss, then let me speak.
Lana nodded, tears stinging her eyes. She was trapped: she did not wish to give up Arthur, but nor did she want to cause herself or him trouble, nor to fight with her son.
– Ive saved up a bit. Not much, not enough to buy land here, but if we go a few miles further outtwenty miles or soitd do. Well put up a little cabin to start, and slowly build. Ill keep tutoring; if theres no job, well make do. But Ill build us a house, with my own hands. What do you say?
Lana was dumbstruck. He grew anxious.
– I realise youre used to comfort; living rough is only temporary. After, Ill make everything right for you.
– Arthur I have some savings too. I could put that towards the house, she replied pensively.
– Id never ask it of you.
– But you arent. Im offering. This is for both of us.
Arthur came to where Lana sat. He held her gently, kissed her head. She felt warmth, safety, lovethe sort shed not dared hope for at this age.
They arranged everything quickly. Arthur insisted Lana be the proprietor, but she refused.
– I already own property. Just because I was driven out of my home doesnt mean I have no place. You had nothing. Dont worry about me. Ive an heir, after all! she said with biting wit, remembering her sons words.
They erected a small cabin, ran electricity, and Arthur rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Turned out, Lanas savings werent enough, so Arthur redoubled his tutoring work, carving out a quiet nook where no one could tell he taught from a shed. All their money went into bricks, mortar, wood. On warm summer evenings, they would lay a blanket on their patch of land, gaze at the stars.
– What are you feeling? Arthur would ask, drawing her into his arms.
– Ive found my second wind, Lana would reply.
– No, no, Im the one with a second wind, hed tease. You, my love, should say you feel my love.
And she did. Without a doubt, she did.
Once autumn neared, Lana returned to collect some clothes and household itemsextra quilts, bits of crockery. At home, she found her son sitting in the kitchen, smoking.
– Hello, son. Just popping in! How are you?
He eyed her warily. She was radiant, tanned, slimmer than before.
– Mum, whats happened? Youve not called.
– Well, youre always busy, at work. I thought youd ring me if you wanted to chat.
– Why cant I ever find you at home?
– I dont live here any longer. Just gathering a few things, if thats all right?
Dumbstruck, he was. His mother was changedchanged inside as much as out. She seemed lighter, even, joyful.
– Youll visit soon, when we finish the house. Ill invite you properly, son. But now Im in a bit of a rush.
She packed her bags quickly. As she passed by him, she kissed his cheek and hurried along.
– Mum, whats with you? he called softly.
Lana turned at the door, beamed at him, and replied,
– Ive found my second wind, Davy. And love too. Yes, love! Bye, darling! she laughed, and skipped out the door.
There wasnt a moment to losethey were set to build the porch that very afternoon.

Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.

— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… You tell me I eat wrong, dress wrong, and do everything wrong!!! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything right!!!… Can’t even earn decent money!… I can never count on your help around the house!… — Marina sobbed, — …And there are no children…, — she added in a barely audible whisper. Bella — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the cupboard, silently observed the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew, could even feel, that Mum and Dad loved each other deeply… so she simply couldn’t understand why they had to speak such hurtful words that only made everyone miserable. Mum fled to the bedroom in tears, while Dad lit one cigarette after another. Sensing her family slowly falling apart, Bella pondered: “We need happiness in this house… and happiness means children… We need to find children, somehow.” Bella herself couldn’t have kittens — she’d been spayed long ago. As for Mum…, the doctors always said it was possible, but things just never worked out… The next morning, once her humans left for work, Bella, for the very first time, slipped out through the window to visit her neighbour, Lucky, for advice. — Why on earth would you want kids?! — Lucky snorted — Ours bring their kittens round and I have to hide from them… They smear my whiskers with lipstick or squeeze me so tightly I can hardly breathe! Bella sighed: — We want normal children… If only we knew where to find them… — Well… Street-cat Molly’s got a litter… there are five of them… — Lucky mused — take your pick… Taking a deep breath, Bella braved a leap from balcony to balcony, made her way down to the street, and squeezed through the bars of a cellar window. — Molly, could you come here a minute please… A chorus of desperate squeaks echoed from the dark. Cautiously creeping over, Bella began to whimper. Beneath the radiator, right on the gravel, five tiny, blind kittens snuffled at the air, mewing for their mum. Molly hadn’t been back in at least three days, and the babies were starving… Fighting back her tears, Bella gently, yet determinedly, carried each kitten to the building’s front entrance. Curling up beside them, doing her best to keep the hungry bunch from wandering off, she watched anxiously down the drive, waiting for Mum and Dad to return. That evening, Pavel silently picked Marina up from work and together they returned home. Approaching the steps, they were stopped in their tracks — there was their Bella (who’d never been outside on her own before), patiently lying with five needy, mewing kittens. — What on earth is going on?? — Pavel stammered. — It’s a miracle… — echoed Marina, and scooping up both cat and kittens, they hurried inside… As Bella purred in her box full of babies, Pavel asked: — So what do we do with them? — I’ll hand-feed them with a dropper… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — Marina replied softly. Three months later, reeling from unexpected news, Marina sat stroking her “cat clan” and whispered in disbelief: — This just doesn’t happen…, it just doesn’t happen… And then she and Pavel, spilling tears of joy, danced through the house, exclaiming over each other: — I didn’t build this home for nothing! — The baby will get the fresh air it needs! — And the kittens can roam the garden! — There’s room for all of us! — I love you!!! — I love you even more!!! And wise old Bella wiped a tear — life, at last, was coming together…

“Come on then, Ginger – let’s go,” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old bit of rope. He zipped his jacket up tight against the raw February wind – this year, it was particularly cruel: sleet, biting cold, and drizzle that seemed to cut straight through. Ginger, the mangy old stray with faded red fur and one milky, blind eye, had wandered into Val’s life a year ago. It was after a late-night shift at the factory, near the bins, battered and hungry, his left eye glazed. A harsh voice cut through the grey morning. Val recognised it at once – Steve ‘Squint’, the local hard case, barely out of his teens, surrounded by his pack of sneering lads. “Out with the mutt, are we?” Steve leered, as one of the boys cackled, “What’s it, Uncle – you pay a tax to walk that ugly brute? Scary thing, that eye!” A stone came flying, thudding into Ginger’s side. The dog yelped and pressed closer to Val’s leg. “Clear off,” Val said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “Ooh, look, Uncle Bodger’s talking back!” Steve stepped closer. “Seen your kind before. Remember whose patch this is… And only dogs I let on my patch are here with permission.” Val tensed. The Army had taught him how to solve trouble – fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a worn-out old handyman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless pushed. “Come on, Ginger,” he muttered, turning towards home. “Thought so!” Steve jeered after him. “Keep your ugly mutt safe, old man – next time, I’ll finish it for good.” That night, Val replayed the incident over and over in his mind. Next day, with heavy snow coming down, he put off walking as long as he could – but Ginger sat by the door, steadfast, until Val finally relented. “All right, all right – but just a quick one.” They kept to quieter routes; Steve’s lot was nowhere in sight, probably sheltering from the weather. Val was starting to relax when Ginger suddenly halted by the derelict boiler house, ears pricked, nose twitching. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whined, tugged the rope in the direction of the ruined building. Strange noises drifted out: was that crying? Moaning? “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Only the wind replied, howling through the skeleton of the building. Ginger pulled insistently. Val heard it then – a child’s voice: “Help!” His heart skipped. Quickly, Val unfastened the lead and followed Ginger into the ruins. Buried behind a tumble of brick, a young boy lay crumpled: face swollen, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh, God!” Val dropped to his knees. “What’s happened to you?” “Mr. White? Is that you?” The boy squinted through bruised eyes, and Val recognised him – Andy Mason, the shy lad from three floors up. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang… They wanted money from my mum. I said I’d tell the police. They… they found me.” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. It’s freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Andy. Ginger curled up beside him, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand?” “My leg hurts – think it’s broken.” Val checked gently – definitely a break. “Got a phone?” “Taken.” Val fished out his ancient Nokia and dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, lad. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy asked in terror. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val promised. Andy stared. “But yesterday… you just walked away.” “That was just me and Ginger. This is different.” The ambulance arrived quicker than forecast. Andy was whisked off to hospital. Val stood with Ginger in the snow, deep in thought. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came to thank him, in tears: “If you hadn’t found him… The doctor said you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val shook his head, petting Ginger. “He found your son.” “But what now?” the woman whispered anxiously. “Steve won’t stop. The police say there’s no proof.” “It’ll be sorted,” Val promised, though he wasn’t sure how. That night, he tossed and turned, plans churning. Someone had to protect the kids – how many others had suffered in silence? By morning, he knew what to do. He pulled out his old Army dress uniform, pinned on his medals, squared his shoulders. “Let’s go, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve and his crew lounged by the off-licence, jeering as Val, in full regalia, approached. “Blimey, Grandad’s off to a parade!” one hooted. Steve sneered, “Jog on, soldier boy. Your time’s up.” “My time’s just begun,” Val replied. “Who asked you?” “Andy Mason – ring any bells?” Steve’s smirk faded. “You threatening me, grandad?” “I’m warning you.” There was a glint of a blade. “I’ll show you who’s boss!” Val didn’t flinch. “There’s only one law here – and that’s to protect the weak.” Steve scoffed, “Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience.” And then – the unexpected: Ginger, silent all this while, bristled and let out a low, threatening growl. “My dog fought in Afghanistan,” Val said, lying smoothly. “Bomb squad. She can sniff out villains in her sleep.” Even Ginger straightened in surprise, baring her teeth. “She caught twenty insurgents. All alive. Think she can’t take on a junkie?” Steve retreated. “Listen good,” Val stepped forward. “From today, it’s safe here. I’ll be patrolling the estate every evening – with my dog. If I catch anyone bothering kids again…” He left the threat hanging. “You reckon you can scare me?” Steve blustered. “Call who you like. But remember – I know people inside. More than you ever will.” It was nonsense, but Val’s words carried real weight. “Name’s Val the Veteran – remember it. Stay away from the kids.” With that, Val strode away, Ginger close at his heels. Steve’s gang melted away. For the next few days, Steve and his lot were nowhere to be seen, while Val and Ginger kept up their patrol. When Andy came home from hospital, still limping, he shyly asked, “Mr. White, can I help you patrol, too?” “Talk to your mum first.” Mrs. Mason agreed – relieved her boy had such a grown-up example to follow. And every evening, the estate saw a peculiar trio – an old soldier in faded uniform, a boy, and a ginger mongrel. Ginger became a favourite; even the parents didn’t mind their kids petting her. There was something noble about her. Val told stories about the Army, about real friendship; the children listened, rapt. One night, Andy asked, “Were you ever scared, Mr. White?” “Plenty of times,” Val admitted. “Even now, sometimes.” “What of?” “That I won’t have enough strength. Or I’ll be too late.” “When I grow up, I’ll help you,” Andy said. “And I’ll have a clever dog just like Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. And Ginger wagged her tail. Everyone in the area knew her now: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog – she knows the difference between heroes and bullies.” And Ginger patrolled, proud and steadfast, no longer just a stray, but a true guardian.