For fifteen years, every evening at six oclock sharp, Id set a steaming plate down on the same greenpainted bench in Willow Grove Park, right near the old oak trees. No one ever saw me put it there, I never left a note, and I never told a soul.
It started as a quiet habit after my husband dieda way to fill the silence that echoed through my empty house. Over time it turned into a little ritual, known only to me and the hungry strangers who found a bit of comfort in that simple act of kindness.
Rain or sunshine, summer heat or a winter gale, the food was always there. Sometimes it was soup, other times a hearty stew, and occasionally a sandwich wrapped carefully in waxed paper and slipped into a brown paper bag.
Nobody knew my name. The locals just called me the Lady on the Bench.
That Tuesday evening the sky was heavy with rain. I was seventythree, pulled my coat tighter as I walked through the park, knees aching and breath shallow, but my hands stayed steady around the warm plate.
I set it down gently, as I always do. Before I could turn away, the headlights sliced through the glooma sleek black estate pulled up at the curb.
For the first time in fifteen years, someone was waiting.
The back door opened and a woman in a navy suit stepped out, holding an umbrella and a waxsealed envelope. Her shoes made soft impressions in the wet grass as she approached.
Mrs Shaw? she asked, her voice trembling.
I blinked. Yes do I know you?
She gave a faint smile, her eyes glistening with tears. You knew me oncemaybe not by name. Im Harriet. Fifteen years ago I used to sit here and eat the food you left.
My breath caught, hand over my heart. You you were one of the girls?
There were three of us, Harriet replied. We ran away, hid by the swings. Those meals saved us that winter.
My throat tightened. Oh, dear heart
Harriet moved closer and placed the envelope in my shaking hands. We wanted to thank you. What you did didnt just feed usit gave us a reason to believe theres still kindness in the world.
Inside were a letter and a cheque. My vision blurred as I read:
Dear Mrs Shaw,
You gave us food when we had nothing. Today we want to give something backhope.
Weve set up the Margaret Shaw Scholarship Fund for young people without homes. The first three recipients will start university this autumn. We used the name you once wrote on a lunch bagMrs Shaw. We thought it was time the world knew who you are.
With love,
Harriet, Celia and Felicity
I lifted my eyes, tears tracing tracks down my cheeks in the rain. Did you girls do all this?
Harriet nodded. We did it together. Celia runs a shelter in Portsmouth. Felicity is a social worker in Manchester. And I well, Im a solicitor now.
I let out a laugh mixed with a sigh. A solicitor, eh? I never got that far.
We all sat together on the damp bench, the umbrella forgotten. For a moment the park seemed to come alive againlaughter mingling with the patter of rain, memories floating in the air.
When Harriet left, the estate rolled away into the grey, leaving only the scent of wet earth behind.
I stayed a little longer, my hand resting on the stillwarm plate.
That night, for the first time in fifteen years, I didnt bring food to the park.
But the next morning the bench wasnt empty.
Someone had placed a single white rose on the seatand beneath it, a card written in elegant cursive.
