Thursday, 4th May
This morning, as I queued for my usual groceries on High Street, my thoughts turned once again to Mrs Edith, our local elderly lady who visits the butchers around the same time every week. Every Thursday at ten, there she is: short, with her back curved gently by the weight of yearstrailing her old shopping trolley behind her.
She never makes a fuss. Doesnt complain. Doesnt haggle. Ive never known her to raise her voice or cause trouble. She simply stands for a moment, gazing through the glass at the different cuts of lamb, beef, and chicken on displayas if peering not at meat, but at some lost hope.
She always pulls out that battered old purse, its seams frayed and faded with age and worry, and with a weary sigh she studies the few coins inside. That quiet pause carries a weight heavier than wordsthe look of someone whose days of dreams have surrendered to making do.
Often, she half-whispers, Have you anything… a bit cheaper? Though she barely dares to hope, Mr Bennett, the butcher, knows her well by now. She never asks for sirloin, pork chops, or anything choice. Its always the same: chicken bones, tough bits, scraps, whatevers left. Whenever he bags them up for her, he has to steel himselfthe sadness is palpable, because this isnt just poverty. Its dignity. She never begs. She always pays, even when she leaves with almost nothing.
Today, on a whim, I followed her with my eyes as she left the shop. She didnt make for home. Instead, she made her way down the side alley by the estate, the cut-through where most people dont linger. There she knelt with some effort beside a soggy bit of cardboard propped next to the iron railings, wincing at the pain in her knees.
Out came the bones from her paper bag. She laid them gently on the ground as one might arrange bouquets at a memorial. Thats when I noticed thema little trio of stray cats, thin and trembling, huddled nearby. With desperate hunger, they set upon the bones at once, while she watched silently, her lips curling into a sad but gentle smile. Go on, loves. Eat up. I know too well what it is to have nothing, she murmured, her words as soft as the wind.
It struck me then, awash with shameso many of us presumed that Mrs Edith could scarcely feed herself, yet here she was, sharing even her meagre buy with those who had less than her. Later, in the shop, I chatted quietly to some neighbours and learned the truth: Mrs Edith isnt as alone as she seems. She looks after her little grandson, Jamesseven, orphaned too young. She raises him herself. All alone. Only a small state pension. Shell buy his schoolbooks before her own tablets, they told me. Whatever good she has, she gives to him. Shell eat bread and tea herself, so he can have a hot dinner.
A cold realisation hit me: she never bought bones because she fancied themshe simply couldnt afford anything else. Yet still, somehow, finds the kindness to share.
The next morning at the butchers, she arrived once again, luggage in hand, eyes fixed on her purse. Mr Bennett studied her for a long moment. He noticed her hands, cracked and worn. Nails kept short. Her old wool coat, buttoned tight in the chill. Those eyesno longer asking much of life, just bracing against its storms.
Before she could speak, he caught her eye. Mrs Edith, pleasenot today. You dont need to buy anything.
Startled, she replied, Pardon? What do you mean?
Today, youre our guest. He placed fresh chicken, beef joint, and a fine cut of lamb in a carrier, sliding it across the counter. She tried to protest, hands trembling, No, I cant, I havent the money
He just nodded gently, Thats exactly why. And, I saw you yesterdaywith the cats.
Tears suddenly brimmed in her eyes, silent and unbidden, as if her soul had been breached for the first time. I I just They have no one else. Its only right…
His own voice nearly broke. And do you have anyone, Edith?
She nodded, wiping her cheek. I have my grandson. That was all, but in that simple phrase was a universe: years of sacrifice, sleepless nights, the ache of the unknown future, and a love deep enough to keep giving.
He pressed the carrier into her arms. Take itits for the boy.
She began to cry, quietly, those sorrowful tears that speak of years denied. But why would you do it?
He replied, simply and honestly, Because you do so much, with so little. You embody kindness, and its almost always the ones who suffer most who give the most.
She gripped that bag to her chest as if it were a sacred gift. I dont have a lot… but Ive still got a heart, she whispered. And if I can share, I shall…
My own eyes stung as I watched them. That day, we sold more than meat at the shop. We shared decency, and hope. No grand speeches changed the worldbut a kind gesture, an extra bag, a heart unwilling to turn cold, made a difference.
If youve read this far, dont walk by when you see goodness in others. Today it was Mrs Edithtomorrow, it might just be your mum or nan. If you can, leave a heart for Mrs Edith, and wish strength upon all who quietly bear lifes burdens.
