Oh, am I truly alone? she would reply, laughter bubbling from her lips. No, not at all! I have a grand family!
For years, Florence had lived by herself in a crooked little cottage at the edge of Larkspur Village, but whenever people called her lonely, she found herself amused.
Oh, am I truly alone? she would reply, laughter bubbling from her lips. No, not at all! I have a grand family!
The village ladies nodded along, lips pinched in polite smiles, only to dart sly glances behind her back and circle their fingers at their temples. Family, she says! No husband, no children, alone except for her menagerie…
It was her menagerie, indeed, that Florence called family, and she couldnt care less if the villagers believed one ought to keep animals strictly for use: a dairy cow, a handful of chickens, perhaps a dog for guard and a cat for the mice.
Florence, however, had five cats and four dogs. Imagine, all of them living insidesleeping curled close to the crackling hearth, not a whiff of a kennel or drafty barn. That was what her neighbours whispered about.
But they kept their remarks for one another, knowing well enough that, when told she was odd, Florence would only break into another smile:
Oh, bless you, Im not odd at all. Weve all had quite enough of the outdoors, thank you. Were happiest at home together.
Five springs ago, Florence had lost both her husband and her son in a single misfortune: theyd been caught on the bypass by a runaway lorry while coming home from a fishing jaunt.
When she could finally gather herself from grief, Florence knew she could not stay in that terraced house, with its echoes of laughter and footprints in the hall. She could not walk the same pavements nor stand in the queue where people pressed sympathy through pursed lips.
So, six months later, she sold that house andwith her old tabby, Agnes, for companymoved to the village edge, buying her little cottage tucked behind wild hollyhock. All summer she gardened; come the frost, she found work at the canteen in neighbouring Bexley.
Bit by bit, her motley family arrived. One she took in shivering by the station bins, another turned up at the canteen backdoor, nose to the wind for scraps.
And so, Florence gathered around herself a tribe of kindred spirits, battered but brave. Her hearts warmth soothed their silent aches; in turn, their devotion brightened her days.
There was love and hearth heat enough for all.
Food was sometimes thin, but it never quite ran out. She made herself promise, again and again, not to bring home any more waifs.
In March, after days bright and soft as butter, winter sprang out again, flurries biting at evening stragglers and sleet rattling the windows by night.
Florence hurried for the seven oclock busthe last one home, weighed down on both arms with heavy canvas bags, shopping for herself and the furry tribe. She had even pinched leftover morsels from the canteen.
Remembering her promise, she kept her gaze forward, conjuring up her creatures, already picturing their eager faces awaiting her return.
Yet, as it goes, what matters is often unseenfor just before she reached the bus, her heart twisted; she stopped, wheeled around.
There, under a splintered bench, lay a dog. Its stare was shattered glassgone from this world, dusted over with snow and no longer stirred by the parade of boots and umbrellas.
People hurried past, knitted close in scarves, trailing the winds bitter snap. Did no one see? Could no one care?
Florences chest tightened as if crushed. She forgot about buses and pledges. She dropped her bags, knelt by the bench, and reached for the dog. Its eyelids fluttered in slow recognition.
Thank heavens, youre alive! Come on, darling. Up nowcome with me…
The dog made no move, nor did it resist as Florence gently lifted its wasted frame.
Later, she would not recall how she staggered to the station waiting room, both arms heavy with shopping and with a living, trembling dog. She tucked herself in the farthest corner, working her hands across bony paws, massaging warmth back into the animals chilled limbs.
Come on, my dear. Weve a home to reach. Youll make number fivea nice round set, she murmured.
From her shopping she dug out a sausage roll, crumbling it in her palm and offering it. The dog refused at first, but gradually, revived by warmth and familiarity, she changed her mind. Her tail thumped weaklya decision, perhaps, to keep going for one more day.
An hour later, they stood on the roadside, Florence defeated but undeterred by her missed bus. She fumbled her belt into a makeshift lead, though the dog (Florence named her Daisy on the spot) never strayed, glued to her saviours knees.
Ten minutes after, Florence barely believed her luck as a car slowed and stopped.
Oh, thank you! Dont worry about the dog, Ill keep her on my lapshes used to me, Florence gushed at the driver.
Oh, Im not worried, replied the man. Let her have the seat; shes hardly a lapful…
Yet Daisy climbed straight into Florences lap and nestled, shuddering still, but daring to believe.
Its just… were warmer like this, Florence managed, smiling.
The driver bobbed his head, silent, eyeing the belt slung round Daisys neck. He cranked the heater high. They rode home wordless. Florence stared into the swirling snow, its crystals skittering madly in the headlights, while Daisy pressed close.
The man watched the strong, lovely line of Florences face, and the way she clutched her new charge protectively to her. He could tell what had happened; he recognised kindness and heartbreak stitched together. She looked tired, but at peace.
He let them off at the cottage, emerged to help with the bags. Snow mounded high at the garden gate; with a bruise of his shoulder he shunted it open. It gave way, rusty hinges surrendering, and flopped on its side.
Never mind that, Florence sighed, its been waiting for repair.
Muffled yawps and mews rang from inside the house. Florence darted up, flung open the door, and her familycats and dogs of every stripeburst out into the night.
Oh, dears! Were you lost without me? Well, here I am, not a chance Id leave you! Come and meet our latest arrival…
Daisy crouched behind Florence, overwhelmed, while the tribe washed her with cautious sniffs. The man still held the bags, dogs nosing for treats.
What are we all lingering for? chided Florence, laughing. Come inside, unless youre afraid of our big, noisy tribe. Can I tempt you with a cup of tea?
He brought the bags in but demurred: Its late. Ill be off now. Best see to your familytheyve missed you.
Next day, near midday, a sharp tapping echoed in the garden. Pulling on her coat, Florence ventured out and found yesterdays driver, Stanley, busily fitting new hinges to the broken gate, a toolkit spread at his side.
He looked up and beamed.
Good day! Felt bad about your gate last night, so Ive come to fix it. Stanley, by the wayand you are?
Florence, she replied.
The whole furry troupe clustered round, snuffling at their new friend, while he scratched their heads, squatting contentedly.
No need for you to catch your death out here, Florence. Go on inIll finish up, and I wouldnt say no to a bit of tea afterward. Theres a Victoria sponge in the car, and some treats for your lovely crew.
If you wish to see what happens next, follow alongleave your fancies and delight below, and lift a thumb if youre warmed by the tale…
