“Am I really alone? Of course not,” she would laugh in reply. “No, dont be daft, Ive a big family!”
For years, Margaret had lived by herself in a small cottage on the edge of a sleepy English village. The thought of being alone struck her as almost comical whenever someone hinted at her isolation. The village women would smile knowingly and nod, but once Margaret turned away, theyd shoot glances at each other, whirling a finger near their temples that one, shes got a screw loose, claiming she has a family when theres not a soul but herself, no husband, no children, not even a cousin who visits, just like an animal
And animals were precisely who Margaret meant by “family.” She couldnt care less that the villagers believed if you kept animals, it ought to be for a purpose a cow or some hens, perhaps a single watchdog or maybe a cat for catching mice.
But Margaret? She had five cats and four dogs, and (to the villagers endless gossiping) they all lived indoors, not shivering out in the back garden where, by common sense, they belonged.
“Theyre better off with us, all together at home,” shed announce cheerily whenever anyone dared to comment and after a time, people simply resigned themselves; no point in arguing with the “eccentric spinster,” she only laughed at them.
Five years earlier, Margarets world shattered when she lost both her husband and son on the same tragic day. They had been returning from a fishing trip when a juggernaut lorry veered out of control.
Eventually, she realised she couldnt go on living in a London flat stuffed with echoes of her beloveds nor stroll the same market lanes or endure the pitying glances of neighbours. Within six months, shed sold their city home and moved, with her faithful cat Molly, to a small house she bought on the outskirts of a Dorset village. She worked the little garden in summer and in winter found a job at the local tearoom in the nearby market town.
In time, her family grew. Some animals turned up at the station, hungry and pleading; others crept into the tearoom kitchens in hope of scraps. She brought them home, one after another, each an outcast, some broken in spirit but Margarets warm heart mended what the world had wounded, and she was repaid a hundred-fold with love and loyalty.
Somehow, she managed to feed everyone, though it was always a squeeze on wages. Each time she brought home another stray, Margaret vowed, “This is the last one,” sternly to herself. She knew her limits.
Then, in March, as the first signs of spring glimmered, a cruel cold snap swept back in, lashing the lanes with icy snow and driving folk to huddle in their stone cottages. That evening, with both arms laden with heavy shopping bags tins and kibbles, bread and cheese Margaret rushed to catch the last bus home.
She reminded herself, “No more strays,” and fixed her eyes to the path ahead, picturing her loyal crowd awaiting her return and feeling warmed from within.
Yet, as they say, “The heart sees what the eyes do not,” and just as she neared the bus stop, something made her turn. Not ten yards away, under the bench, a dog lay motionless, half-buried by the swirling snow, gazing blankly ahead. Somehow, it still lived.
All around, people rushed past, scarves tight, lost in their own misery, not stopping, not seeing.
Margarets chest clenched. In an instant, the bus and her promise were forgotten. She dropped her bags and knelt down, stretching a gentle hand towards the creature. Slowly, the dog blinked.
“Thank goodness, youre alive!” Margaret exhaled, voice trembling. “Come on, love, up you get… come here.”
The dog made no attempt to move, nor to resist, as she coaxed her from the snowbank. It seemed this poor soul had been quite prepared to give up on the world.
Later, Margaret would recall in a daze how she staggered to the warmth of the station lobby, juggling shopping and the limp, shivering dog in her arms. There, huddled in a distant corner, she set about briskly rubbing the bony legs and freezing paws, coaxing life back into the miserable creature.
“Come on, sweetheart, wake up, weve got a journey ahead,” Margaret murmured, half to herself, half to the dog. “Youll make a fifth dog for us just to keep the numbers even, eh?”
She fished out a leftover sausage roll from her bag and offered it gingerly. At first, the dog refused, but as warmth returned, her nose twitched and, finding a second wind, she wolfed it down, perhaps reconsidering her plan of giving up.
An hour later, Margaret found herself hitchhiking on the snowy lane, bus long gone, her new charge trailing close. She fashioned a lead from her scarf, but the dog christened Daisy in the moment clung to Margarets legs, refusing to be left behind.
Just as hope ebbed, a car slowed and stopped. Margaret shuffled Daisy onto her lap and offered rapid, embarrassed thanks to the driver, promising the dog would not make a mess.
“No trouble at all,” the man smiled. “Best let her sit on the seat by you. Shes hardly pocket-sized!”
But Daisy, trembling, tucked herself into Margarets lap as gently as a fawn, while the driver, noticing the makeshift lead, silently cranked the heating.
They drove in silence, the headlamps carving gold trails through the whirling snow. Margaret clutched Daisy, staring ahead, dazed and grateful; the driver snuck glances, reading the sorrow and peace etched together in her features. He guessed instantly: this woman rescues them, gathers broken souls, and offers them home.
He drew up at Margarets gate, leapt out, and took her bags. The snow had piled so deeply he had to shoulder the rickety gate open, its hinges shrieking protest until it finally collapsed in defeat.
“Dont mind the gate,” Margaret sighed, flustered. “Been meaning to fix that for ages.”
Welcoming barks and meows erupted from inside. Margaret hurried, threw open the door, and her whole throng poured out wagging tails, curious whiskers, all clamouring to greet her.
“There now, did you think Id left you? No, no, your mums home. Look, we have a new friend!”
Daisy peered hesitantly behind Margarets legs, while the other dogs sniffed eagerly at the stranger and the still-unopened shopping bags. The man held them hesitantly at the door.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Margaret laughed, a note of challenge in her voice. “Come inside, if youve the bravery for my rowdy lot. Fancy a cuppa?”
He passed the bags into the hallway but shook his head. “Its late, Id best be off. Feed your lot; theyve missed you terribly.”
The next day, not long past noon, a sharp rat-a-tat at the gate startled Margaret. She pulled on her old cardigan and found yesterdays driver outside, tools spread at his feet, fixing the battered gate.
He flashed a smile. “Good afternoon! Broke your gate last night. Thought Id better come mend it. Names William, by the way. And you are?”
“Margaret,” she replied, blushing.
The furry family, emboldened by daylight and curiosity, sniffed about Williams boots as he squatted to pat their heads.
“Dont catch a chill out here, love,” William called over his shoulder. “Pop inside Ill finish up and then a cup of tea wouldnt go amiss. Brought some cake and a few treats for your tribe as well.”
The year rolled on, and so did Margarets story, full of warmth, rescue, and love stitched through the quiet days of an English village life.
