From my pension, aside from covering the usual council tax and household bills and buying groceries at the weekly market, I always allowed myself one small indulgencea packet of whole bean coffee. They were already roasted, and when I snipped the corner off the packet, the aroma was simply divine. It was my ritual to breathe it in with my eyes closed, shutting out all the other senses except my sense of smellonly then could I truly appreciate the magic. Alongside that incredible scent, it seemed as though new energy would fill me, recalling girlish dreams of distant lands, the sound of crashing surf, fat drops of tropical rain, mysterious rustlings deep in the jungle, and wild cries of monkeys swinging through the trees…
I never saw those places, but I remembered the tales my father used to spinhe was always off on research expeditions to South America. Whenever he was home, hed sit with me, his little Daisy, telling thrilling stories about his adventures in the Amazon valley while sipping his strong, black coffeeand to this day, the smell of coffee brings him to mind: lean, weather-beaten and always tanned, an explorer to the core.
Id always known my parents werent my own by birth. I remembered, just after the war began, being a lost three-year-oldmy whole family goneand being taken in by a kind woman who became my mother for life. After that, things went much as they do for most: school, college, work, marriage, then the birth of my sonand here I am: alone. My son, John, was persuaded by his wife years back to settle abroad with his family, making his life in Bristol. In all that time, hes only come back to our town once. We keep in touch, and John still sends money every month, but I never spend itit all goes into a special savings account. Two decades of pennies, and it will go back to him, later…
Lately Ive been wondering if I lived a good life, full of care and love, but not truly my own. If not for the war, Id have had different parents, a different home, maybe a different future altogether. I scarcely remember my birth parents, but I often think back to the little girl who was always with me in those almost-forgotten years. Her name was MaryI can almost hear as clear as day the way we were called: Mary! Daisy! Who was she to me? A friend? A sister?
A sharp buzz from my mobile interrupted my thoughts. The screen flashedmy pension had landed in the bank account! How timely. I could take a stroll to the shop and buy another bag of coffee; Id brewed my last cup just yesterday morning. Carefully picking my way around autumn puddles, tapping the pavement with my stick, I made my way to the shop.
At the door huddled a small grey tabby, peering warily at passers-by and the glass doors. My heart clenched at the sightpoor thing, shivering, probably hungry as well. I would take you home, I mused, but who would look after you when Im gone? Still, moved by compassion, I bought a small packet of cat food for her.
I squeezed out the jelly food into a little dish, the tabby waiting patiently, those bright eyes fixed on me with utter devotion. Suddenly, the doors swung open and out stomped a large, severe-looking shopkeeper, who briskly kicked the dish awaythe food scattering all over the pavement.
Youre told and told not to feed them here! she spat out. Theres nothing for it but trouble! Off she went in a huff.
The cat skittered, then quickly nibbled up the bits, while I, breathless with indignation, felt a sharp painan attack was coming on. I hurried to the bus stopthere, at least, I could sit. On the bench, I fumbled frantically for my tablets, searching every pocket in vain.
The pain hit in waves, my head locked in a vice, vision dimming. I let out a faint moan, and then felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I pried my eyes openthere stood a young woman, fear in her face.
Are you alright, Gran? Is there anything I can do?
In my bag, I whispered feebly. Theres a pack of coffee. Open it for me.
She handed it to me. I pressed the bag to my nose and breathed in deeply, twice. The pain eased, ever so slightly.
Thank you, dear, I murmured.
My names Alice, the girl replied with a shy smile. But really, you should thank the cat. She stayed by you and kept me here, meowing so loudly!
Thank you too, sweetheart, I said, stroking the friendly tabby, who had jumped right up on the bench beside me.
What happened? Alice asked with real concern.
A migraine, dear. Its from nerves, it happens, I managed to explain.
Ill see you home, walking might be too much on your own…
My great-gran gets migraines too, Alice added as we sipped mild coffee with milk and biscuits in my tidy little flat. Well, technically, shes my great-grandmother, but I call her Granny. She lives in a village, with my gran, mum and dad. Im here studying to be a nurse. Granny always calls me sweetheart, just like you do. And you know, you look so like her that I thought you were her when I first saw you! Have you ever tried tracing your real family, the ones from before?
Oh Alice, how would I ever find them? I remember so littleno surname, no hometown. Just that scramble during the bombings, driving in a cart, tanks roaring by… I ran and ran till I forgot myself, such terror! A woman took me in, I always called her Mum, and her husband became the best father I could have wished for. All I really kept is my name. My real family likely diedmother, and little Mary…
I didnt notice at first how Alice had gone pale, watching me with huge blue eyes.
Daisy, she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder, one shaped like a leaf?
The question startled me so much I nearly choked on my coffee. The tabby stared at me intently.
How did you know that, dear?
My granny has exactly the same one, Alice said softly. Her name is Mary. Even now, she cries whenever she remembers her twin sisterDaisy, lost in the bombing, separated during the evacuation. When the road was cut off, they had to return home, and lived out the occupation there. But Daisy disappeared. They searched and searched, but never found her.
All next morning I couldnt settle, drifting from window to door, waiting for visitors. The grey tabby, never far from my side, gazed at me with worried eyes.
Dont worry, Mabel, I assured her, trying to calm both our hearts. Everythings just fine, really…
Finally, the doorbell rang. With trembling hands and pounding heart, I opened the door.
There, motionless and silent, stood two elderly women, gazing at each other with eyes bright with hope. It felt as if we were searching for ourselves in a mirrorthose blue eyes, the silver hair, the gentle sadness etched into our smiles.
At last, my guest softly exhaled, smiled, stepped forward and embraced me tightly.
Hello, Daisy, my darling! she cried.
And at the doorway, wiping away tears of happiness, stood my long-lost family.
