Granddad Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman

The Only Man in the House At breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, looked up from her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s so special about it?” Instead of answering, she turned her phone around: on the screen was an unbroken string of ones—11.11.11. In other words, November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number—11! And today, it’s three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Valery grinned. “Yeah, Dad,” chimed in Nadya, the youngest, her eyes still fixed on her phone. “The horoscope says Scorpios are in for a pleasant surprise and a life-changing gift today.” “Brilliant. I bet some long-lost relative in Europe or America has popped his clogs, and we’re the sole heirs. Naturally, a millionaire…” “Billionaire, Dad,” Vera played along. “A millionaire’s pocket change for you.” “Too right! What would we even do with all that money? First, a villa in Italy or the Maldives? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” joined in Nadya. “I want my own helicopter!” “No problem. A helicopter it is. And what about you, Vera?” “I want to act in a Bollywood film with Salman Khan.” “Oh, easy! I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort that in no time… All right, dreamers, enough, finish your food, we need to leave soon.” “Oh, you can’t even let us dream,” sighed Nadya. “Why not? Dreaming is essential,” Valery took his last sip of tea and got up from the table. “Just don’t forget about school…” This morning table chat flashed through his mind now, at the end of a long day, in the supermarket, as Valery transferred groceries from his trolley to shopping bags. The day hadn’t been brilliant at all—quite the opposite, he’d had to work late and was exhausted. No pleasant surprises. No lifelong gifts. “Happiness just flew right past me, like a paper plane over Paris,” he smiled wryly as he left the store. Outside, a boy was circling his battered Moskvich, which had been faithfully serving the family for 25 years. A street kid by every sign—wearing tatty clothes, mismatched shoes (a battered trainer on one foot, an ancient army boot with an electric wire for a lace on the other), and a grubby, worn-out ushanka hat, one of its earflaps burned to a crisp. “Mister, I’m… hungry, could you… spare some bread?” the boy whimpered as Valery approached the car. The sentence sounded oddly stilted. It wasn’t just the boy’s sad appearance or his Dickensian request that struck Valery, but something about his delivery. It brought back memories of acting classes at the local theatre in his youth, where the pause in an actor’s line spoke volumes—was the emotion truth or pretence? This pause, he knew, was the litmus test for honesty. The boy was pretending. The slight stutter was a giveaway. Instantly Valery saw the scene in a different light—this was a performance. But for whom? Somehow he knew, for him. Well, two can play at that game. And his girls would love it—better than any detective game they could play. “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of borscht, some potatoes, a bit of herring, and maybe a hot prune compote with some fresh pastries. Sound good?” The boy was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly regained his composure, giving Valery a wary look from beneath his brows. “Nice going,” Valery thought. “He’s in character now. Let’s see where this goes.” “What’s the matter? Yes or no?” “Yes,” the boy mumbled. “Great. Here, hold this.” This was Valery’s test. True street kids had a habit: if you handed them a bag of food, they’d bolt before you could blink. Valery had learned to be one step ahead, often catching them in seconds and giving a gentle scolding—“You’re not an animal, you’re a child…” He made a show of looking for his keys, fiddled with his phone, deliberately turned his back. But the boy didn’t bolt—he just stood looking at the ground, clutching the bag tightly. “Thank you, lad,” Valery thought. “No sprinting for me tonight.” Keys found, groceries loaded, Valery opened the passenger door. “Your carriage awaits, my good man—dinner’s cooking as we speak.” The boy heaved a sigh and climbed in. For the seven-kilometre drive to their village, they rode in silence. Valery, widowed and single, was raising two girls alone and working as a welder. An orphan himself, he never turned away a child in need. He’d brought many home, and if it weren’t for the endless red tape and heartless officials, he’d have adopted every last one. But always, they said—your housing isn’t good enough, your finances aren’t enough, you’re a single father, and so on. As if children were somehow happier in state care! Love is what matters, Valery knew. Always. The boy sat hunched in silence, his hat pulled low. Valery guessed he wasn’t a born street kid—perhaps just new to the streets, still nervous. “I may have been too quick to judge him a liar,” Valery mused. “Maybe he’s just in shock. Never mind, friend, we’ll get you fed, cleaned up, and then you’ll tell us everything, in good time.” His girls were waiting on the porch, dashing to meet the car. “And who’s this, Dad?” they finally noticed the boy. “This? This is the pleasant surprise and lifelong gift you predicted this morning,” Valery grinned. “Epic, Dad,” Nadya, peering under the boy’s hat. “Maybe you picked up the wrong parcel?” “If only—he practically glued himself to my leg,” Valery laughed as the girls hauled the boy inside between them. “Well—shall we figure out what this Unknown Walking Object actually is?” In the kitchen, right away, the girls set to unmasking the newcomer. Nadya sniffed him, then showed her palm, smudged with dark stains. “Greasepaint, Dad. He put it on to look filthy. I asked his name, he said ‘Bugai’—a proper street nickname, means ‘the bull’. But it doesn’t add up—he smells of soap, not the street.” Soon, the boy broke down. He confessed: his name was Spartacus Bugayev, and he had a sister, Sophia. Their mother had died just before he was born; their elder sister kept the family together. Sophia had fallen in love—with none other than Valery himself, though she was too shy to tell him. Spartacus explained that, as the only man in his family, he had to make sure any man who wanted his sister’s heart was the right sort. So he created this ruse to observe the Zvyagintsev family from within—to see if Valery would love his sister and give her the happiness she deserved. “Please,” Spartacus said, “take my sister as your wife. She’s wonderful—kind, gentle, the best of us…” Valery, the girls beaming hopefully, paused to wipe a tear. “Well, girls?” he said at last, “Shall we go ask the bride?” “YES!” they cheered, hugging him tight. Spartacus solemnly extended his hand. “As the only man in our family, I give you my sister,” he said gravely. Valery shook his hand, then embraced him. At last, the circle felt complete. “Dad,” Nadya beamed, “you see? You got a new friend and a lifelong gift—a big, happy family. You always wanted that, didn’t you, Daddy? Well, now you’ve got it…”

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Mother-in-Law Times Two “Well, I never!” exclaimed George, instead of a greeting, as he opened the door to find a petite, sprightly old lady in jeans, her lips curled into a sly grin and her mischievous eyes twinkling under lowered lids. “I recognise her—Valerie Peterson, Irene’s gran. But turning up unannounced, not so much as a phone call…” “Hello, lad!” she greeted him, still smiling. “You going to invite me in, then?” George bustled, “Yes, absolutely, please come through.” Valerie rolled her wheeled suitcase into the flat. Later, as George offered her tea, she directed, “Make mine strong! So Irene’s at work, little Olivia’s at nursery, and what about you? Why aren’t you busy?” “Work sent me on leave,” he answered gloomily. “Two weeks—company policy.” There went his dreams of a peaceful fortnight. With hope, he asked his guest, “Will you be staying long?” “Spot on,” she replied, crushing his hopes, “I’ll be here a while.” George sighed again. He barely knew Valerie Peterson—he’d only glimpsed her at his wedding to Irene, when she’d come in from another city. But his own father-in-law spoke about his mother-in-law in such hushed and nervous tones, anyone could see she was respected—if not downright feared. “Wash the dishes,” she ordered, “and get yourself ready. We’ll have a tour of the town, and you’ll be my guide!” George didn’t even try to protest, not after the tone she’d used. It reminded him of Sergeant Prichard back in the army—a man you never argued with. “You’ll show me the riverside!” Valerie instructed. “What’s the best way to get there?” She looped her arm through his and confidently set off down the pavement, eyes wide with curiosity. “Taxi’s easiest,” George shrugged. Without warning, Valerie tucked her fingers into a ring and whistled piercingly. A passing taxi screeched to a stop. “Do you have to whistle like that? What will people think?” George said, helping her climb into the front seat. “They won’t think anything about me,” she grinned impishly. “They’ll probably think it’s you with no manners!” The taxi driver burst out laughing and clapped Valerie on the hand as if they were lifelong mates. For the rest of the riverside stroll, his sprightly relative regaled George with tales: “You seem a quiet, polite sort,” she said to him. “Your gran probably acts all refined too, but that’s not me. My late husband—Irina’s granddad, bless him—took forever to get used to me. He was a bookish, gentle sort, then I turned up—dragged him up mountains, got him to parachute with me. The one thing he wouldn’t touch was a hang-glider. Terrified! He’d watch the skies while I looped overhead.” To George’s surprise, Irene had never mentioned any of this about her whirlwind gran. It explained a lot. “Ever jumped from a plane yourself?” she asked, eyeing him. “In the army, fourteen times,” George replied with pride. “Good lad!” Valerie nodded approvingly and began to hum: “It’s a long drop down, When the parachute’s slow…” George recognised the song and joined in, their voices blending and driving away his nerves. Afterwards, Valerie suggested a break. “Let’s get something to eat—the aroma from that barbecue hut has me starving!” They sat near a swarthy, hawk-eyed chef skewering meat with the look of a man just as happy to duel with knives. Valerie winked and burst into song: “Gamarjoba, my friend, Wouldn’t it be grand to sing at a wedding?” The chef’s eyes lit up at the unexpected duet, and together they improvised a lively chorus before he bowed gallantly and set down a feast of skewers, flatbread, and fresh salad. He even brought two glasses of icy wine with a flourish. Drawn by the scent, a small grey kitten crept from the shrubbery. “Perfect—you’re just what we need!” Valerie beamed. “Come here, darling.” She turned to the chef: “Sir, could you bring some fresh meat for our little friend?” While the kitten devoured its treat, Valerie chided George: “You’ve got a little girl at home! And no cat? How are you planning to teach her kindness, love, compassion? This kitten stays!” After the outing, Valerie scrubbed the new family pet while sending George shopping for supplies. When he returned, arms laden with litter trays and beds, the flat was ringing with laughter as Irene and Olivia clung to their delighted gran. The kitten—with a regal air—watched from the sofa backrest. Valerie dispensed gifts. “Olivia, a summer set with shorts for you… Irene, nothing boosts a woman’s confidence in her husband’s eyes like lacy knickers…” The next week, Olivia skipped nursery, she and Valerie returning home each day exhausted but glowing from adventures. At home, George and the kitten (now named Lionel) awaited them, and in the evenings, Irene joined for family walks, Lionel in tow. “George, I need a word,” Valerie said seriously one night. “I’m leaving tomorrow—it’s time. Here: after I’m gone, give this document to Irene. It’s my will. She gets the flat and everything in it, you get our family library—some very rare treasures in there…” “Oh, Valerie, honestly!” George protested, but she silenced him. “I haven’t told Irene, only you—my heart’s not well, and it could end suddenly. Best to be ready.” “But you shouldn’t be alone!” “Oh, I’m never alone,” she smiled. “My daughter, your mother-in-law, is just a town away. You look after Irene and raise Olivia well. You’re a good man—reliable. And as for me—well, I’m your mother-in-law squared, aren’t I?” She laughed and clapped his shoulder. “Couldn’t you stay a little longer?” George pleaded. Valerie just smiled and shook her head. The whole family—Lionel included—walked her out for her taxi the next day. Valerie made her trademark whistle and a taxi screeched to a halt. “Come along, son, you’re seeing me to the station!” she commanded, kissing Irene and Olivia before hopping on the front seat. The cabbie stared in disbelief as George loaded the suitcase. “Never seen a proper English lady before?” George muttered. The spry, silver-haired matriarch shook with laughter and high-fived George with a resounding smack as the adventure came to a close.

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