The little old grocery on the outskirts of York was a favourite among the locals—good hot food, generous portions, and kind-hearted shop assistants. Margaret Collins had worked there fifteen years, first at the scales, then as department manager. She knew everything—who liked extra stuffed peppers, who couldn’t forget their buckwheat porridge, and who deserved an extra-large scoop, just “for kindness’ sake.”
That day, she hurried from the stockroom with a tray of pork pies. Just as she set them in the display, her gaze caught on a familiar figure—a tall man in a worn coat, eyes downcast, standing at the counter as if searching for someone.
Margaret stepped forward:
“If you’re looking for Emily, she’s poorly. She’ll be back next week. The usual, then—sausages and spare ribs?”
The man blinked in surprise.
“You even remember my regular order?”
“’Course I do. You’re one of our regulars,” she said, cheeks warming.
He hesitated, then added softly,
“I’ve been meaning to come to your till, Margaret. Always end up at Emily’s by mistake. Rotten luck, really.”
“How d’you know my name?”
“It’s on your badge.”
Behind him, Sheila’s sharp voice cut in:
“Sir! There’s a queue forming! Ten people behind you!”
He startled.
“Sorry. Just the sausages, please.”
Then, quieter, meeting her eyes:
“Maybe one day a kind woman’ll make me proper homemade ones. If you’re not married—could I walk you home after your shift? I live just across the road.”
Margaret gave the faintest nod as she handed him his bag. Her heart hammered—like she was a girl again.
“‘Til this evening, then,” he smiled. “Oh, and—Tom’s my name.”
All day, Margaret floated. Even Sheila noticed:
“Margie, you feeling all right? Cheeks rosy as a lass on her first date!”
“Fine, Sheila. Just in good spirits.”
At closing, she touched up her lipstick, wrapped her scarf tight, and stepped outside. Tom was waiting.
“Fancy a walk? Maybe the pictures?”
The weather was miserable, sleet clinging to their lashes. They strolled along the avenue, chatting like old friends. At some point, he asked,
“Margie, why not come back to mine? Warm up with a cuppa.”
“Isn’t that a bit—we’ve only just met.”
“Met? I’ve watched you a year now. The way you are with the pensioners, the kiddies… Kind. Decent. Feels like I’ve known you ages. Don’t you feel it?”
She smiled.
“Go on, then. I’m soaked through.”
His flat was simple but cosy. He took her coat, set her boots by the radiator, brewed tea with lemon, laid out biscuits.
When the storm outside worsened, he suddenly said,
“Stay. I’ll take the sofa.”
Margaret glanced around—warm, safe. Something in her whispered not to run.
“Alright.”
She took the bed, he the kitchen. But come morning, they woke tangled together—solitude hadn’t lasted.
When Emily returned from sick leave, she spotted Tom waiting for Margaret after work.
“Well, aren’t you quick! I turn my back, and you’ve nabbed him!” she laughed.
Truth was, Emily was glad. Happy Margaret shone—bright enough to warm the whole shop. Real happiness shows, even from afar. And the sausages and ribs? They flew off the shelves that week.
Funny how a man goes out for bangers and comes back with something sweeter.
