The little old grocer’s on the outskirts of Canterbury was beloved by locals—tasty fare, honest portions, and warm-hearted shop girls. Margaret Thompson had worked there fifteen years, first behind the scales, then as section manager. She knew it all—who fancied extra sausage rolls, who needed reminding about the porridge, and who deserved a generous scoop, “just to be kind.”
That day, she hurried from the storeroom with a tray of pork pies. Just as she set them in the display, her gaze caught a familiar figure—a tall man in a worn overcoat, sorrow in his eyes, lingering by the counter as if searching for someone.
Margaret stepped forward.
“If you’re looking for Emily, she’s poorly. Back next week. The usual for you—steak pies and spare ribs?”
The man blinked. “You remember my usual order?”
“Course I do. You’re a regular.” She flushed.
He hesitated, then added softly, “Always hoped to land at your till, Margaret. Kept ending up at Emily’s. Fair broke my heart.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Your badge, love.”
From behind, Doris Higgins huffed. “Sir! Hold up the queue, will you? Ten people waiting!”
He startled. “Right. The pies, please.” Then quieter, meeting her eyes: “Suppose someday a proper home-cooked pie might come from a kind woman’s hands. Unless—you’re not wed, Margaret? Might I walk you home after your shift? Live just ’cross the road, on my own.”
Margaret nodded faintly, handing over the bag. Her heart thrummed like a girl’s.
“Till evening, then.” He smiled. “Name’s Albert, by the by.”
All day, Margaret floated. Even Doris noticed.
“Margie, you ill? Cheeks like a lass off to her first dance!”
“Just in fine spirits, Doris.”
At shift’s end, Margaret touched up her lips, wrapped her scarf, and stepped out. Albert waited.
“Fancy a stroll? Might catch a picture show?”
The weather was foul—wet snow clung to lashes. They ambled along the high street, chatting like old friends. Then he murmured:
“Come up for tea? Warm ourselves. I’m just round the corner.”
“Bit forward, isn’t it? We’ve only just met.”
“Met? I’ve watched you a year. The way you are—kind with the old ladies, sweet with the children. Feels like I’ve known you forever. Don’t you feel it?”
She smiled. “Alright, Albert. Lead on—I’m soaked through.”
His flat was plain but cosy. He took her coat, set her boots to dry, brewed tea with lemon, fetched biscuits.
When the storm raged fierce outside, he said: “Stay. I’ll take the kitchen. Where’d you go now, in this?”
Margaret glanced round—warm, safe, her heart whispering *stay*.
“Alright then.”
She took the sofa, he the kitchen. Yet come dawn, they woke together—sleeping apart hadn’t worked.
When Emily returned, she spotted Albert meeting Margaret after work.
“Quick off the mark! I’m off ill, and you’ve nicked my best customer!” She laughed.
Truth was, Emily was glad. Happy Margaret shone like sunshine, warming everyone. Real happiness carries far. Even the steak pies sold quicker that week.
