She was certain shed found a rugbut something inside was groaning and shifting.
The day had turned unseasonably warm, and Daisy seized the chance to air out her makeshift bedding. Her pillows were nothing more than burlap sacks stuffed with wood shavings, and her blanket was an old tapestry depicting a stag hunt. She draped it carefully over a length of rope strung between two trees, then arranged her lumpy pillows on a battered leather bench nearby.
Daisy had been living rough for over a year. Her dream was to scrape together enough pounds to replace her lost documents and return hometo Cornwall, where memories of family and a proper life still lingered. For now, she sheltered in an abandoned gamekeepers cottage, once nestled in dense woodland. Now, where the trees had stood, there was only a sprawling landfill.
At first, the stench had been bearable, but the mounds of waste grew faster than she could ignore. Everything ended up here: broken furniture, cracked crockery, mildewed clothes. Thats how shed scavenged a wobbly side table, a moth-eaten armchair, even a wooden trunk full of discarded garments.
Soon, supermarket lorries began arriving, dumping expired goods. With careful sorting, she sometimes found edible vegetables or frozen meals. Water was harder to come byshe hauled it from a murky stream, straining it through rags and charcoal scavenged from the rubbish. Firewood wasnt an issue; fallen branches littered the ground. Days blurred into a numb routine, and saving even a few coins was rare. Loose change in discarded pockets was a windfall; a wallet, a miracle.
One night, the growl of an engine startled her awake. Trucks often came under cover of darkness, but this was differenta sleek, expensive SUV, its headlights cutting through the gloom like a predators eyes. A man stepped out, hefted a bulky roll from the boot, and dragged it deeper into the waste.
*Roofing felt?* Daisy thought. *Could patch the leaks before winter.* She willed him to leave.
The man dumped the roll in a hollow between heaps, hesitated, then strode back to his car. Moments later, the engine roared, and he vanished into the night.
Daisy pulled on her Wellington boots and stepped outside. Dawn was near, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth. She remembered a patch of wild mushrooms beyond the ridgeworth checking at first light.
Approaching the roll, she expected tarpaulin or plastic sheeting. Instead, she found an intricately woven rugthe kind that might have graced a stately home.
*Persian, maybe. Too fine for roofing,* she mused. *But folded double, itd beat sleeping on sacks.*
She tugged at the edgethen froze. A muffled groan came from within.
Daisy, hardened by a year on the streets, felt her knees buckle for the first time. She edged closer. Whos there?
Silence. Then another groan, and a frail voice: Its Margaret.
With a heave, Daisy unrolled the rug. A slight, well-dressed woman tumbled out, clutching her temple. Disoriented, she blinked at the wasteland. He brought me *here*? To a *tip*?
Wordlessly, Daisy helped her to the cottage. Seated by the stove, the womanMargaretlet out a shaky breath. Im alive. That bastard meant to bury me.
Daisy brewed strong tea, laced with foraged herbs. Im Daisy, she said. Used to teach English lit.
Margaret eyed her cropped hair and mens clothes. Youre a girl?
Life happened, Daisy sighed. Came to London for work. Got robbed at Kings Cross. No money, no papers.
Why not go to the police?
They said Id need embassy help. That costs pounds I dont have.
Margaret studied her, something like pity flickering behind her rage. No charities? No outreach?
Daisy shook her head. Nowhowd you end up in a rug?
Margaret stiffened. My son-in-law. My *dear* Oliver. Her voice turned venomous. After my daughter died, he wanted control of the estate. I refused. So he bundled me up and dumped me like rubbish.
Daisy listened, stunned. Wealth like Margarets belonged in newspapers, not her crumbling shack.
Outside, dawn broke. Margaret stood, wincing. Daisy, can you get me to the A-road?
Its not far. But youre hurt
Lead the way.
As they walked, Margaret scowled at the ravaged landscape. Used to be woodland. Now its a wasteland. Disgraceful.
At the roadside, Margaret released Daisys arm. Thank you, dear. Ill see youre repaid.
Daisy watched her flag down a passing motorist, then turned back.
Hours later, the door burst open. Margaret stood there, shivering. No one stopped. Not one!
Daisy handed her a warm flatbread.
This from the bins? Margaret sniffed.
Flours clean. Boiling water kills the weevils.
Margaret took a grudging bite. Resourceful. Ill give you that.
A shadow passed the windowthe SUV had returned. Daisy shoved Margaret into the root cellar just as a knock came.
The manOliverloomed in the doorway. Seen anything unusual?
Daisy played dumb. Just the foxes.
He left, but not before eyeing the hut with cold calculation.
Margaret emerged, trembling with fury. Came back to finish the job. But youyouve saved me twice.
Who *is* he? Daisy asked.
Vulture, Margaret spat. Married my Emily for the fortune. Now hes after the rest. She gripped Daisys arm. Get word to my grandson, Henry. Hell put this right.
Daisy borrowed Margarets clothes, hitchhiked to Henrys estate, and delivered the message.
They returned to find the cottage ablaze.
Gran! Henry shouted.
Thena cough from the brambles. Margaret crawled out, soot-streaked but alive. Cellar led to an old smugglers tunnel. Thats twice its saved me.
Henry embraced her, then turned to Daisy. Youre coming with us.
At the estate, Margaret made calls. By morning, Daisy had a temporary passport and a crisp new dress.
Stay, Henry said quietly. Grans fond of you. So am I.
Two weeks later, Oliver stood trial. Margarets testimony buried him.
At the celebration afterward, Henry pulled Daisy into a waltz. Come to France with us. Grans got a villa in Provence.
Daisy hesitated. Id meant to go home.
Then Ill come with you, he said. Meet your family. Maybe have a proper Cornish wedding.
She smiledthe first real one in years.
A month later, under a canopy of fairy lights, they danced to a folk bands reel. Before leaving for France, they gifted Margaret the rug that started it all.
Keepsakes, she said dryly, should remind us of where weve beennot where were going.
