The cold morning air stung her cheeks as she tugged at what she thought was just an old ruguntil it groaned beneath her fingers.
The weather had turned unseasonably warm, and Emily decided to air out her makeshift beddingpaper-stuffed sacks for pillows and a threadbare tapestry for a blanket. She draped it carefully over a clothesline strung between two trees, then arranged her “pillows” on a battered bench covered in cracked red vinyl.
Emily had been homeless for over a year. Her dream was simple: save enough to replace her lost documents and return hometo Cornwall, where memories of family and a quiet life still lingered. For now, she lived in an abandoned gamekeepers cottage, once nestled deep in the woods. Now, the trees had been cleared, replaced by a sprawling landfill.
At first, the stench was bearable. But as the waste piled higher, the air thickened with rot. Everything ended up here: broken furniture, shredded clothes, discarded crockery. That was how Emily had salvaged a rickety wardrobe, a lumpy armchair, even a wooden trunk full of clothes someone had tossed aside.
Supermarket lorries arrived at night, dumping expired food. With careful sorting, she sometimes found edible vegetables or frozen meals. Water was scarceshe hauled it from a murky stream, straining it through rags and charcoal scavenged from the rubbish. Firewood was easy enoughbroken branches littered the ground. But money? Rare. A few coins in discarded pockets were a blessing; a wallet, a miracle.
That night, the sound of an engine startled her awake. People usually dumped their trash under cover of darkness, but this was different. The car was sleek, expensivea Range Rover, its dark paint gleaming under the moonlight like a predator.
A man stepped out, hefting a bulky roll from the boot and dragging it deeper into the rubbish.
*Roofing felt?* Emily wondered. *Could patch the leaks before winter.* She willed him to leave.
He dropped the bundle in a hollow between the mounds, hesitated, then turned back to the car. The engine snarled, and he vanished into the night.
Finally. She pulled on her wellies and stepped outside. Dawn was breaking, the air crisp with the scent of distant pines. She remembered a patch of wild garlic growing beyond the hillworth checking later.
Approaching the discarded roll, she expected tarpaulin or plastic sheeting. Instead, she found an ornate carpetthe kind that belonged in grand houses, not a rubbish heap.
*Persian, maybe. Too heavy for roofing,* she thought, disappointed. Then, *But itd make a better bed than sawdust sacks.*
She tugged at the edgetoo heavy to lift. Then she heard it. A muffled groan.
Emily, hardened by a year on the streets, felt her knees lock. She crept closer. “Whos there?”
Silence. Then another groan, and a frail voice: “Its me Margaret Holloway”
With a heave, Emily unrolled the carpetand a tiny, well-dressed woman tumbled out, clutching her temple.
“Bloody hell,” Margaret muttered, blinking at the waste around her. “He brought me *here*?”
Emily helped her up, guiding her to the cottage. Inside, she lit the stove and brewed strong tea.
“Emily Whitmore,” she introduced herself. “Used to teach English lit.”
Margaret eyed her cropped hair and mens clothes. “Youre a *girl*?”
“Life happened,” Emily sighed. “Came to London for work. Got robbed at Kings Crossbag, money, passport.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“Did. They said sort it through the embassy. That takes money. Ive got none.”
Margaret studied her, something flickering behind her sharp gaze. “No charity? No help?”
“Not that I know of.”
Margarets hands trembled around her mug. “And *how* did you end up in that carpet?”
At the question, Margarets face crumpled. “That bastard. My *son-in-law*.”
Emily winced. “Sorryshouldnt have asked.”
Margaret wiped her eyes, then fixed Emily with a glare. “Why should I help *you*? Do you even know who I am? Once Im out of here, Ill ruin him. And youliving like this? *Disgraceful.*”
Emily looked away, shame curling in her stomach.
Margaret finished her tea, squared her shoulders. “Emily. How do I get to the main road?”
“Its not far. But with that head”
“If you want to live, you adapt,” Margaret snapped. “Lead the way.”
Outside, dawn painted the sky gold. Margaret shivered in her thin tweed suit.
“Take a coat,” Emily offered.
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “Just get me to the road.”
They reached the tarmac quickly. Margaret released Emilys arm with a curt nod. “Thats enough. Ill manage. And Ill see what I can do for you.”
Emily trudged back, thinking, *Posh voice, queenly walk. Mustve been someone important. If she helps*
At the cottage, she kneaded dough for flatbreads when the door burst open. Margaret stood there, shaking, her face ashen.
“Emilyhelp.”
She guided Margaret to the bench. The woman clutched her side, gasping. “Not one driver stopped. One asked how Id *pay*! Who do they think I am?!”
Emily handed her warm bread.
“From the bins?” Margaret grimaced.
“Flours clean. Boiling water kills anything.”
Margaret chewed reluctantly. “Havent seen this since the war.”
“Youre whateighty?”
“Near enough. And now Ive nowhere to go. That *rat* took everything.”
Outside, an engine growled. Emily peered through the grimy windowthe Range Rover was back.
“Margaret*quiet*.” She shoved her into the cellar just as a knock rattled the door.
A tall man in a tailored coat stood there, his expression icy. “You live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Seen anything odd? A woman, maybe?”
Emily feigned ignorance. “Just the foxes making a racket.”
He stared, then left.
Margaret climbed out, furious. “Came back to finish the job! But youyou saved me twice.”
“Who *is* he?”
“My *son-in-law*. My daughter died, and he wants my shares. Left everything to my grandson, Oliver. That *leech* wont get a penny!”
Emily listened, stunned by the world of wealth and betrayal.
Margaret scribbled a note. “Oliverll sort this. But youll need to look the part.”
She gave Emily her clothes, even a pair of heels. “Youll pass for me long enough.”
Emily hugged her. “Lock the door. Hide if he returns.”
On the road, a kind-faced cabbie stopped. “Need a lift, love?”
She handed him the note. “Can you take me to Chelsea?”
Olivers townhouse was imposing. A security guard eyed her warily until she said, “Margaret sent me.”
Oliver rushed out. “Wheres Gran?!”
“Shes alive. But he tried to kill her.”
They sped backjust as flames engulfed the cottage. Emilys heart stopped.
Thena voice from the bushes. “*Emily!*”
They found Margaret in a hidden root cellar, coughing but alive. “He set the fire. But I remembered this old tunnel.”
Tears streaked Emilys face.
Margaret gripped her hands. “Youre coming with us. Ill get you home.”
At Olivers, Margaret made calls. By morning, Emily had a temp passport and a ticket to Cornwall.
But first, court. When Margaret walked in, alive and furious, her son-in-law paled. The sentence was harsh.
At the celebration after, Oliver pulled Emily into a dance. “Come to France with us. Grans got a villa.”
“I need to see my family.”
“Then Ill meet them.” His smile was warm. “Properly.”
A month later, in a Cornish village, bells rang for their wedding. Before leaving, they gifted Margaret the Persian carpetthe one that started it all.
*Some debts are paid in kindness.*
