Youve dropped a potato.
Edith Wilkins turned around. Two lads stood nearbyidentical, thin, both in jackets much too big. One bent to pick the potato, wiped it on his trouser leg, and handed it back. The other stared at the tray of boiled potatoes as if he hadnt eaten in days.
Thank you. What are you boys doing here, eh? Thats the third time today Ive seen you.
The older boy shrugged. Just passing by.
Edith knew what just passing by meant. She wrapped two potatoes in newspaper, slipped in a small cucumber.
If youre about tomorrow, lend a hand with the crates, would you? Agreed?
They snatched the bundle and vanished, silent as shadows.
That evening, as Edith dragged her water can home, the boys appeared again. They didnt speakjust picked up the can and carried it for her. The older one dug into his pocket, producing two old copper penniesworn thin.
These were our fathers. He was a baker, but he died. We cant give them away, but you can have a look.
She understood instantly: it was all they had.
Miles and Henry came daily after that. Edith would feed them what she brought from home, and theyd haul sacks and crates for her at the market. They ate quickly, eyes downcast. One day, she asked gently, Where do you sleep at night?
In the cellar on Foundry Lane, Henry answered. Its dry, really. Dont worry, missus.
How can I not worry? Thats why Im asking.
Miles lifted his head. Were not beggars. Well open a bakery, just like father.
Edith nodded, not pressing further. She could see they were determinediron-willed, holding themselves upright through hardship.
Still, trouble brewed on the market. Old Cyril Turner, who managed the gate and whose wife hawked pickled herring to empty aisles, started making trouble. While there was always a queue for Ediths stall, Cyrils wife rarely sold a thing. Cyril stalked past, muttering, Playing the saint, are we? Feeding all the waifs?
None of your business, Edith retorted.
It is my business! I keep this place in order.
He scribbled in his grubby notepad, eyeing the boys with barely concealed disgust. Edith sensed he meant to cause trouble. She hadnt expected it to go as far as it did.
It was a Wednesday. A motorcar drew up to her stallout stepped two women and the local constable. Miles and Henry were stacking crates; they froze where they stood.
Miles and Henry Baker?
Yes, Miles answered.
Pack your things. Youll be coming with us.
Edith stepped forward, voice trembling. Where are you taking them? Theyre in my careIll vouch for them!
Youre employing underage children, one woman replied, nodding at Cyril Turner, who watched with folded arms from the gate. Weve had a report. These boys must be under the supervision of the state.
Im not employing them! Im feeding them!
Aunt Edith, please dont, Miles murmured. Its not worth it.
Henry said nothing, balling his fists. Someone took him by the shoulder and led him to the car. Edith lunged, grabbing the womans sleeve.
Hold on! I can be their guardianI can
Youre a pensioner. Step aside. The boys will be placed separately, in different homes.
Separately?
But already the doors had slammed. Edith stood in the middle of the market, catching sight of Miless face pressed to the window. His lips barely moved: Thank you.
Cyril Turner sauntered past, whistling tunelessly.
Twenty years passed.
Edith no longer kept a market stall, living in her little cottage on the edge of the village, scraping by on her pension. She often thought of those boys. Were they alive? Had they found one another? Sometimes she dreamed of themstanding at her old stall, eating potatoes, as she ruffled their hair.
Cyril Turner still lived across the lane, aged and hunched, but couldnt resist a jibe on the rare times their paths crossed.
Well, Wilkins, still thinking about your little strays?
She never answered. She hadnt the energy any longer.
One Saturday, tending her garden, Edith looked up to see two large black motorcars glide down the road and stop at her gatea sight never before seen on their street. Neighbours peered from doorways, whispering.
From the cars stepped two tall men in suitsbroad-shouldered, strikingly alike, each with a little mole beneath the left eye. Edith straightened, her spade clattering to the ground.
Aunt Edith?
A voice, shaky but familiar. She knew them by their eyesexactly the same as all those years ago.
Miles?
He nodded. Henry stood beside him, quiet, his mouth spread in a smile. Then, Miles stepped forward, drew a chain from beneath his shirt, and held it out. On it hung a single worn copper pennythe very same.
We always kept it. Wouldnt be parted from it for the world.
Edith wrapped them both in her arms. They stood that way for ages, afraid it might all vanish like a dream.
Neighbours stared, uncomprehending. Henry stepped back, wiping his eyes.
We spent three years looking for you. The old markets gone, everyone moved away. We raked through archives, tracings, lists of former addresses. We thought wed never find you.
Miles took Ediths hand. Were here to take you home. We have bakeries nowseventeen. It was fathers trade, and we built it up from nothing. They split us up, but we found each other, escaped the homes, worked our way up. All this time, we remembered those days you fed us. You were the only one who ever stopped to help.
Oh, boys, but Im getting on all right
All right? Henry looked about her battered cottage, the sagging roof. Aunt Edith, you shared your last meal with us back then. Now its our chance. Come live with me. Or with Miles. Weve been arguing all week about it.
Miles is closer to the surgery, said Henry. But Ive got a big garden and proper orchard.
The brothers tumbled into happy argument, as they had as boys, and Edith began to weep quietly.
From behind the hedge, Cyril Turner gawped at the cars and the smartly-dressed men, baffled as to what was going on. Miles noticed his stare and walked over.
Youre Mr Turner, arent you? The old market keeper?
Cyril nodded warily.
You had us sent away all those years ago?
Silence. The old man jerked his chin.
Well. It was the law. Couldnt have children working.
Henry gave a half-grin. You know what? If it hadnt been for you, wed probably still be in that cellar. They split us up, but six years later we found each other again, ran away, and started over. You could say you changed our lives for good.
Miles pressed a business card into Cyrils shaking hands.
Our details, if you ever need somethingjust in case. Were not the vengeful sort. Not like some.
Cyril Turner turned the card in trembling fingers, reading: Baker & Baker, Master Bakers. His face seemed to sag. He shuffled home, bent as if he carried a heavy weight that could never be set down.
Edith was packed within half an hourshe hadnt much to take. Miles and Henry settled her in the back seat, wrapping her with a blanket.
As the cars rumbled away, Edith glanced back. At Cyrils tiny window, a shadow stood watching. There was no anger left in that lookno triumph, either. Only the emptiness of someone whod spent a lifetime sowing spite, and finished with nothing.
Aunt Edith, Miles said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror, do you remember how we promised to open a bakery, all those years ago?
I remember.
We named our main shop Ediths Bakery. And every day, we feed children there free of chargethose with nowhere else to go.
Edith closed her eyes. Twenty years ago, shed handed two hungry boys a couple of boiled potatoes, and hadnt turned away. Now theyd come back, returning far more than shed ever given.
The cars turned onto the main road. The old village slipped away behind them. Ahead was a new lifethe one she had earned, simply by keeping her heart open.
