The Only Man in the House At breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, looked up from her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s so special about it?” Instead of answering, she turned her phone around: on the screen was an unbroken string of ones—11.11.11. In other words, November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number—11! And today, it’s three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Valery grinned. “Yeah, Dad,” chimed in Nadya, the youngest, her eyes still fixed on her phone. “The horoscope says Scorpios are in for a pleasant surprise and a life-changing gift today.” “Brilliant. I bet some long-lost relative in Europe or America has popped his clogs, and we’re the sole heirs. Naturally, a millionaire…” “Billionaire, Dad,” Vera played along. “A millionaire’s pocket change for you.” “Too right! What would we even do with all that money? First, a villa in Italy or the Maldives? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” joined in Nadya. “I want my own helicopter!” “No problem. A helicopter it is. And what about you, Vera?” “I want to act in a Bollywood film with Salman Khan.” “Oh, easy! I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort that in no time… All right, dreamers, enough, finish your food, we need to leave soon.” “Oh, you can’t even let us dream,” sighed Nadya. “Why not? Dreaming is essential,” Valery took his last sip of tea and got up from the table. “Just don’t forget about school…” This morning table chat flashed through his mind now, at the end of a long day, in the supermarket, as Valery transferred groceries from his trolley to shopping bags. The day hadn’t been brilliant at all—quite the opposite, he’d had to work late and was exhausted. No pleasant surprises. No lifelong gifts. “Happiness just flew right past me, like a paper plane over Paris,” he smiled wryly as he left the store. Outside, a boy was circling his battered Moskvich, which had been faithfully serving the family for 25 years. A street kid by every sign—wearing tatty clothes, mismatched shoes (a battered trainer on one foot, an ancient army boot with an electric wire for a lace on the other), and a grubby, worn-out ushanka hat, one of its earflaps burned to a crisp. “Mister, I’m… hungry, could you… spare some bread?” the boy whimpered as Valery approached the car. The sentence sounded oddly stilted. It wasn’t just the boy’s sad appearance or his Dickensian request that struck Valery, but something about his delivery. It brought back memories of acting classes at the local theatre in his youth, where the pause in an actor’s line spoke volumes—was the emotion truth or pretence? This pause, he knew, was the litmus test for honesty. The boy was pretending. The slight stutter was a giveaway. Instantly Valery saw the scene in a different light—this was a performance. But for whom? Somehow he knew, for him. Well, two can play at that game. And his girls would love it—better than any detective game they could play. “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of borscht, some potatoes, a bit of herring, and maybe a hot prune compote with some fresh pastries. Sound good?” The boy was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly regained his composure, giving Valery a wary look from beneath his brows. “Nice going,” Valery thought. “He’s in character now. Let’s see where this goes.” “What’s the matter? Yes or no?” “Yes,” the boy mumbled. “Great. Here, hold this.” This was Valery’s test. True street kids had a habit: if you handed them a bag of food, they’d bolt before you could blink. Valery had learned to be one step ahead, often catching them in seconds and giving a gentle scolding—“You’re not an animal, you’re a child…” He made a show of looking for his keys, fiddled with his phone, deliberately turned his back. But the boy didn’t bolt—he just stood looking at the ground, clutching the bag tightly. “Thank you, lad,” Valery thought. “No sprinting for me tonight.” Keys found, groceries loaded, Valery opened the passenger door. “Your carriage awaits, my good man—dinner’s cooking as we speak.” The boy heaved a sigh and climbed in. For the seven-kilometre drive to their village, they rode in silence. Valery, widowed and single, was raising two girls alone and working as a welder. An orphan himself, he never turned away a child in need. He’d brought many home, and if it weren’t for the endless red tape and heartless officials, he’d have adopted every last one. But always, they said—your housing isn’t good enough, your finances aren’t enough, you’re a single father, and so on. As if children were somehow happier in state care! Love is what matters, Valery knew. Always. The boy sat hunched in silence, his hat pulled low. Valery guessed he wasn’t a born street kid—perhaps just new to the streets, still nervous. “I may have been too quick to judge him a liar,” Valery mused. “Maybe he’s just in shock. Never mind, friend, we’ll get you fed, cleaned up, and then you’ll tell us everything, in good time.” His girls were waiting on the porch, dashing to meet the car. “And who’s this, Dad?” they finally noticed the boy. “This? This is the pleasant surprise and lifelong gift you predicted this morning,” Valery grinned. “Epic, Dad,” Nadya, peering under the boy’s hat. “Maybe you picked up the wrong parcel?” “If only—he practically glued himself to my leg,” Valery laughed as the girls hauled the boy inside between them. “Well—shall we figure out what this Unknown Walking Object actually is?” In the kitchen, right away, the girls set to unmasking the newcomer. Nadya sniffed him, then showed her palm, smudged with dark stains. “Greasepaint, Dad. He put it on to look filthy. I asked his name, he said ‘Bugai’—a proper street nickname, means ‘the bull’. But it doesn’t add up—he smells of soap, not the street.” Soon, the boy broke down. He confessed: his name was Spartacus Bugayev, and he had a sister, Sophia. Their mother had died just before he was born; their elder sister kept the family together. Sophia had fallen in love—with none other than Valery himself, though she was too shy to tell him. Spartacus explained that, as the only man in his family, he had to make sure any man who wanted his sister’s heart was the right sort. So he created this ruse to observe the Zvyagintsev family from within—to see if Valery would love his sister and give her the happiness she deserved. “Please,” Spartacus said, “take my sister as your wife. She’s wonderful—kind, gentle, the best of us…” Valery, the girls beaming hopefully, paused to wipe a tear. “Well, girls?” he said at last, “Shall we go ask the bride?” “YES!” they cheered, hugging him tight. Spartacus solemnly extended his hand. “As the only man in our family, I give you my sister,” he said gravely. Valery shook his hand, then embraced him. At last, the circle felt complete. “Dad,” Nadya beamed, “you see? You got a new friend and a lifelong gift—a big, happy family. You always wanted that, didn’t you, Daddy? Well, now you’ve got it…”

The Only Man of the House

Friday, 11th of November 2011

Breakfast was well underway when my eldest, Grace, eyes fixed to her phone, piped up, Dad, have you seen the date today?

I shook my head, still stirring milk into my tea. No, is something up?

She simply turned her phone round for me to see. The screen blared out in bold digits: 11.11.11.

Thats your lucky number, Dad! Three elevens in a row. This has got to be a brilliant day for you.

If only saying so would make it so, I chuckled, trying to smooth a crumpled old Times crossword on the table.

Yes, Daddy, my youngest, Emily, chimed in, eyes never leaving her phone as well. Horoscopes say Scorpios will have a life-changing meeting and get a gift to last a lifetime today.

Fantastic. Whats the bet a distant cousin we never knew has popped their clogs in America and left us a fortune? I grinned wryly.

Probably a billionaire, Dad, Grace grinned back. I think a millionaire is small potatoes for you.

True. What on earth would we do with all that money? How about we buy a cottage in the Cotswolds or a villa in the south of France? Then a yacht…

And a helicopter, Dad! Emily burst in. I want a helicopter for myself.

No problem. Youll have a chopper. And you, Grace, what do you fancy?

I want a role in a movie. Hollywood, with Tom Hiddleston, please.

Consider it done! Ill ring up Benedict Cumberbatch, see if hes free to make arrangements, I teased. Right, dreamers, finish up. School in twenty.

Oh, but Dad, cant we dream a bit longer? Emily heaved a theatrical sigh.

Course you can dreamings important, I said, draining my mug and rising from the table. Just dont forget your geography homework.

Funny how that morning conversation came echoing back to me at the tail end of the day, as I loaded groceries into bags at Sainsburys. The day had not been brilliant quite the opposite. Extra paperwork, a late finish at the repair depot, tired to my bones; not so much as a hint of a life-changing gift or a fateful meeting.

Happiness whirled by today, like a crisp packet in the wind, I thought, half-grinning as I left the supermarket.

By my old banger, a battered Ford Escort that had kept the three of us mobile for longer than I dare admit, stood a scrawny little lad. He was a proper picture: hair in wild tufts, face smudged, wearing an ancient, oversized bomber jacket and odd shoes one trainer, one knackered brown boot with a blue wire for a lace. His woolly hat had a burn mark on one side and looked like it might have once belonged to a scarecrow.

Mister, I… Im hungry. Just some bread… please? he muttered, sounding more like an Oliver Twist extra than a 21st-century kid.

Not his miserable state, nor the Dickensian request, but the slight hitch in his plea struck me. Id spent enough time on stage with the amateur dramatics lot in my teens to sense when someone was acting. The pause between Im and hungry shouted it wasnt quite real.

This kid was spinning a yarn. My instincts prickled; it was all theatre, piled on for my benefit. Why, though? If ever there was a time for a sixth sense, it was now. I felt sure the whole act was being played specifically for me.

Interesting, I thought, nodding to myself. All right, mate, lets play your game then. My girls would be chuffed to bits they love a mystery.

You cant fill up on bread alone, mate. How do you fancy a bowl of stew with vegetables, some roasties, and a big mug of hot chocolate with jam tarts? Deal?

His eyes widened, caught off guard, but he recovered quickly, narrowing his brow and eyeing me warily.

Good lad, I thought. At least now its a bit less acting and a bit more real. Lets keep going.

Well? Yes or no?

Y-yeah, he managed, so soft I hardly caught it.

Right. Hold this for me, I said, handing over a heavy bag. It was always my test in these moments: real street kids would scarper with the food the second I turned my back, thin and underfed as they were. Didnt matter; my old legs could still catch them. A gentle cuff to the back of the head and a word or two was usually enough: Youre not an animal. Youre a child.

I took my time fishing out the car keys, checked my mobile, turned my back deliberately.

Gracie, have you put the potatoes on yet? Salad made? Good girls. Pop the stew in a small pot on low. Ill be home in twenty. See you soon.

When I glanced round, the so-called street urchin was still there, head lowered, bag clenched tight in his fists, scraping his weird boot over the tarmac.

Thank you, kid, I thought. Last thing I needed was a chase tonight.

Keys found, bags loaded, I swung open the passenger door. In you get, sir. The carriage awaits. Potatoes are almost on the boil.

He gave a strange sigh, folded himself meekly into the passenger seat, and we set off. My little house was about five miles out of town, where Id worked as a welder on the crisis repair team for over a decade. No family bar my daughters had grown up in foster homes myself. My girls were my everything, and they gave me back all the love and then some. Never knowing a real mum or dad myself, the fate of lost children always hit me hard, and Id helped as many as I could. How many times Id brought home a stray soul, just for a decent meal, a safe night, a new start in another family.

If not for these silly rules and faceless bureaucrats, Id have adopted the lot. But no You havent enough savings, youre a single dad, two kids already, conditions unsuitable Theyd rather keep children in the system than let them know love. They never understood; it wasnt about bedrooms or bank accounts. What matters is love, and my lot had it in spades. But my home a place of warmth and care was considered unfit.

Idiotic, I muttered silently, glancing at the boy beside me to make sure he hadnt caught my scowl.

He sat hunched, chin tucked in his coat, hat low, sniffing gently, sometimes sighing. A quiet one, this lad not like those half-wild, toughened kids off the street. Not a typical care kid either; those I could spot a mile away. Most likely hed only been out a day or two, spooked and lost.

What if Id been too quick to call him a liar? Perhaps shock and disappointment at how the world really was had just knocked the wind out of him. It made sense: disappointment can make anyone put up a front. Well, never mind, kid. Well get you home, washed and fed, give you a bit of love and let you sleep it off. Guaranteed, youll tell your own story, once youre ready.

My girls were on the step before wed even stopped, rushing out, grabbing the bags and at last peering in to see our passenger.

And whos this, Dad? Emily asked.

That? Why, that’s your morning prophecy a life-changing meeting and a lifetime gift. I couldnt help grinning.

Oh Dad, hes perfect! Emily squealed, close enough to his face to peek under his hat. Sure hes not the wrong sort of present?

If only… He clung to my ankle, yelled, Im your present, I am! I couldnt shake him.

So whats this present called? Grace asked, returning with the groceries.

No label, I replied with mock gravity.

No price tag? Emily waggled her eyebrows.

None.

Poor you, Dad, theyve fobbed you off with a dud. Never mind, you can always put him in the recycling, she giggled.

The boy tensed, clearly struggling to decide whether to bolt. Sensing this, Emily grabbed his shoulder with one hand and patted the top of his hat with the other.

Hello? Anybody home up there?

He shrank further inside himself, silent as a mouse.

Signals always rubbish round here, Grace commented. Lets get inside, maybe the connection improves.

She shot me a knowing look; over the years, wed learned to read each others minds. Her eyes told me shed sized up the situation: a quiet, closed-off boy, not the usual sort. It was time for the old good cop, bad cop tactic.

I nodded, spreading my hand to signal Five minutes. No more.

Oh, three will do, Dad, Grace smirked back.

Emily, get our gift inside. Lets see what makes this Little Unknown Object tick.

Emily all but dragged the boy off the seat and into the house, while I set to my evening ritual: garage the Escort, check her over, hope shed start in the morning. When Id finished, Emily hurtled back out, flushed with discovery.

Dad, hes telling fibs!

And you know this how?

Easy, Watson! she declared. He doesnt smell right. Hes not street; he smells… homey.

You sniffed him, did you?

Of course. Guess what he smells like?

No clues. Scones? Baby soap? Warm milk?

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Here. She thrust a hand at my nose. Black smudges.

Soot?

Nope, she grinned, sniff!

I did and flicked a little bit with my nail. Makeup?

Ding ding ding! Dad, he caked himself in it. Wanted us to believe he was a poor, filthy stray.

He said his names Bull. Obviously a street nickname. I searched online bull is, well, a big male cow…

Perfect, well fatten him up, sell him…

Dad! She cut me off. Enough jokes. Time for serious talk. I swear, this Bull kid picked you, on purpose. Threw on some rags, found a bit of theatre makeup, and made a beeline for you. Its One-Man Theatre, as we say.

But why? I asked, intrigued.

We want to know too. Hes not talking. But give Grace another minute, I think shes almost got him ready to spill his guts.

Suddenly, Graces voice boomed from the doorway: Weve still got that sulphuric acid left?

Yep, half a canister, Emily shouted back, snatching an old plastic container from the garage. Right, were dissolving people now, Bin It style…

Blimey, cruel kids, you are! I called as they dashed inside.

Dad, come on, wash up foods ready! they called.

Were starving. Might eat our Bull for supper, someone joked.

Yeah, I could crunch his little bones for dessert, one chimed in.

Such little scamps, I thought, grinning as I cleaned my hands. Bet theyve pulled the poor lad inside out by now.

They hadnt, not yet. He sat on a stool in the kitchen, hair still damp from a good scrubbing, towel round his shoulders. Now a bright redhead, in an old rugby-style top and ripped jeans, feet tucked under, looking ten years old at most. Amazing what a warm wash will do.

Move up, Bull, Emily grinned, putting a plate in front of him. Do you eat people food, or want a dish of hay?

Maybe some feed pellets? Grace joined in, taking her seat.

Girls!” I said, voice firmer now. Enough jokes. Forks in, mouths full.

They chorused Yes, Dad, but watched the boy like a pair of hawks.

As I ate, I marvelled: with food and a bit of warmth, the lad had transformed. He sat straight, shoulders back, no longer hiding, as if hed always belonged at our table. The girls caught the difference too, glancing at each other.

So what is it, son? I mused, trying to read his face. The whole act was for this to get himself here. Why? Emily was right his eyes, his manner, so clearly someone who comes from love, not the street. It wasnt about theft. He wanted a look inside our family. But why?

Dad, Earth to Dad! Grace snapped me back. Want any more?

Thanks, but Im stuffed. Health to the chef. I sipped my tea, smiling. Did I drift off for long?

Oh, ages, Emily chimed in. We grew up, moved out. Hello Grandpa, these are your grandkids.

And is this their boyfriend? I nodded at the boy, resting my cup.

No, thats just our pet Bull, she replied, tousling his damp hair. Cute, isnt he?

Were fattening him up. Beef will be pricey this summer, Grace teased.

Beef? Emily scoffed, twisting a lock of his hair. Id say lamb.

Suddenly, the boy shot to his feet. Stop it! Please, Grace, Emily, I cant I surrender. Mr. Johnson, Im sorry, I did all this wrong…

Sit down, I said gently. Take a breath, tell us the truth, from the start.

And dont you dare lie, Emily added. Ill know instantly.

He nodded, looking ashamed. Wouldnt dream of it

The truth, when it came, was simpler than anything wed imagined. His name was Charlie Bull, and he was, in fact, just a day older than Emily, so also eleven. His father had died years before, leaving him, his baby sister (also called Emily), and his older sister Sophie under the care of his barely-adult oldest, Sarah. The three of them had managed, with help, to stay together after their mum died soon after; it was hard, but they made do.

Last month, Charlie had noticed Sophie usually so strong had become pale and withdrawn. He panicked, fearing losing her too. Turns out, she was hopelessly in love with me, of all people. Shed seen me mentioned here and there, at community events, as someone who helped lost kids find families rather than end up in care. Knowing my wife had left years ago for Australia with a new man, leaving me to raise two girls alone, and knowing I had come up hard myself, this must have inspired her.

Charlie had hatched a plan: disguise himself as a homeless boy, get accepted into our family to see what we were truly like, and check if Id be the right man for Sophie if she (and her little siblings) would be safe and loved here.

He gulped, looking at me earnestly. I really like all of you. Youre… just wonderful. Mr. Johnson, please marry Sophie. Youll love her, and shes lovely and kind, honestly. She was too shy to ask herself, afraid you wouldnt want someone with baggage… a pile of kids. But you would, wouldnt you?

Well! How about that? Emily blurted, All jokes aside, Dad isnt it brilliant? You always wanted a family, now heres an enormous one for you.

And we like them! Grace declared. Dad?

I smiled, suddenly moved. Ladies, you have a point. Id be a fool to refuse. But shouldnt we ask Sophie?

Shes waiting for you to ask, Charlie declared, standing and offering his small, firm hand. As the only man of our lot, Im giving my sister to you.

I took his hand, gave it a strong, grateful shake and, before I knew it, pulled him into a hug. Tears pricked my eyes and I saw Grace surreptitiously wipe her nose.

Emily, as always, saved the moment from becoming too soppy. See, Dad? This morning you thought nothing special would happen, but youve met a Bull, and now youve got the best gift of all a big, happy family at last. Thats what you always wanted, right, Dad? And you finally got it…

—

Personal lesson of the day: Sometimes hopes take the scenic route, but if you open your heart, you might find your biggest dream sitting quietly at your own dinner table.