The winter of 1987 is etched into my memory, along with many others in the city. People dont talk about the temperature anymore, but rather about the queueshow they stretched on and on. The snow was deep, a heavy blanket over everything, but somehow the city always woke before it. At five in the morning, the lights outside the local grocers were still off, but already the line had started to form.
No one could ever be sure exactly what the delivery would bring. Someone always whispered it might be fresh meat and milk. We arrived with empty bottles tucked into bags, swaddled tightly in thick coats, faces shadowed with fatigue. We joined the line, one after the other, as if wed been practicing for this sort of thing all our lives.
I managed to be sixth today. My name is Grace Smith, I was thirty-eight back then, and I worked at the textiles factory just outside of town. My alarm went off at half-past four. I drank my tea in the dark and slipped quietly out of our flat, hoping not to disturb my husband, still asleep and likely dreaming thatmaybe todayId come home with something extra for dinner.
The line grew faster than ever. Someone started a list on a scrap of paper. A man near the front kept track of who was where. Some people nipped home for a few minutes and returned. Someone passed around a flask of steaming tea. Jokes made their way down the linedry, clipped, sometimes a sort of shield. No one really complained aloud. What good would it do?
About midway through the queue, I spotted her.
She was tucked back near the wall, the cold grey stone pressed to her back. She was tiny, with a faded scarf knotted tightly under her chin and a coat that seemed far too thin for weather like that. Her hands shook as she held her empty bag.
It was Mrs. Margaret Baker.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew her. Shed lost her husband just two months earlier. Since then, she was seen out less and less. Now she stood in the queue alone, silent, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Mrs. Baker! I called out.
She raised her head so slowlyit looked as if hearing a familiar voice toppled her whole world for a moment. When she saw me, she managed a gentle, wan smile.
I glanced back at my place in the linefifteenth now, as new faces slipped inand then at her again.
Come up front, please. Stand here. You shouldnt be out in the cold like this.
She started to protest, but Id already moved. People around us seemed to understand without words. Someone muttered, Let her, love. Mrs. Baker stepped up to take my place, and I slid farther back, a little more exposed to the cold.
Nearly forty minutes crawled by. The queue inched forward, the shop lights flickered on, and soon the word spreadmilk and eggs, but only enough for the first dozen, no more.
I did the sums in my head. Id miss out today. Yet I felt a deep, quiet relief knowing that at least Mrs. Baker, standing up front where Id placed her, wouldnt go home empty-handed.
Where are you going? she suddenly called after me, her voice trembling but insistent. Come back. This was your place. I dont need much, at my age. You cant go home with nothing, she pleaded.
Its alright, Mrs. Baker. I give you that spot from my heart. Ill manage. Something else will come eventually.
My dear, she insisted. Come here, please, swap with me. Im going home, Ive waited enough.
People in the line watched, eyes full of private admiration, maybe a touch of wonder. To give up your chance at butter or tea or meat when cupboards were barethat sort of kindness was rare, especially when hunger gnawed at your own belly.
I walked closer, somewhat awed by her stubborn spirit. I threaded my arm through hers and said, No, dont go. Lets stand here together. Well share whatever we get. Just dont leave empty-handed.
She didnt say a word, just nodded. We huddled together against the biting wind, two small shapes bracing each other, as the queue shuffled forward, step by careful step.
When we reached the counter, there was only one parcel left. Milk, a few eggs, and a small cut of meat.
Well share, I said at once.
The woman at the till looked at our reddened hands, at Mrs. Baker leaning on my arm, at how we werent in any rushjust trying to make sure neither of us went away with nothing. The shopkeeper paused for a moment. She reached beneath the counter, pulling out one last bottle of milk, hidden away for ‘just in case’. Quietly, she slipped it into our bag.
She broke the meat in half, put a piece in each of our bags, tied the knots tight, and said in a low voice, Better this way. At least you both get something.
I tried to thank her, but the words stuck in my throat. Mrs. Baker bowed her head, murmuring a gentle, Bless you, dear. Bless you, lost in the bustle.
The woman behind the till waved us off. Go on home, youve both had enough of the cold.
We left without looking back. It was snowing softly. The line had shrunk, but everyone who saw what happened stayed silent, remembering.
Not many people ever heard that story. It stayed between those of us who were there, one winter morning in that ordinary queue at the grocers. Sometimes it spread quietly through the neighbourhood, told over a cup of tea or during a smoke out in the yard. You know what happened once at the queue? Thats how those stories began. No one made them out to be grand. They were just memories.
In those years, the queues werent just about food. They were about peoplehow eyes met and recognised weariness, how people saved spots for each other, how theyd let someone frailer step ahead, or share what little they had to make things feel vaguely normal.
My story with Mrs. Baker is one among many. Similar moments happened in front of many grocers, on countless cold mornings. Not all ended well. But enough of them did for us to remember. Because, in the middle of want, the one thing that never ran out was kindness.
If this brings back a memory, Id love to know what you lived through. Some stories ask only to be passed on.
