“Well, Rusty, shall we go then…” muttered Val, tightening the makeshift lead made from an old bit of rope. He zipped his coat up to his chin and shivered. This February was miserably harsh—driving sleet, biting wind that cut clear through. Rusty—a scruffy, ginger mongrel with faded fur and one blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. Val had just finished a night shift at the factory when he found him, battered and starving by the bins. The poor mutt’s left eye was clouded with a milky haze. A shout snapped his nerves taut. Val recognised the voice—it was Steve “Squint,” the local troublemaker not more than twenty-five, flanked by three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “We’re just walking,” Val answered curtly, not meeting their eyes. “Oi, mate, you pay taxes to walk that ugly mutt here?” one of the boys jeered. “Look at it—one eye and all, proper freak.” A stone whistled through the air, striking Rusty’s ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed against Val’s leg. “Sod off,” Val said quietly, but his voice had steel. “Oooh, look! Old Man Fix-It’s got a backbone!” Steve swaggered closer. “Remember whose patch this is. Dogs only walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. Once, the Army had trained him to solve things quickly and hard. But that was thirty years ago, and now he was a worn-out, retired fitter who wanted a quiet life. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Yeah, jog on!” Steve shouted after him. “Next time, I’ll finish your freak for good!” That night, Val couldn’t sleep, replaying the encounter over and over. The next day brought wet snow. Val put off the walk, but Rusty sat patiently by the door, staring with such loyalty that Val caved. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They kept away from the usual haunts, and Steve’s lot were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val had almost relaxed when Rusty suddenly stopped by the old boiler house. One ear cocked, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whined, tugging toward the derelict. From within came strange sounds—maybe cries, maybe moans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer. Only the wind’s howl. Rusty pulled at the rope insistently, worry shining in his one good eye. “What is it?” Val crouched by the dog. “What have you found?” He heard it suddenly—a child’s voice: “Help me!” His heart hammered. He unclipped the lead and followed Rusty inside. Behind a pile of bricks in the half-ruined boiler room lay a boy, maybe twelve, face bloodied, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val knelt beside him. “What happened to you?” “Uncle Val?” the boy peered painfully up. “Is that you?” Val leaned closer and recognised Andy Mason, the quiet lad from the fifth flat. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang,” the boy sobbed. “They wanted money from Mum. I said I’d tell the police. They…” “How long you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and tucked it around the lad. Rusty lay close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg hurts. Broken, I think.” Careful fingers confirmed a break—what else might be wrong, who could say. “Got a phone?” “They nicked it.” Val pulled out his battered old Nokia and dialed 999. Ambulance in half an hour, they said. “Hold on, lad. The medics are coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m not dead?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me off.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val said firmly. The boy stared, confused. “But Uncle Val, yesterday you ran away from them.” “That was different. Then it was just me and Rusty. Now…” He left it unsaid. What could he explain? That thirty years ago, he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? In Afghanistan, they’d taught him—a real man never leaves a child in danger. The ambulance arrived sooner than expected. They took Andy away, and Val stood with Rusty by the old boiler house, lost in thought. That evening, Andy’s mother, Mrs Mason, knocked on his door, weeping with gratitude. “Mr Valentine,” she managed through tears, “the doctors said—one more hour out there and he’d have died. You saved his life!” “I didn’t save him,” Val said, stroking Rusty’s head. “It was him who found your boy.” “What happens now?” Mrs Mason glanced fearfully at the door. “Steve won’t let it go. Even the police say one child’s word isn’t evidence…” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though how, he didn’t know. He lay awake that night, asking himself what to do. How to protect that boy? And not just him—how many more kids in the estate suffered at Steve’s hands? By morning, Val had his answer. He put on his old service dress uniform, medals and all. Stood in front of the mirror—a soldier again, if an older one. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s crew were where they always hung out, outside the shop. They sniggered as Val, resplendent in uniform, approached. “Oy! Looks like Gramps is off to a parade!” one shouted. Steve straightened, cocky as ever. “Move along, grandpa. Your time’s up.” “My time is just beginning,” Val replied calmly, coming closer. “What d’you want, dressed up like that?” “To serve my country. To defend the weak from the likes of you.” Steve burst out laughing. “You what, mate? Defend the weak? Who from—me?” “Andy Mason—ring any bells?” The smirk faltered on Steve’s face. “Why should I remember every loser’s name?” “You should. He’s the last kid in this estate you’ll ever hurt.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you,” Val said. Steve edged forward, flick-knife flashing in his hand. “I’ll show you who’s boss round here.” Val didn’t back down an inch. Army training never fades. “The law’s the boss.” “What law?” Steve waved the knife. “Who put you in charge?” “My conscience did. And so did this—” he nodded at Rusty, “my dog’s a war hero. Afghanistan. Explosives detection. He can sniff out trouble a mile off.” This was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val sounded so sure, everyone believed him. Even Rusty seemed convinced, standing tall and growling low and fierce. “She sniffed out twenty terrorists. Caught every one alive. Think she can’t handle a druggy thug?” Steve stepped back. The others froze behind him. “Listen up. From now on, this estate is safe. Every day I’ll walk every corner, and my dog’ll sniff out bullies. And if—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You think you can scare me?” Steve tried to sneer. “One phone call—” “Go on, call,” Val nodded. “But remember—I’ve got mates inside and out. I know people. People who owe me.” Another lie—delivered with unblinking calm. “Name’s Val Afghan,” Val said. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned and walked away, Rusty trotting loyally by his side, tail high. Silence hung behind them. Three days passed. Steve’s gang barely showed their faces. Val really did start patrolling every evening. Rusty padded alongside, grave and proud. Andy was home from hospital in a week, limping, but on the mend. He showed up at Val’s flat the first day he could. “Mr Valentine,” Andy asked, “Can I help you? With the patrols?” “Ask your mum first,” Val said. Mrs Mason agreed—glad her son had such a good role model. So every evening, people would see them: the old soldier in uniform, the boy at his side, and the elderly ginger mongrel. Everyone liked Rusty. Even the mums let their kids stroke him, though he was just a scruffy stray. There was something about him—a quiet dignity, maybe. Val told the boys stories—about the army, about true friendship. They listened, captivated. One evening, walking home after patrol, Andy asked softly, “Were you ever afraid?” “Of course,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of being too late. Of not being strong enough.” Andy petted Rusty. “When I’m older, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog, too—a smart one, like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “You will.” Rusty wagged his tail. Everyone in the estate knew him now. They’d say: “That’s Val Afghan’s dog. He can tell heroes from bullies.” And Rusty walked on, proud, no longer just a stray—he was a true guardian.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

All right, Rusty, lets be off then muttered Harold, fastening the makeshift leash hed fashioned from an old bit of rope.

He zipped his battered parka up to his chin and shivered. This February was particularly cruelsleet blurred the world, and the wind barreled through the terraced houses of Northend like a living thing.

Rustya one-eyed mongrel with a faded ginger coathad turned up in Harolds life just last winter. Harold had discovered him near the bins behind Tesco after a late shift at the railway workshop. The dog had been battered, starving, his left eye glazed and opaque.

A voice sliced through the evening: sharp, mocking. Harold immediately recognised itSean Barnes, a local bruiser barely twenty-five, swimming in the arrogance of the estates small pond. Three teenage lads, his usual crew, clustered beside him.

Were just having a walk, Harold replied tersely, keeping his gaze low.

One of the lads sniggered. Oi, mister, you pay your tax for walkin that freak? Look at its minging eye!

A stone flew, catching Rusty in the ribs. Rusty yelped and pressed himself, shivering, to Harolds leg.

Pack it in, Harold said softly, but there was steel in his voice.

Oh! He speaks! Sean strutted closer, teeth on edge. You forget, old man, this is my patch. No mutts walk round here without my say-so.

Harold tensed. The old army lessonsif you strike, strike hardall felt like someone elses life. That was thirty years back in the Falklands. Now he was a spent mechanic with bad knees, long retired, desperate for no more trouble.

Cmon, Rusty, he murmured, turning towards home.

Thats what I thought! Sean jeered behind him. Next time, that ugly mutts a goner!

That night, Harold lay awake, the insults and threats gnawing into the silence. Rusty snored quietly at the end of the bed.

The next afternoon, wet snow smeared the pavements. Harold delayed their outing, but Rusty sat planted by the front door, unwavering devotion in his lopsided gaze.

All right, mate. Just a quick one.

They kept to backstreets, avoiding usual hangouts. Seans lot were nowhere to be seenprobably hiding from the weather.

Harold was beginning to relax when Rusty suddenly stopped outside the boarded-up community centre. He cocked his good ear, sniffing the air.

Whats up, old boy?

Rusty whimpered, tugging towards the derelict wall. Faint noises drifted over the windbroken, sob-like.

Hello? Anyone there? Harold called into the cold.

No replysilent save the whistle of sleet whipping through broken glass.

Rusty pulled insistently. Worry blazed in his eye.

What is it? Harold crouched, concern tightening in his chest.

Then, piercing and thin: Help me!

Harolds heart lurched. He unhooked the leash, following Rusty into the gloom.

Behind a pile of crumbling bricks, a twelve-year-old boy lay twisted on the floorface bloodied, lip split, uniform torn.

Dear God! Harold knelt beside him, voice shaking. What happened to you?

Mr. Harold? The boy squinted through the haze of pain. Is that you?

Harold took a closer look. It was Owen Taylor, his neighbours shy lad from up the block.

Owen! Whats happened?

Sean and his mates, Owen sobbed. Tried to get money off Mum. I told them Id tell Mr. Davis, the PCSO. They found me

How long have you been here?

Since morning its freezing

Harold stripped off his parka, wrapping it around the boy. Rusty curled up close, sharing what warmth he had.

Owen, can you stand?

My leg I think its broken

Harold prodded gently. Definitely fracturedheaven knows what else.

Have you got a phone?

They nicked it.

Harold fished out his ancient Nokia, dialed 999. The ambulance would be there in half an hour, they said.

Hang on, lad. Helps coming.

Owens voice trembled. What if Sean finds out Im alive? He said hed finish me off

He wont touch you again, Harold said, voice sure as spring rain. Thats a promise.

The boy blinked, confused. But yesterday, you walked away from them.

Harold hesitated. Its different now. Yesterday was just me and Rusty. This is something else.

What was there to say? That hed once sworn an oath to protect the vulnerable? That men in war learnedno child should be left to suffer?

The ambulance arrived faster than forecast. Owen was whisked away. Harold and Rusty stood a long moment in the wet, shivering light.

That evening, Owens mother, Mrs. Taylor, turned up on Harolds doorstep, tears streaming.

Mr. Ford She gripped his hand, voice faltering. The doctors said if hed been out there one more hour You saved his life, Harold! Honestly, we never forget

Harold shook Rustys ears. I didnt find him, he did.

But whatll happen now? Mrs. Taylor darted fearful eyes at the door. Sean wont stop. Police say theres no evidencea single childs word isnt enough.

Itll be fine. Harold made the promise, not knowing how hed keep it.

He didnt sleep. He lay listening to the moan of wind, weighing choices, remembering other nights in other placesthe helpless, the voiceless, always slipping through cracks.

By dawn, Harold knew what he must do.

He put on his old regimental jacket, medals pinned, the very one hed worn at his fathers funeral. Checked himself in the mirrora soldier, even now.

Come on, Rusty. Theres work to do.

Seans gang loafed by the off-license. When they saw Harold, they burst out laughing.

Oi, lookgrandad thinks hes going to the Queens parade!

Sean leapt from the bench. Whatre you after, old soldier? Shouldnt you be home with your cocoa?

My times only just begun, Harold replied, stepping forward.

Sean sneered, You lost your headgear on the way here, mate? This is my estate. Clear off.

I came to serve. To protect those this lot prey on.

Sean guffawed. What, Owen Taylor? I dont remember halfwits.

You should, Harold answered coldly. That was your last victim round here.

What, you threatening me now, grandad?

Im giving you warning, Harold said, voice like gravel.

Sean swaggered closer, a blade glinting in his grip.

Ill show you who runs this patch! he snarled.

Harold held his ground. Muscles stirred beneath old scarsthe old instincts had not faded.

The law runs things here.

Sean brandished the knife. And who put you in charge, eh?

My conscience, said Harold.

What happened next no one could have predicted.

Rusty, whod sat quietly by, stiffened, hackles raised. From deep in his chest came an unearthly growl.

Your mutts got a death wish, Sean started, but Harold cut him off.

That dogs seen war. Detection dog, back in the Falklands. Picked out crooks by scent alone. (Total fiction, but the gravitas in Harolds tone made it ring true. Even Rusty seemed to believe itsquared his shoulders, teeth bared.)

She found twenty gunmennone of whom ever got away, Harold continued. Whatd you reckonthink she can take one petty criminal?

Sean blanched. Even his crew fell silent, eyes widening.

Listen here, Harold stepped close. From now on, Im patrolling every street, every close. Rusty heres sniffing out trouble. Keep clear, or youll regret it.

He broke off, but the message had landed.

You think you scare me? Sean yelled, voice strained. Ive got people, contacts

Ring them, Harold said softly. But Ive more mates in uniform than youll ever have. I know where plenty of skeletons are buried, lad.

All rubbishbut the conviction was absolute.

Harold Falklands, they call me, he said. Remember that. And lay off the kids.

He turned for home, Rusty at his heel, tail high.

Silence trailed after them like a blessing.

Three days passed. Sean and his lot were nowhere to be seen.

True to his word, Harold started a daily circuit around every block. Rusty paced at his side, chest out, the estates watchman.

Owen came home a week later, still limping, but steady. That same day, he knocked on Harolds door.

Mr. Harold, do you think I could help? the boy asked shyly. With the rounds and that.

Youd best check with your mum first, son.

Mrs. Taylor was all for itrelief evident in every glance. Her boy had a role model worth the name.

So each evening, folk saw the oddest little trio: an old soldier in medals, a boy with a limp, and a rusty mongrel.

Everyone took to Rusty. Even mums didnt mind their kids stroking him, stray or not. There was something noble in him now.

Harold regaled the children with stories of comradeship and standing firm. They listened, wide-eyed, breath held.

One night, as they trailed home, Owen looked up.

Mr. Harold, were you ever frightened?

I was, Harold replied honestly. Some days, I still am.

Of what?

Of not being quick enough. Of running out of strength when someone needs me.

Owen bent to pat Rustys head. When Im older, can I help you? And Ill have a dog as clever as Rusty.

You will, lad, Harold smiled faintly. You surely will.

Rusty just wagged his tail.

Round here, everyone now knew: that was Harold Falklandss Rusty. A hero among dogsable to sniff out the good from the bad.

Rusty had found his calling at lasta true guardian of Northends streets.

She Walked All Over My Destiny – The Tale of a Brazen Woman Who Stole My Heart and Left My Mother in Despair “Son, if you don’t break it off with that shameless woman, you no longer have a mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated for the hundredth time. “Mum, I can’t! I wish I could, but I just can’t,” I tried to explain. …I once had a sweet, innocent girl I adored—Lena, fourteen years old, pure and reserved, someone I cherished deeply. I was eighteen when I first met her at a school dance and instantly knew she was something special. Through her friend, I convinced Lena to meet with me. Did she show up for our first date? Of course not. But like a huntsman, I pursued her, tracked down her number, and begged her to go out with me. Finally, she relented—but warned: “Come ask my mum for permission first.” Standing nervously at Lena’s door, I was a bundle of nerves. Her mother turned out to be a good-humoured, kind woman, willing to trust me with her treasure—but only for two hours. Lena and I wandered the park, chatting, laughing, with everything staying perfectly innocent. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said: “Vova, I’ve got a boyfriend. I think I love him, but he’s a terrible womaniser. I’m tired of catching him with other girls. I have my self-respect. Let’s try being friends, you and me—what do you say?” I raised my eyebrows, my curiosity piqued. Lena could be coy, or a girl in love already. I was captivated. The hours with Lena melted away. I returned her safely to her mum. …In time, I couldn’t imagine life without her. My mum, too, fell in love with this “little sunshine.” Lena often visited, and they’d forget all about me, chatting for hours on end. When Lena turned eighteen, we talked about marriage. Our families raised no objections. Our wedding was set for autumn. Then summer came. Lena left to stay with her grandmother in the country, while I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum. One day, as I watered the tomatoes, I heard someone call: “Young man, could I have some water?” I turned—there stood a dishevelled, fiery-eyed woman of around thirty-five. I didn’t recognise her as one of the neighbours, but I offered her a cup of well water anyway. “Thank you, young man! I was parched. Here, I’ve got some of my homemade cordial. Take it as a thank you—don’t be shy.” She pressed a full bottle into my hand. Not wanting to be rude, I took it, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, I drank the cordial over dinner while home alone—Mum was away in town. If she’d been there, she’d never have let me near that bottle. The next day, the woman returned. We talked. Her name was Nina; she lived nearby. I welcomed her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I made us a quick salad and sandwiches. Conversation and drink flowed, and before I knew it, I found myself utterly in Nina’s thrall—a boy bewitched. What happened next still haunts me years later. Nina, like a seasoned enchantress, took full control. I was helpless, adrift, foggy-headed—and when I came to, she was gone. My mother was standing over me, trying to wake me: “Vladimir, what happened while I was gone? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed like a herd of horses ran over it?” she demanded, bewildered. I could barely open my eyes; my head spun, hands shook. I mumbled and dodged answers. By evening, coherence returned, and shame overwhelmed me—especially when I thought of my dear fiancée, Lena… Less than a week later, Nina reappeared—and, to my surprise, I was actually happy to see her, maybe even missed her a little. Mum intercepted her at the door, arms akimbo: “What do you want, madam?” I led Mum inside. “Mum, honestly—what kind of welcome is that? Maybe she just wants water!” I protested. “Water? That’s Nina from the village! Every stray dog knows her—she roams from cottage to cottage, seducing the menfolk! Harlot! And now she wants to get her claws into you! Get rid of her!” Too late for warnings—Nina’s honeyed brew had bound me to her. I knew she wasn’t mine, didn’t truly love her, yet I trailed after her like a shadow. Lena faded entirely from my mind. When I mentioned my fiancée, Nina shot back: “Vova, first loves aren’t real fiancées.” Wedding plans with Lena collapsed. Mum invited Lena over and confessed everything. “Forgive the foolish boy, love. He’s tumbling straight into the pit and won’t listen. Build your own life—don’t wait for him,” Mum pleaded. Lena moved on, married, started a family. My mother, desperate to tear me away from Nina, enlisted the help of the recruitment office—and, just like that, I was sent off to the army. In Afghanistan, I lost three fingers, but survived—barely. Nina waited for me at home, our little son already toddling about (I’d “planted a seed” before I went to war, unsure if I’d return). During those dark days, I dreamt of having five children. Mum still detested Nina, doted on Lena and her little girl (“I’m sure that child’s yours!” she insisted). I would have loved that, but it simply wasn’t true. Lena often visited Mum’s, asking after me—years later, she passed on Mum’s latest news: “He’ll never break free of that woman, I just don’t know what my son ever saw in her…” Soon after, I took my family north. Nina and our three children followed. Two more were born to us, but our little daughter passed away from pneumonia. Grief-stricken, we returned home. Memories of Lena resurfaced, and longing hollowed me out. I learned her number from Mum (who warned me not to meddle in Lena’s happy family). I called, and we met. Lena had grown even more beautiful. She welcomed me home, introduced me to her husband as a childhood friend; he trusted her completely, leaving us alone while he worked the night shift. Half-finished champagne, fruit on the table, and Lena’s daughter visiting her grandmother; it was just the two of us. “Well, Vova,” said Lena finally. “Tell me yourself how you’ve been?” “I’m sorry, Lena. What happened can’t be undone. I have four children now,” I stammered. “You don’t have to change anything, Vova. We’ve met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only—be kinder to your mum, she’s suffered enough,” Lena replied softly. Staring at her, I couldn’t look away—she was still breathtaking, still desirable as ever. I took her hand and kissed it, gently. “Lena, I still love you, just as I did in youth. But our love has drifted by. You can’t retell life, only live it. I’m sorry, Lena…” “Vova, it’s late. It’s time you went,” she said, ending the meeting. Could I really leave so easily? An overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over me, passion I couldn’t quell. …I crept away in the morning while Lena slept sweetly. For three years we met in secret, then she moved to the suburbs with her family, and our contact ended. I divorced Nina when the children were grown. My mother had been right all along: some people are just passing through, trampling on your destiny and breaking your heart before moving on. …No matter how much you boil water, it’s always just water in the end. In the end, only one child turned out to be truly mine—my firstborn son.

‘That Button? Oh, I Called Her Holly. She Was Dashing About All Morning—Clearly Lost—Then Curled Up Right By My Feet. Poor Thing, I Just Had to Pop Her in the Car to Keep from Freezing,’ the Man Smiled… ‘Tammy, Honestly, How Can You Be So Unlucky? How Many Times Have I Told You—This Victor Was Never Right for You!’ Her Mother Scolded. Tamara Stood, Head Bowed, Feeling Like a Schoolgirl Caught with a Dreadful Mark—Even Though She’d Turned Thirty-Seven Not That Long Ago. She Was Bitterly Disappointed—For Herself, Her Broken Family, and Her Little Girl—For With Christmas Around the Corner, They’d Been Left Without a Father. ‘I’m Leaving You,’ Victor Had Announced Abruptly One Evening, and Tamara, Busy Serving Him a Hearty Bowl of Borscht, Didn’t Quite Understand at First— ‘Leaving? Where Are You Off To?’ She’d Asked Automatically, Placing the Plate on the Table. ‘You Really Are in Your Own Little World, Tammy! No Sense of the Serious! How Did I Even Live With You All These Years?’ Victor Moaned Dramatically— Tamara Didn’t Even Get to Ask for Details Before Victor, Without Pause, Listed All His Grievances—Including Her Constantly Yapping Dog and an Ever-Ill Daughter. No Romance Left, He Complained. He Finished His Rant With, ‘Take a Look at Yourself. Who Have You Even Become?’ Tamara Tried Glancing at Her Scared Reflection in the Cabinet’s Glass But Failed—Tears Streamed Down Her Face, and She Stayed Stuck in the Middle of the Kitchen, Alone. Victor Couldn’t Stand Tears. He Cast a Last Look at the Borscht, Stood Up, and Went to Pack… Their Little Dog, Button, Sensed Something Was Off and Padded Over, Whining to Console Her. ‘At Least I’ll Get Some Peace Without That Endless Howling,’ Victor Quipped as He Appeared in the Doorway With a Bag Slung Over His Shoulder. ‘What About Eve?’ Tamara Whispered, Imagining How Heartbroken Their Five-Year-Old Daughter—Peacefully Sleeping in Her Room—Would Be. ‘Figure It Out! You’re Her Mum, After All,’ Victor Tossed Back, and, With Button Howling, Walked Out the Front Door… Tamara Spent the Night Sitting in the Kitchen, Hugging Button, the Little Dog Licking Her Face to Comfort Her, Knowing Something Awful Had Happened. For Days, Tamara Didn’t Know How to Tell Her Mum. Her Mum Called Now and Then, Asking How Things Were, and Tamara Hurriedly Replied All Was Fine Before Switching Off Her Phone. ‘Have You Found Work Yet? Mind You, if That Rogue Victor Walks Out, How Will You Manage?’ Her Mum Said During a Visit. Tamara Finally Broke Down, Telling Her That No One Was Calling Her for Interviews and Victor Had Left Days Ago. Her Mum Groaned—She’d Always Suspected Something Like This, Disapproving That After Five Years and a Child Together, Victor Had Never Even Proposed… ‘Now What?’ She Finally Asked in Alarm. Tamara Shrugged: ‘I’ll Figure It Out… Maybe Get a Nursery Assistant Job at Eve’s Preschool,’ She Said in Defeat. ‘You Can’t Live Off a Nursery Assistant’s Wage for Long—And There’s Still That Dog to Feed,’ Her Mum Grumbled, Never Fond of Pets, Let Alone the Fluffy Button Her Daughter Had Rescued from the Street. She Was About to Lecture More When She Noticed Tamara Was Struggling Not to Cry. ‘Alright, No More Tears. I’ll Help Out—Look After Eve When Needed,’ She Relented… A Week Went By. By Then, Tamara Had Managed to Land a Job, Taking Eve to Preschool With Her—Which the Girl Loved. ‘Mummy, Maybe We Can Bring Button With Us to Help at Work? Grandma’s Always Complaining About Taking Her Out, and Button Could Help Wash Crockery and Guard Us at Nap Time!’ Eve Grinned. Tamara Laughed and Hugged Her Daughter—But Each Time Eve Asked Hopefully, ‘Mummy, Will Daddy Be Home in Time for Christmas?’ Tamara’s Heart Would Sink Again. She Couldn’t Bring Herself to Tell Eve the Whole Truth—So She Spun a Tale of Daddy Being on Urgent Business. She Tried Calling Victor, Who Always Said He Was Busy—‘Don’t Interrupt Me Sorting Out My Life, Tam! Tell Eve I’m a Super Spy on a Secret Mission. I Won’t Be Back Soon. That’s That.’ He’d Even Ask If She’d Seen His Tie— ‘What Am I Meant to Wear to New Year’s?’ He Complained, Hanging Up. Tamara Sat for Ages, Wondering How They’d Face Christmas Alone and What To Say To Eve… It Happened Unexpectedly— Grandma Was Taking Eve To The Clinic (Still Recovering From a Cold) When Victor Appeared, Rushing Round the Corner— ‘Daddy! You’re Back!’ Eve Squealed, Throwing Her Arms Around Him. Victor Tensed, Forced a Smile and Told Her That Sometimes Parents Don’t Live Together Anymore Before Hastily Disappearing. ‘Maybe I’ll Pop In to See You, If I Can,’ He Added Over His Shoulder. Eve’s Face Went Blank. ‘Please Don’t Pop In Anymore,’ She Whispered. That Night, Her Fever Returned—A Doctor Was Called Two Days Later. Eve Wouldn’t Speak to Anyone—or Seem Interested In Getting Better. ‘Likely Brought On By Stress,’ The Doctor Explained, Hearing Their Family Story. Tamara Blamed Herself—‘I Should Have Told Her Straight Away—She’s Such a Bright Girl, She’d Have Understood,’ She Told Her Muttering Mother. Days Later, a New Crisis—Grandma, Walking Button Without a Lead, Was Snapped At by the Dog, Who Promptly Bolted in the Opposite Direction. ‘Oh, Fine! See If I Care—Freeze Outside If You Like,’ the Old Woman Huffed, Heading Back Indoors to Give Eve Her Medicine. But Once Eve Heard Button Was Gone, She Refused Food and Water—Tamara’s Promises to Find Their Fluffy Friend Did Nothing— ‘Bring Back Button, Then I’ll Eat,’ Was All Eve Said, Turning Her Face to the Wall. ‘This Is Your Fault, Tamara! You Spoil Her—She’s Wild Now! I Told You…’ Her Mum Ranted. ‘Maybe You Should’ve Watched Button Instead of Lecturing Me, Mum,’ the Usually Quiet Tamara Snapped. ‘Well Really! I Do Everything for You!’ Her Mum Fumed, Storming Out. Tamara Was Alone Again, Wandering for Hours That Night, Hopeful Button Might Find Her Way Back—But Had to Return Home, Chilled and Exhausted, to a Fitful Sleep. Eve Woke Early, Dreamy: ‘Mummy, I Had a Dream About a Christmas Tree! We Decorated It and Found Button!’ Tamara Smiled Sadly—A Tiny Artificial Tree Stood On Their Table. Christmas Was Coming, and They’d Done Their Best to Prepare. But Eve Insisted Their Tree Must Be Real and Tall— ‘Then Button Will Come Back, Like In My Dream!’ She Sobbed. Tamara Sighed. A Real Tree Was Out of the Question—She Just Couldn’t Afford One. Calling Her Mum Brought a Rebuff: ‘Putting That Dog Before Your Own Mother! Think About That,’ She Huffed. The Weekend Came—Eve Still Listless, Refusing to Get Up. By Evening, With Everything Ready for Christmas, Eve Broke Down in Tears: ‘No Tree, Mummy—And Button and Daddy Won’t Come Home Now, Will They…’ Tamara Hugged Her Little Girl, Choking Back Tears. She Asked The Kindly Neighbour to Watch Eve and Rushed Out Into the Cold—Snowflakes Danced in the Air, People Bustled By, But Tamara Noticed No One—Desperately Searching for Button. ‘Where on Earth Could You Be, Little One?’ She Whispered, Walking the Same Old Paths By Heart. She Came Suddenly Across a Tiny Christmas Tree Market—A Stern-Looking Man in a Parka Standing by the Last Fluffy Fir Trees, Hopeful for a Quick Sale. ‘Fancy a Christmas Tree? Just a Couple Left—I’ll Throw In a Discount,’ He Said Briskly, Clearly Longing for Home and a Family Waiting. Just Then a Young Couple Bought One, Leaving Only a Single Tree. ‘Last One—Want It? I’ll Even Deliver,’ He Offered. Tamara Stared in Despair—She Had No Money, Not Even Enough at Home for Such a Splurge. She Noticed a Heap of Offcut Branches in His Van— ‘May I… Could I Take Some Branches, If You Don’t Need Them?’ She Asked, Embarrassed. He Looked at the Sad Woman, Sighed, and Nodded Kindly—‘Of Course. Here, Let Me Help.’ He Gathered an Armful for Her and Tamara Began Explaining—Haltingly—How Her Daughter Was Ill, Dreaming of a Tree, How Their Dog Had Run Off—How Nothing Felt Festive This Year… The Man Listened Quietly; His Own Wife Had Recently Left Him, The Loneliness Sharper Than Usual This Christmas. Just Then, Another Man Walked Up— ‘How Much for That Last Tree?’ He Asked. ‘Already Sold. Try The Next Stall Over,’ Replied the Seller Firmly. Tamara Looked at Him in Surprise. ‘Let Me Deliver the Tree to Your House,’ He Said, Suddenly Smiling. ‘But I Don’t Have Any Money,’ She Stammered. ‘I Know,’ He Nodded Softly. And Then Something Truly Magical Happened—Of the Sort That Only Christmas Can Bring— He Opened His Van, and There, Nestled on the Seat, Was Button—Snuggled in a Woolly Jumper, Sleepy and Safe. ‘How Do You Have Button?’ Tamara Breathed, Barely Holding Back Tears. ‘Button? Oh, I Called Her Holly—She Was Running Around All Morning, Clearly Lost— Then She Came and Curled Up By My Feet. I Waited, Then Popped Her in the Car So She’d Stay Warm, Poor Thing,’ He Smiled. His Name Was Paul—A Man Who Loved Animals and Was Brilliant With Children. Soon, Tamara’s Home Was Filled with Warmth and Laughter as Never Before—Perhaps Thanks to the Christmas Spirit That Brings Good People Together, or Perhaps It Was Simply Meant to Be… No One Can Say for Sure, Except That Their Newfound Family Was Happy— And Little Button Is Occasionally Still Called Holly After All!

When Tommy Rogers Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother: “He’s a Big One. He’ll Grow Up Strong.” His Mother Said Nothing—She Already Looked at the Bundle As If It Wasn’t Her Child. Tommy Didn’t Grow Up to Be a Hero. He Became the Spare—You Know the Type, the Kid Who’s Born but Nobody Knows Quite What to Do With. “Your Strange Boy Is Sitting in the Sandpit Again, Scaring Off the Other Kids!” Aunt Louise, Local Neighbourhood Watch Queen, Shouted Down from the Second-Floor Balcony. Tommy’s Mother, a Worn-Out Woman With Lifeless Eyes, Only Bit Back: “If You Don’t Like It, Don’t Look. He’s Not Bothering Anyone.” And Tommy Really Didn’t Bother Anyone. Big, Awkward, Head Always Down, Long Arms Dangling at His Sides. At Five, He Didn’t Speak. At Seven, He Only Grunted. At Ten, He Finally Talked—But So Scratchy and Odd That It Might Have Been Better if He Hadn’t. At School They Put Him on the Back Row. Teachers Sighed at His Empty Gaze. “Rogers, Are You Even Listening?” the Maths Teacher Would Say, Tapping the Board With Chalk. Tommy Nodded. He Heard. He Just Didn’t See the Point in Answering. Why? They’d Give Him a Pass Just to Keep the Numbers Up, Then Send Him on His Way. The Other Kids Didn’t Bully Him—He Was Built Like a Young Ox and Looked Half-Wild. But No-One Befriended Him Either. They Steered Clear, Like Skirting a Deep Puddle. Home Wasn’t Any Better. His Stepdad Moved In When Tommy Turned Twelve, and Laid Down the Law: “I Don’t Want Him Here When I Get Home From Work. Eats Like a Horse, Useless as One.” So Tommy Learned to Disappear. Roaming Building Sites and Sitting in Basements, He’d Mastered the One Skill He Needed: To Blend in, To Melt Into Grey Concrete, To Become Invisible. Then Came the Night Everything Changed. It Was Drizzling, Miserable. Tommy, Now Fifteen, Sat on the Stairs Between the Fifth and Sixth Floor. Couldn’t Go Home—His Stepfather Had Guests, Which Meant Noise, Smoke, Maybe a Heavy Hand. The Flat Door Opposite Creaked Open. Tommy Tried to Make Himself Small. Out Stepped Mrs. Margaret Thompson. Older, Well Past Sixty With the Bearing of Someone Half That Age. The Estate Called Her Odd—She Didn’t Gossip on Benches, Never Quibbled Over Bread Prices, Always Walked Tall. She Looked at Tommy—Not With Pity, Not With Disgust, But the Way You’d Examine a Broken Gadget, Wondering if it Could Work Again. “What Are You Doing Here?” She Asked, Her Voice Low and Commanding. Tommy Sniffed. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Cats Are Born for Nothing,” She Replied. “Are You Hungry?” Tommy Was. He Was Always Hungry. Still Growing, Need Food, and at Home the Fridge Was Only Good for Rearing Mice. “Well? I Won’t Ask Twice.” He Stood, Awkwardly Unfolding to His Full Height, and Followed Her. Her Flat Was Like No Other—Books Everywhere: Shelves, Floor, Chairs. It Smelled of Old Paper and Something Delicious and Meaty. “Sit,” She Nodded at a Stool. “Wash Your Hands First. Soap’s Over There.” Tommy Obeyed. She Set a Plate Before Him—Potatoes and Real Beef Stew, Chunks of Meat, Not Sausage. He Couldn’t Remember When He’d Last Eaten Actual Meat. He Ate Fast, Barely Chewing. Mrs. Thompson Watched Him, Cheek Resting on Her Hand. “Where’s the Fire? No One’s Taking It Away. Chew—Your Stomach Will Thank You.” He Slowed Down. “Thanks,” He Mumbled, Wiping His Mouth on His Sleeve. “Not Your Sleeve. Ever Heard of Napkins? There.” She Slid a Pack Over. “You’re a Wild One, Aren’t You? Where’s Your Mum?” “At Home. With Him.” “I See. An Extra in Your Own Family.” She Said It So Matter-of-Fact, It Didn’t Even Sting—Just a Truth, Like ‘It’s Raining’ or ‘Bread’s Gone Up.’ “Listen, Rogers,” She Suddenly Said Sharply. “You’ve Got Two Choices. Drift Through Life and End Up Lost, or Get a Grip. You’re Strong—I Can See That. But There’s Not Much Upstairs.” “I’m Thick,” Tommy Admitted. “That’s What School Says.” “School Says a Lot. Curriculum’s Made for the Average. You’re Not Average. You’re Different. Show Me Those Hands.” He Looked at His Big, Bruised Knuckles. “Didn’t Think So. We’ll Find Out. Tomorrow, Fix My Tap—It’s Leaking. Don’t Want to Call the Plumber—It’ll Cost Me. I’ve Got The Tools.” From That Evening, Tommy Went to Mrs. Thompson’s Nearly Every Night. First, He Fixed Taps. Then Sockets, Then Locks. Turned Out His Hands Knew How Things Worked, Not by Logic, More by Instinct. Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Coddle—She Taught. Firmly, Demanding. “Don’t Hold It Like That!” She Barked. “Who Holds a Screwdriver Like a Spoon? Get a Grip!” And Rapped His Knuckles With a Ruler. It Stung. She Gave Him Books—Not School Ones, But Real Stories. About Survivors, Explorers, People Who Made it Against the Odds. “Read,” She’d Order. “Let Your Brain Work. You’re Not the First, You Know. There Are Millions Like You—and They Got Out. Why Can’t You?” Gradually, Tommy Learned Her Story. Mrs. Thompson Had Spent Her Whole Life as an Engineer at a Factory. Her Husband Died Young, She Had No Children. The Plant Closed in the Nineties, She Lived Off Her Pension and the Odd Technical Translation. But She Never Broke. Never Grew Bitter. Just Kept Going—Straight-Backed, Strict, Solitary. “I’ve No One,” She Said One Day. “And Neither Do You. But That’s Not the End. That’s the Start. Get It?” He Didn’t Really, But Nodded Anyway. When Tommy Turned Eighteen and Army Service Beckoned, She Called Him In for a Serious Chat. Laid the Table Like a Feast—Pies, Jam, The Lot. “Listen, Thomas”—For the First Time She Used His Full Name—“You Can’t Come Back Here. You’ll Sink. The Place Won’t Change—Same Estate, Same Faces, Same Despair. After Service, Find Yourself Somewhere New. Up North, Maybe—On a Site, Anywhere. But Not Here. Right?” “Right,” Tommy Nodded. “Here—Thirty Grand. All I’ve Got Saved. It’ll See You Through the Start If You Use It Wisely. Remember: You Don’t Owe Anyone Anything—Only Yourself. Become Someone, Thomas. Not for Me. For You.” He Wanted to Refuse, Say He Wouldn’t Take Her Last Penny. But Her Stern, Insistent Eyes Told Him: This Was Her Final Lesson, Her Last Command. He Took It and Left. He Never Came Back. Twenty Years Passed. The Estate Changed. The Old Poplars Were Felled, Asphalt Car Parks Poured in Their Place. Benches Were Metal Now—Uncomfortable and Cold. The Building Had Aged, the Façade Flaked, But Still Stood—Stubborn As an Old Man With Nowhere Else to Go. A Black 4×4 Pulled Up. Out Stepped a Man—Tall, Broad-Shouldered, Dressed in Subtle, Costly Clothes. His Face Weathered by Northern Winds, Eyes Calm, Certain. It Was Thomas Rogers. Mr. Rogers, His Staff Now Called Him. Owner of a Construction Firm in the North. 120 Staff. Three Big Projects. A Reputation for Doing Things Properly. He’d Started at the Bottom—A Labourer, Then Foreman, Site Manager. Studied Nights, Got His Degree. Saved, Invested, Took Risks. Failed Twice, But Climbed Back Twice. The Thirty Grand Mrs. Thompson Gave Him—He Sent Back Long Ago, Monthly, Until She Refused and Threatened to Bin It. But She Still Cashed the Cheques. Then One Day, the Transfers Came Back—“Addressee Not Found.” He Stared Up at Her Fifth-Floor Windows. All Dark. In the Courtyard Sat New Faces—The Old Crowd Were Gone. “Excuse Me,” He Asked a Woman, “Do You Know Mrs. Margaret Thompson—Flat Forty-Five?” The Women Perked Up—Well, Who Wouldn’t, Seeing a Man Like That Step Out of a Car Like This. “Oh, Love, Margaret… Well, She’s Not Well Now. Memory’s Gone, Gets Confused. Left Her Flat to Some ‘Relative’—Supposed Nephew. Now She’s in Some Village. Sold the Flat, I Think.” Rogers’ Heart Turned Cold. He’d Seen This Trick Up North: Be-friend a Lonely Old Soul, Get a Signature for the Flat, Ship Them to the Back of Beyond—If They Make It at All. “Where’s This Village?” “Out Past the Market Town—Forty Miles Down. Road’s Awful, But You’ll Manage.” He Thanked Her, Got in His Car, and Sped Off. The Village—Limberfield—Was Dying: Three Streets, Half the Homes Boarded, Autumn Rains Had Churned Up the Lanes. Just a Handful of Old Folks, Families With Nowhere Else. Tommy Found the Right House by Asking Round—a Sagging Cottage, Fence Down, Yard a Mess. Damp Clothes on a Washing Line. He Pushed Open the Gate—It Gave a Wretched Squeal. A Man Came to the Door—Unshaven, Vest Filthy, Eyes Bleary With Booze. “What Do You Want, Mate? Lost Your Way?” “Where’s Margaret Thompson?” Asked Tommy. “No Margaret Here. Get Lost.” Tommy Didn’t Bother With Talk. He Stepped Forward, Lifted the Man Out of the Way Without Effort, and Walked In. The Smell Hit Him—Damp, Mould, Something Sour. First Room—Dirty Plates, Bottles, Leftover Food. Second Room— There She Lay. Small, Withered, Hair Tangled, Face Ashen, Eyes Hollow. But Still Her. Still Mrs. Thompson—The Woman Who’d Taught Him How to Hold a Screwdriver, To Believe in Himself, Who’d Given Him Her Last Savings and Told Him to Be Someone. She Looked Up, Vision Cloudy. “Who’s There?” Her Voice Weak, Cracked. “It’s Me, Mrs. Thompson. Tommy. Rogers. Remember? Fixed Your Taps.” She Gazed a Long While, Eyes Blinking to Focus. Then Tears Sparkled. “Tommy…” She Whispered. “Back Again… Thought I Was Dreaming. You’ve Grown… You’re Somebody…” “I Am, Mrs. Thompson. Because of You.” He Wrapped Her in a Blanket—She Was Light as a Feather—And Picked Her Up. She Smelled of Illness and Damp, but Underneath Still That Scent of Old Paper and Soap. “Where Are We Going?” She Asked in Fear. “Home. My Home. It’s Warm and Full of Books—You’ll Love It.” At the Door, the Bloke Tried to Block the Way. “Oi, Where You Taking Her? Show Me Papers! She Signed Over the House—She’s Mine!” Tommy Fixed Him With an Even, Cold Stare That Made The Man Pale. “My Solicitors Will Want a Word. So Will the Police. If This Is a Scam, and It Will Come Out, You’ll Pay—Properly. Understood?” The Man Nodded, Shrinking Away. It Took Months—Court Cases, Forms, Proofs—to Undo the Fraud: The Flat Had Been Signed While Mrs. Thompson Wasn’t Competent. The Man Was a Known Small-Time Con, Already Convicted Before. The Flat Went Back. He Was Sent Down. But Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Need the Flat Anymore. Tommy Built a House—Large, Timber, Just Outside His Northern City. Not a Showy Mansion, Just Solid and Real—Larch Clad, Big Fire, Sun-Filled Windows. Mrs. Thompson Had the Brightest Room on the Ground Floor. The Best Doctors, a Live-In Carer, Good Food. She Grew Stronger, Got Some Colour Back—Her Memory Didn’t Fully Recover, Faces and Dates Evaded Her, But Her Spirit—Unchanged. Reading Again (Big Glasses), Bossing Staff for Dust on the Shelves. “What’s That? Cobwebs? Is This a House or a Shed?” She’d Grumble. Tommy Would Only Smile. But He Didn’t Stop There. One Day He Came Home With a Young Lad—All Ankles and Elbows, Gaunt and Watchful, A Scar on His Cheek, Clothes Hanging Off Him. “Mrs. Thompson,” Said Tommy, “Meet Alex. He Turned Up on Our Site—No Home, Straight Out the Care System, Just Turned Eighteen. Brilliant With His Hands, Mind All Over the Place.” Mrs. Thompson Put Down Her Book, Adjusted Her Glasses, Surveyed Alex. “What Are You Standing There For? Go Wash Your Hands—Soap’s There. It’s Meatballs for Tea.” Alex Flinched, Looked at Tommy, Who Smiled Encouragingly. A Month Later, a Girl Arrived—Katie, Twelve, Limping on Her Left Leg, Staring at the Floor. Tommy Had Her Put Into Care—Her Birth Mum Lost Parental Rights. The House Filled Up—Not Showy Charity, But a Family. A Family of the Unwanted, the Lost, Who’d Finally Found Each Other. Tommy Watched Mrs. Thompson Teach Alex the Plane, Tapping His Knuckles With Her Old Ruler. Watched Katie Read Aloud From a Book, Stirring in the Armchair, Stumbling Over Words, But Reading. “Tommy!” Mrs. Thompson Would Bark. “Don’t Just Stand There—Give Us a Hand! They Can’t Shift the Wardrobe Alone!” “Coming!” He’d Call. And He’d Go. To His Odd, Uneven, Complicated Family. For the First Time in Forty Years, He Felt He Belonged. “So, Alex,” Tommy Asked One Evening As Stars Dotted the Northern Sky, “How Are You Settling In?” The Lad Sat on the Step, Glancing Skyward. “Alright, Mr. Rogers. Just… Feels Weird. Why Me? I’m Nobody.” Tommy Sat, Pulled Out an Apple, Passed It Over. “You Know, Someone Once Told Me—‘Only Cats Are Born For Nothing.’” Alex Snorted. “What’s That Mean?” “Means Nothing Happens Without a Reason. Good or Bad. There’s Always Something Behind It. You’re Here Now—Not By Accident. So Am I.” A Light Flickered in Mrs. Thompson’s Room—Reading Late Again, Doctor’s Orders Be Damned. “Go to Bed, Alex. Big Day Tomorrow—We’re Fixing That Fence.” “Night, Mr. Rogers.” “Night.” He Sat Alone Under the Vast, Real Silence—No Yelling, No Fights, No Fear. Just Crickets and the Distant Hum of the Bypass. He Knew He Wouldn’t Be Able to Save Them All—All the Lost Cubs Cast Out by Life. But He’d Saved These. Mrs. Thompson. Himself. And For Now, That Was Enough. And When it Wasn’t? He’d Get Up and Carry On—Just Like She Taught Him.