“Sir, please mind your manners. Ugh, is that smell coming from you?” “Sorry,” the man mumbled, shuffling back, muttering something else under his breath—something gloomy and disgruntled—as he stood, counting some loose change in his palm, perhaps just shy of enough for a bottle. Rita glanced at his face. Odd… he didn’t look drunk. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, something making it impossible just to turn and leave. “It’s alright.” He looked up at her with piercing blue eyes, not the least bit faded—even though, by all appearances, he was about her age. Rita had never seen eyes like that even in her youth. She gently took his arm and led him aside from the small queue at the till. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?” she asked, trying not to wrinkle her nose. Now Rita realised: it was only the stale scent of sweat, nothing more. He was embarrassed to talk about what had happened—especially to a woman, to a stranger, to someone so smartly dressed and attractive. “My name’s Rita. What’s yours?” “Yuri.” “So, do you need help?” she pressed, realising she was practically foisting herself upon him—some homeless man at that! He shot her a glance with those blue eyes but avoided looking again. Fine by her. She was about to leave when he suddenly blurted, “I need work. You wouldn’t know of anything—small jobs, repairs, housework? It’s a big village, nice one too, but I don’t know anyone yet. Sorry…” Rita listened silently, Yuri muttering again by the end, flustered. She considered: Can I really let just anyone into my home? She’d wanted new tiles in the bathroom—her son had promised to do it himself (so she wouldn’t have to hire those cack-handed tradesmen), but he was always working and busy… “Can you lay tiles?” she asked. “I can.” “How much for a 10 square-metre bathroom?” Yuri grunted, amazed at the size. “I’d need to look. Pay me whatever you think is fair.” Yuri did a perfect job on the bathroom—fast, neat. He asked first if he could take a shower (she was glad he had the sense); she just hoped he wouldn’t leave her with anything contagious. Rita fetched him her late husband’s old clothes, and Yuri washed his own. In one weekend, it was all done: pulled off the old tiles, cleaned up, put away everything just as it was, and by Sunday night the new tiles gleamed. Rita was a little nervous now that the work was done. Yuri was clearly homeless—should she let him stay the night? Rather odd. But kicking him out at midnight felt wrong, too. She barely slept on Saturday, locked in her room and listening out for trouble—but Yuri was apparently exhausted and slept deeply on the sofa. “Come and check the work, Mrs. Margarita!” he called. No two ways about it—the job was flawless. “Yuri, what did you used to do for a living?” Rita asked, admiring the work. “I was a physics teacher. Graduated from Leningrad Ped.” “Saint Petersburg, you mean?” “It was called Leningrad then. About the tiles… any self-respecting man should be able to do that, I reckon.” Rita nodded, took out the cash she’d prepared, and paid exactly what she would’ve paid a hired builder. Without counting, Yuri pocketed it and went to put his own clothes back on. “Hang on! You’re just going to leave, just like that?” Rita protested, mildly indignant. “Is that a problem?” he said, surprised, blue eyes wide. “At least let me make you dinner! You’ve worked all day. You’ve only had tea, didn’t want to be interrupted.” Yuri hesitated—then smiled. “Alright, thank you. I won’t say no.” She had a bit to eat with him, though she usually avoided food this late. He was surprisingly charming, intelligent—just somehow… lost. Not a loss you could just wash away or fix with a bit of warmth and a good chat. Maybe that sort of thing just needed time. “Yuri, what actually happened?” she dared to ask. He was quiet for a while. “If I start to explain, it’ll sound heroic, daft, or fake. Heard enough sob stories this past eight years… mine just happened to be true. Why do you want to know?” “I just find it surprising, that a man like you is in such a predicament…” He gave her a long, serious look. They both stood up at once, got in each other’s way, bumped—then, suddenly, it just happened. Rita never dreamed, at fifty-three, such a thing was still possible: real, burning, blinding passion. Later he told her—eight years ago, he’d tried to save one of his students, a talented but troubled kid caught up with a bad crowd. The boy wanted out but couldn’t see how. The form teacher, Yuri Alexeyevich, went to confront the ringleader—a twenty-two-year-old thug with no scruples. There weren’t words; Yuri was attacked. Luckily, he knew judo… but he threw the ringleader badly—into a concrete wall. The young man broke his spine and died. Yuri had called ambulance and police himself, sure it would only be deemed “exceeding necessary self-defence.” But no; he was sentenced under Article 105, got twelve years, served eight for good behaviour. “And even there, they’re just people,” he’d add about prison. Back at home, no one waited for him. His mother had died, her flat sold, she’d spent her last days with Yuri’s brother. The brother’s wife made it clear: “That ex-con is NOT coming here.” Yuri’s own wife had long divorced and remarried. He moved from St. Petersburg to London, but fortune was always against him. He wanted honest work, but after eight years inside, nobody would hire him. Jobbing for local folk—he received only suspicion, disgust, sometimes open hostility, and eventually, not even a place to sleep after an acquaintance politely suggested he move on. “How long has it been?” Rita asked, watching the glow of his cigarette. “Oh… a couple of weeks.” He was smoking her cigarettes (she had a pack lying about—an occasional indulgence). He’d suggested buying his own, but she wouldn’t have it. Now Rita tried to imagine: two weeks, living nowhere. In the dark, by the light of a burning cigarette, confessions came easier. Rita had invited him into her bed, so no sense pretending anymore. “Do you at least have a passport?” He snorted. “Sure. But no address. That’s the main problem.” Yuri stayed. Things turned out wonderful. Rita arranged a temporary registration; he got a job—not as a teacher, but for now, selling DIY goods would do, and at weekends he started picking up tuition work. After two and a half months in quiet happiness, Rita’s son came to visit. Assessing the situation, he called her aside: “Get rid of him.” “What?” Rita was floored—they hadn’t meddled in each other’s lives for years. “I’m telling you, get rid of him. You think he’s hanging round for your company? He’s got nowhere to live, and you’re being a fool.” She slapped him. “Don’t you dare! Stay out of my life.” “Mum, remember I’m your heir. I’m not splitting things with some random bloke. And if you marry him? He’ll have a claim. I’m warning you—when I come back in a week, he’s gone. Or else.” Holding back tears, Rita returned inside. “Is he a copper?” Yuri guessed. “Sorry I didn’t tell you… he works for the Crown Prosecution Service. He’s a good man, just… careful.” “What do you want to do?” he asked, eyes searching. She sat, feeling lost. She didn’t want to lose Yuri—or stir up a war with her son. “Springtime…” Yuri said. “Any thoughts? If not, let me suggest something.” She nodded, on the verge of tears. “I’ve been saving. Not enough for a plot here, but twenty miles out, it’s enough. We’ll put up a little prefab for now—start building a house. I’ll keep tutoring, and if I need, I’ll manage without work for a bit. I’ll build us a home with my own hands. What do you say?” Rita was speechless. “I know you’re used to comfort, but it’s only temporary. Then, I’ll make it all proper for you.” “I have savings. I can help,” Rita said quietly. “I’d never ask you for that.” “But you’re not. I’m offering. For us.” He came behind her, hugged her, kissed her hair. She felt warmth, security, love—who knew such things could come at their age? They acted quickly, bought the land. Yuri wanted to put everything in her name, but she refused—she had property, and if “they’d been squeezed out,” as she put it bitterly, she still owned it; he had nothing. “Don’t worry—my son’s the heir,” she quipped, recalling Dima’s words. They brought in a caravan, hooked up electricity, and Yuri rolled up his sleeves and began building. When Rita’s savings ran low, he doubled down on tuition—found a corner where students couldn’t see he was teaching from a trailer. All earnings went to the house—a brick at a time. On warm summer evenings, they’d lay out a blanket and watch the stars. “What do you feel?” Yuri would ask, holding her. “My second wind,” she’d reply. “It’s my second wind too,” he’d laugh, “but you’re supposed to feel my love.” Of course she did. One day, needing clothes and blankets for the coming autumn, Rita called home, found Dima in the kitchen, smoking. “Oh, hello, son. I’m just popping in, how are you?” He eyed his glowing, tanned, slimmer mother. “Mum, what’s going on? You don’t call anymore.” “We never did—I thought you were busy with work.” “Why can’t I ever find you here?” “I don’t live here anymore—just picking things up, hope you don’t mind.” He was stunned. She was lighter—happier. “Son, when we’re finished, I’ll have you over. For now, I’m in a rush.” She packed up her bits, kissed him on the cheek, hurried on. “Mum, what’s happened to you?” he called after her. She turned at the door, beamed, and said, “Second wind, Dimi. And love—don’t forget love! Bye, darling,” and dashed out into the world. There was no time to lose—they were building their porch.

“Gentleman, please, there’s no need to shove. Goodness. Is that smell coming from you?”
“Sorry,” the man mutters, stepping aside, mumbling something else under his breathunhappy and low, barely audible. He stands there, counting out a handful of coins. Likely not enough for a bottle, Rita thinks with a twinge of suspicion, though she can’t help but look more closely at his face. Odd. He doesn’t seem drunk at all.

“Sorry, I didnt mean to offend you,” Rita blurts out instead of turning away.

“Its all right,” he replies, looking up at her. His eyes are a shockingly clear blue, undimmed with age. He must be her age, Rita estimates, but she’d never seen eyes like that, not even when she was young.

Rita gently takes him by the arm, leads him away from the small queue at the tills.
“Is everything okay? Do you need some help?” she asks, trying to hide her own discomfort.

Suddenly, she realises the scent isn’t alcoholit’s simply the ingrained smell of old sweat. The man falls silent, stashing his coins away in his pocket. It’s clear he doesn’t want to explain what’s happenedespecially to a total stranger, especially one as well-dressed as Rita.

“I’m Rita. May I ask your name?”

“James.”

“So, do you need help?” She surprises herselfwas she really insisting that a homeless man accept her help? He flashes those blue eyes at her but avoids looking directly, clearly embarrassed. Ritas already turning to go when James says quietly:

“Im looking for work. Do you know anyone who might have some odd jobs? Might be repairsanything really. Looks like a big village, nice place, butI dont know anyone here. Sorry.”

Rita listens in silence, and by the end, James is back to muttering to himself, clearly uncomfortable. Rita debates whether to bring someone she barely knows into her home. Shes been wanting to retile the bathroomher son promised he’d do it, warned her not to hire “cowboy builders”, but he’s always working, and shes been waiting forever.

“Do you know how to lay tiles?” she asks him.

“I do.”

“How much would you charge for a bathroom, ten square metres?”

James grunts, obviously surprised at the size.

“I’d have to take a look. Pay me what you think is fair.”

He does the work over the weekend, with impressive care. He asks before using the showerRita is relieved at how considerate he is, hoping he wont leave behind any unwanted gifts. She gives him her late husbands old clothes; James washes his own, too. He’s tidy, keeps everything in place, tools wiped clean, the old tiles removed and cleared away. By Sunday night, the new tiles gleam across the walls and floor. Ritas a little anxiousJames must be homeless. Should she let him stay another night? Seems odd, but turning him out at midnight is worse.

Saturday night, she barely sleepsshe locks herself in her room but listens for any sign of trouble. But James, clearly worn out, just sleeps solidly on the living room sofa.

“Come check the work, Margaret!” he calls.

No question, its brilliant.

“So, James, what did you do before this?” she asks, admiring his handiwork.

“Physics teacher. Graduated from Liverpool Uni.”

“Ohwhat, the old Liverpool Polytechnic?”

“Back when it was Liverpool Poly, yes. And as for the tilingevery respectable man should know how to do jobs like this, dont you think?”

Rita nods, pulling out the envelope she prepared. She doesn’t skimppays what she planned for proper tradesmen. James, without counting, tucks the money into his pocket and heads off to get dressed. His own clothes have dried, so he changes back.

“Wait! You were just going to leave, just like that?” Rita protests, a bit indignant.

“Whats wrong?” he asks, lifting those amazing blue eyes once more.

“At least eat something! Youve worked all day, barely stopped for a cup of tea.”

James looks bashful, then shrugs. “Go on then. Thanks.”

Rita sits with him, having a bit of fish, though she never eats after six. He’s unexpectedly good company: charming, intelligent, but alsoso lost. There’s a sadness about him that no amount of warmth, tea, or small talk seems to shift. Rita suspects this takes time.

“So, James, what really happened? Sorry to ask…”

Hes quiet for a moment, then sighs.

“You know, anything I say will sound like tragic hero nonsense. Eight years of hearing everybody spinning tales… But mine really happened. Not sure why youd even want to know.”

“Because its surprising. For a man like you, to be in this situation…”

James looks at her intently, then suddenly they both stand up at once, colliding near the doorway. And then everything happens fast, beyond control or expectation. Rita, fifty-three, never believed this kind of passion could strike againfierce, boiling, consuming.

Afterwards, he explains: Eight years ago, one of his brightest studentsa lad from a rough homegot tangled up with a bad lot. James, his form tutor, tried to help. He confronted the ringleader, a twenty-two-year-old with no scruples, and got jumped for his trouble. But James had practised judo all his life. He handled the gang, but onethe ringleaderhit a concrete wall, broke his back, and didn’t make it. James called both ambulance and police, confident the worst they’d charge him with was excessive force in self-defence, if that.

He was wrong. James got twelve years for manslaughter, though he was let out early for good behaviourserved eight.

“Lived among people there, too,” he says simply about prison.

Returning home, no one was waiting. His mother had died and her flat had long since been sold, she’d spent her last years with her brother, whose wife stated, “Not having that ex-con set foot in this house.”

James’s own wife had also left him long before, remarried. So he left Liverpool for London, but luck did not follow. Getting legitimate work was impossible for someone with his record. He wandered into this village by accident, asking around for temp jobs, but met suspicion, disdain, even aggression. Eventually, he had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go. A mate who’d let him crash the first few weeks asked him to move on.

“How longs it been like this?” Rita asks, watching his cigarette glow.

“About a fortnight now,” he replies. He smokes her cigarettesRita keeps a pack around, only for high stress, but lets him have them.

She thinks about what it must be likehomeless, nowhere, for two weeks.

In the darkness, by the glow of the burning tip, theres space for truth. Hes in her bed now. No sense hiding anything.

“Do you have a passport, James?”

He grins. “Yesbut no address. Thats the main issue.”

James stays. Things go wellRita arranges a temporary postcode for him, he finds solid work. Not his dream, but glad to have it: shop assistant at the local DIY store. With his two days off, James tutors in physics, taking on students bit by bit. They settle into a cosy routine, two and a half months of peace and quietuntil Rita’s son turns up.

Sizing things up, he calls his mother outside for a word.

“You need to get rid of him.”

“What?” Rita is stunned.

They haven’t meddled in each other’s lives for years.

“Chuck him out, I said. You don’t need a penniless stray. What do you think he’s after? Lodgings! You’re being a fool!”

Rita slaps her son. “Back off! Keep out of my life!”

“Mum, youre forgetting: I inherit everything. I’m not sharing with some random. What if you marry him? If something happens, hell claim half.”

“Planning my funeral already?” Rita snaps. “And what do you think youre inheriting? I just might outlive you.”

“Mum, dont make me act unpleasantly. I’ll make life impossible for you both. I have my interests to look afteryou can’t blame me. If you’d found a decent mansomeone with moneyI wouldnt say a word. But this”

“Oh, so now decency is all about money? Was that how I raised you?”

“Mum. Ive said enough. Ill be back in a weekhed better be gone, or youll regret it.”

Rita re-enters the house, fighting tears.

“Is he a copper?” James asks.

“Sorry, I shouldve said…”

“You dont have to explain,” James says gently.

“Hes a police detectivegood man, honestly. He just worrieshes very careful, always looking out for me.”

“What do you want to do?” James studies her.

Rita sits at the kitchen table. She doesnt have an answer. If Dima makes a threat, hell mean it. God knows what hell do, even make trouble for James with the law if Rita doesnt chuck him out. She dreads to believe her own son could go that far, butwell, who knows.

“Springs coming,” James says quietly. “Have you any ideas? If not, let me speak.”

She nods, fighting not to weep. She feels trapped. She doesn’t want to lose James, but can’t bear to put themselves at risk, to go to war with her son.

“Ive been saving up. You havent asked meon the side, I mean. Its not much for a place here, but a little furthersay, twenty miles out, I could afford a plot. We can start with a prefab cabin, and slowly build. I’ll keep tutoring, and if need be, Ill manage without full-time work. Ill build you a house with my own hands. What do you say?”

Rita is speechless, her heart pounding. He grows anxious.

“I know you’ve got used to comfort. These will be small hardships, but just at first. I promise, Ill make us a proper home in the end.”

“JamesIve savings, too. I can help build,” Rita says, thoughtful.

“Id never ask you for that.”

“Youre not askingIm offering. This is for both of us.”

James hugs her gently, kissing her on the head. Rita feels warmth, safety, lovewho knew it could feel this way, even at their age?

They set things in motion quicklybought the plot. James insists the propertys in Ritas name, but she wont have it.

“I own enough already. Just because weve been forced out of one house doesnt mean I dont have a home. You, on the other hand, have nothing,” she says, half-laughing, half-remembering her sons words about inheritance.

They install a prefab cabin, get the electricity sorted. James rolls up his sleeves and starts building their new place. In the end, Ritas savings arent quite enough, so James doubles down on tutoring, sets up a makeshift corner in the cabin so his students never know hes teaching from a portable home. Every penny goes towards the housebrick by brick. On warm summer evenings, they lay their picnic rug on their plot, stretch out under the stars.

“What do you feel?” James asks, holding Rita close.

“I feel like I’ve got my second wind,” she replies.

“I think its me whos had a breath of fresh air,” he laughs. “You should just feel my love.”

She does. She truly does.

Rita pops back to the old house for some things. Autumns coming, she needs warmer clothes, spare duvets, some odds and ends from the kitchen. To her surprise, her sons there, smoking at the kitchen table.

“Oh, hello, love. Just popping in! How are you?”

He glances at his mother, startled by her tanned, slim, lively look.

“Mum, whats going on? You don’t call anymore.”

“We never made a habit, did we? You always ring me if you want, youre busy enough.”

“Why can’t I ever find you at home?”

“I dont live here anymore. Just in to collect a few bits. That all right?”

Dima is stunned. His mother is different in every wayshe sparkles, shes lighter, somehow. Happier.

“Son, well be finished building soon, Ill invite you round! For now, forgive me, were short on time.”

Ritas already gathering her things, dashing about. As she hurriedly packs two bags, she drops a kiss on her sons cheek before hurrying out.

“Mum, whats happened to you?” he calls after her.

She turns at the door, beaming.

“Second wind, Dims! And lovedefinitely love! See you soon, darling.” She laughs and vanishes outside.

Theres no time to wastetheyre building the porch today.