My dear, would you spare me even a quarter of a loaf? Ill repay you tomorrow, truly. My heads spinning from hunger…
Im sorry, came the reply, this is a bakery, not a bottle deposit. Can you read? Its right there on the sign: bottles must go to the recycling point, then you get your money for bread. What do you want?
I honestly didnt know the bottle return shut at midday. I was late. Never before had I had to go around collecting bottles. Desperation crept over me, and I wandered on, not knowing how I would find even a couple of pounds.
Well, the baker said, youll have to get up earlier next time. Bring the bottles first thing tomorrow.
Please, would you just let me have a quarter of a loaf? I promise Ill pay you back tomorrow. I havent eaten all day.
The old woman was clearly embarrassed to beg, but there was something proud and dignified about her.
No, the saleswoman replied sharply, Im not a charity. Its hard enough as it is. Too many beggars about as it is move along.
Lovely day, the saleswoman said as a man paused by the counter. Weve just had your favourite seeded loaf in. The apricot pastries are fresh, but the cherry ones are a day old.
Afternoon, he murmured, lost in thought. Ill have a fruit and nut loaf, and six of the cherry pastries, please.
Apricot, she gently corrected.
Right, then, apricot.
The man stared out into the street, barely noticing the dignified old woman standing a little way off, staring at him intently.
From her little hatch, the baker handed over his order. He reached into his thick wallet and paid with a crisp fifty pound note. His eyes drifted over the old woman and lingered on a heavy brooch pinned to her jacket.
She didnt look like a beggar far from it. She held herself with great poise and her clothes, though worn, were neat and tidy.
Simon climbed into his car, put the bread on the passenger seat and drove off, passing the small office where his electronics supply firm was based.
When he arrived, his secretary, Martha, greeted him.
Mr. Foster, your wife rang in said to call her back.
Is everything alright, Martha? he asked, concern flashing across his face.
Simon Foster had started his electronics business back in the mid-90s. Thanks to his acumen and hard graft, the company did well.
Although he could have afforded a city centre office, Simon kept his base on the edge of town, never one to waste money.
Hed built a lovely house a modern cottage where he lived with his wife and two sons. In a fortnight, they were expecting their third child. The phone call from his wife had rattled him.
Sophie, is everything alright? he asked.
Simon, the schools asked us in again. Olivers got into another fight.
Love, Im not sure I can make it. Ive a ton on trying to coordinate a major delivery right now.
You know I cant go alone at the moment…
No, no, you shouldnt go look after yourself. Ill make time, I promise.
Oliver is going to be in serious trouble if he doesnt get his act together. Sorry, darling I need to get back to work. Ill be home late, dont wait up.
Simon, youre hardly ever home anymore. The boys dont see you. You leave before theyre awake, and youre back after theyre asleep. I worry. You dont rest at all.
Thats just how it is for now. Only for a week or so more, I hope. Then well manage. And when the baby comes, wholl look after the boys?
Well work it out maybe hire a nanny.
I dont want strangers watching them every day…
Simon, lets talk later. Im sure youre swamped, and so am I.
Sometimes I feel you dont care about us anymore.
Dont say that, love. Everything I do, its for you and the children for Oliver, Charlie, and our little girl soon to arrive.
Sorry, I shouldnt have said that… I just miss you. I want to see you more.
Simon stayed late at the office. By the time he got home, the boys were fast asleep and Sophie was waiting in the sitting room.
Im sorry about earlier, she said, reaching for his hand. I didnt mean to be cross.
You should rest, not wait up. Come on, let’s get you some tea.
Im not hungry, thank you. I actually ate at work too. Oh, and I brought those apricot pastries home. Honestly, theyre brilliant nowhere else makes them like that bakery. And the fruit and nut bread…
The pastries are lovely, but truth be told, the bread was a bit too much for me and the boys.
Simon found himself lost in thought, the image of the old woman by the bakery returning to him.
Love, you should get some sleep. Early start again tomorrow, I imagine. Sophie tried to draw him out, Whats on your mind, really? Are there problems at the firm?
No, works going well… if I can just lock in this supplier, well be in the best shape ever.
Youre exhausted.
I keep thinking about that old lady at the bakery. I was in such a daze, didnt really clock what the saleswoman and the old dear were saying. But now, the details keep coming back. Her face was so familiar… especially that big brooch on her jacket.
Simon was, by nature, a kind man, always ready to lend a hand.
He couldnt shake the memory of the woman outside the bakery. He felt guilty for not helping her, and the nagging sense that hed met her before.
He arrived at the office early, trying to distract himself with paperwork.
Maybe Im just tired, he muttered to himself. Math had never failed him like this before.
Suddenly he blurted, It cant be Mrs. Whitfield? The memory hit that brooch, the jacket. He hadnt seen her in seventeen years, and shed changed so much.
Mrs. Whitfield was his old maths teacher, adored by everyone including the parents. Shed married late, at thirty-eight, and had a daughter, but the little girl passed away at just three. Her marriage ended not long after.
Mrs. Whitfield poured her affection into her students.
Simon had a rough upbringing his grandmother raised him after a tragic accident claimed his parents. Money was always short, and meals sometimes even shorter.
His teachers praised him for his determination, but Mrs. Whitfield always gave him special attention. He would often help her out at her house, especially when a bit of labour was needed.
She knew he often went hungry and invited him to lunch more than once, but he always refused out of pride.
She got creative offered him odd jobs, and after helping out, hed happen upon a hot meal waiting on the kitchen table.
She always baked her own bread, boasting of a tin handed down from her grandmother. Her bread was soft, light, and better than anything else hed tasted.
Well, if its the best youve eaten, you must share it with your gran, shed said, slicing him off a giant loaf.
Simon got so carried away with memories that he didnt even notice the staff coming in for the day.
He’d heard that the house where Mrs. Whitfield once lived was gone replaced by council flats. So he phoned an old friend on the police force, hoping to track her down. Within the hour, Simon had her address.
Unfortunately, work kept him from visiting.
He told Sophie about Mrs. Whitfield that night.
Sophie, Mrs. Whitfield is a woman of real dignity. You said youd worry when you had to go into hospital what if we asked her to stay? She made a world of difference to me when I was young, and Id hate to think of her struggling.
Of course, Simon, bring her here. Maybe she can sort our Oliver out too calm those playground scuffles! Sophie smiled.
You dont know Mrs. Whitfield she could talk anyone round, Simon replied, grinning.
They understood each other completely.
On Sunday, Simon picked up a bunch of flowers and called at Mrs. Whitfields flat.
Nervously, he pressed the buzzer. She answered the door herself so changed; her face was thin, her blue eyes dull.
Afternoon, Mrs. Whitfield its Simon Foster. You probably dont remember me, I left the school seventeen years ago.
Oh Simon, of course I do. I recognised you back at the bakery.
Im sorry I didnt respond I was so distracted. Did you think I was embarrassed?
The elderly teacher began to cry.
Please dont, I was looking for you and Im so glad I found you.
Simon awkwardly handed her the flowers.
Thank you. No ones brought me flowers since the first day of term four years ago. That was my last well, lets say I was asked to retire.
Im sorry, I cant offer you tea. My pension doesnt come in for another couple of days.
I came to ask you to live with us. My wife and I have a big house, two sons, and were expecting a daughter.
I dont want to be a burden, Simon. Your family cant want a stranger in their home.
Id like you to help us, as a mentor for the boys. Sophie agrees and we need someone with wisdom and kindness. Our Oliver keeps fighting at school. Think you could handle him?
Ill be seventy next year, but yes, Ill manage.
Pack your things, Mrs. Whitfield. Lets go meet the family.
From that day, Mrs. Whitfield lived with the Fosters, leaving all her worries behind.
Sophie delighted in her company, grateful for the calm and wisdom of a seasoned teacher. She was a gift to them all.
A week and a half later came the happy day their long-awaited daughter arrived, and she was named Daisy. While Sophie was in the maternity ward, the boys loved spending time with Mrs. Whitfield. She cooked wonderful meals and helped with homework.
Simon and Sophie rested easy, knowing their children were safe.
Even mischievous Oliver was enchanted by Mrs. Whitfield she never raised her voice, but her words worked wonders.
Finally, it was the day Simon brought Sophie and baby Daisy home.
Oh, boys, Ive missed you! Sophie hugged them both.
Were fine, Mum! Charlie grinned.
We baked bread with Mrs. Whitfield! Oliver piped up.
Delicious! But Mrs. Whitfield says itll never be quite the same as the way she baked it in her old oven it was always tastier in the old house, he added, a little wistfully.
