LOOK AROUND YOU!

Dear Diary,

Emily has been away on a work trip, our little Poppy is staying with her parents, and Im left alone at home. It feels oddly quiet without the usual bustle.

Emily rarely travels, but a colleague fell ill, and she was forced to step in for an urgent contract meeting at the firm. Shes been in the business for years, so she understood the pressure. I drove her to the station and then headed back home.

Halfway home I realised there would be no dinner waiting for me. With Emily gone, Id have to sort it myself. I could have swung by the parents house, but that would mean Poppy would be pulled back early, with homework, endless running around, and no time for a proper break. I was already feeling the preChristmas workload at the office weighing on me.

At first I thought about ordering takeaway, but I ended up pulling into the Tesco on the high street. Im not a fan of the markets rush; the crowd always gets under my skin. Shoppers fill their trolleys, dash to the tills, and wait impatiently for their turn. I joined the line with a halffilled basket and a couple of cans of good, dark ale.

The evening was supposed to be a lazy one, just doing nothing and letting the night drift by. In front of me stood a petite, frail elderly lady in a faded coat and an orange scarf, clutching her hat with a determined grip. She kept trying to adjust the hat on her head, and I helped her steady it.

When it was her turn, the clerk laid out a loaf of bread, a tin of sugar, some melted cheese, and a few packets of cerealnothing fancy. She placed the items on the small tray, and the cashier, looking weary, began to total them.

Twenty pounds missing! she finally announced.

The womans hands fumbled through her bag, a hint of panic in her voice.

Just a moment, dear Ill find it she muttered.

Dont dawdle, love, weve got a line here, the cashier snapped, a thin smile of disdain curling her lips.

I felt a flash of irritation. I couldnt stand the tension, so I thrust the missing amount toward the cashier and said, Lets finish this, shall we?

The matter seemed settled, but the old lady, having gathered her groceries, turned to me and said, Thank you, son, but I still have

The cashier, now louder, told her, Please move along, miss!

Feeling a pang of shame for the woman and a sting of my own impatience, I lingered a moment longer. She shuffled out, her steps tentative on the worn, whitewashed floor.

Ah, people, I thought, we seldom manage a crumb of kindness or sympathy. My mood soured a bit.

At last I escaped the cramped queue, only to be met at the entrance by the same elderly lady, beaming.

Oh, here you are! I found a few pennies in my bag. Take them, she offered, extending a small pouch of coins.

Guilt cut sharper. I answered hurriedly, No, really, its not necessary. Those coins are too little. Im sorry for being impatient earlier.

She handed me a modest, wellworn handbag that looked like it survived the seventies.

Are you going far? I could give you a lift home, I offered, trying to smooth over my earlier brusqueness.

No, I live just around the corner, she replied. Ill manage, dear.

Still, I walked her to the street. As we approached the car park, she declined any further help, saying shed rather walk. We chatted as we strolled.

Do you live alone? Any helpers? I asked, matching my steps with hers.

Just me, she said, her voice trembling. I had a grandson once. He was a good lad, always helping with the garage. He was my pride. I raised him after his parents fell ill. He never returned after the war. She fell silent, a weight in her eyes.

Something rang in my mindan echo of a name long buried. Last year my friend Sergei died in service, I blurted, Only two survived that day, and theyre now disabled

She murmured something else, but the ringing in my head grew louder. It was Sergei Prokopenko, a schoolmate from my youth. I remembered his fate, the funeral, the lingering grief. The name seemed to surface from the depths of memory.

Madam, whats your name? I asked, still trying to place the connection.

Petra Jennings, she answered. And you?

George Whitaker, I replied, a smile forced.

I knew your sons classmate. He used my garage. Im sorry I wasnt at the hospital when my heart gave out. I thought I wouldnt survive the sorrow. She paused, tears glistening.

We reached her modest cottage, climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, and she welcomed me in.

Come in, lets have a cup of tea if youre not in a hurry, she offered.

I followed her into the tiny kitchen, laid out everything Id boughtexcept the drinkson the table, and told her to take whatever she needed. No objections, I said firmly.

The pantry held little: a few slices of ham, a knob of butter, a tin of sardines, a packet of biscuits, a banana, and a carton of apple juice. It was a modest spread, but it felt like my first real act of assistance.

From that day on I visited Petra often, asking whether anything around the house needed fixing or a tradesperson called. She was grateful, usually declining any grand gestures beyond small favors. Over tea she began to share her story.

I was born in 38, she said, voice soft. My little brother was tiny. Father was away at war, mother raised us alone until she passed. I remember the war trucks, the families we gathered for the parish, and then my mother was taken away. I ran after her, calling her name, but she was gone.

She spoke of the orphanage, of being taken in by a kind aunt and uncle, and of moving to this town after the war. Her father never returned. She grew up, married, and lost her husband to a long illness. Her daughter and soninlaw went away on a holiday by the sea; a sudden storm capsized their boat, and both drowned. Ivan is still with me, she whispered, voice shaking.

Wheres your brother now? I asked.

Hes been abroad for years, sending money to a card I never use. I dont even remember the numbers. She sighed.

Shall we try to call him? I suggested, hoping to lift her spirits. Do you have his number?

She rummaged through an old kitchen drawer and produced a little notebook. Under the name Alexey, a number was scribbled.

I dialed, and a bright voice answered. I introduced myself, This is George Whitaker, a classmate of Sergei. Im speaking with Petra Jennings.

She took the call, and tears fell freely, yet her words were filled with joy. Hell be coming soon! Ill introduce you both. Thank you, George. Youre a good man. She laughed, wiping her cheeks.

It struck me how much grief this slight, fragile woman had carried. How could fate be so cruel to her? I wondered.

From then on I made a point to check on my older neighbours, to ask about their needs, and I never forgot Petra. I bought her a simple prepaid phone, loaded it with credit, and taught her how to use her bank card so she wouldnt have to endure impatient cashiers counting her pennies.

Emily praised my attentiveness and invited Petra over for lunch a few times. I drove her each time; at first she was shy, but soon she and Emily became fast friends. When the old lady passed away a couple of years later, the loss was felt deeply by both of us.

These small acts of looking after someone, offering a lift, a cup of tea, a listening ear they mean the world to a solitary elder. Knowing theres someone nearby ready to help eases the loneliness of old age.

As I left Petras house today, I heard her soft voice echo in my mind: Take care, God bless you, my dear. It stayed with me.

I write this now to remember her, and all the lonely souls who quietly bear their burdens. Sometimes you just need to look around someone may be waiting for a little kindness that you can give.