A Kindred Spirit

Granddad, yes! Sam, a lanky boy wrapped in a coat far too big for him, clutched his grandfathers hand, shuffling his feet while his other hand fidgeted with his lips.

George Whitaker gave his grandson a sideways glance, tugged the redandblack checkered scarf tighter around his neck a long, woollen, shaggy thing with a fringe that always got in Sams face whenever George leaned down to speak.

That very fringe now brushed the boys frostpink cheeks, making Sam wince. He rubbed his cheeks, stared plaintively into Georges eyes and whispered, Yes?

George barked, What now? Say YES! thats what I asked for! His eyes, crisscrossed with red veins, stared into Sams like twin mirrors. One pair had seen too much, never shedding a tear, burning with stubborn pride; the other, Sams, only a garden and a playgroup, occasionally a trip to the local pub with his mates. Sams eyes wept silently, so as not to be scolded.

Yyes Sam murmured.

Yes! George roared.

Yyes, yyes they could have kept at it while the snow fell endlessly, covering the two relatives in a white blanket, if a certain lady hadnt stepped in.

Daisy Harper, chef at the canteen All for the Gents, flickered in like a string of fairy lights beside the flustered pair.

Tom? Is that you? Daisy barked, coughing loudly. And look at that scarf, old chap! Redwhat, Santas come early?

Its mine, Ive had it forever. Whats the fuss? George muttered, pressing his nose against Daisys generous bust.

Alright, old curmudgeon, calm down. Did you get another lad for a change? No Miss Lucy around? Daisy gave Sam a quick nod.

Lucys away on a work trip, George spat, a monthlong one. Shes left him to his own devices.

Ah, the usualshes gone, youve got a lad to look after, and youre whining like a wet cat, Daisy teased, sweeping the snow off Sams hat with a heavy gloved hand.

George snapped, Remember the first night with the old womanshe didnt turn up for ages. Hes been a bother with his crutches. Hes got a proper son now, a normal one. Got that, Sam?

Sam shrugged. Not really. Maybe maybe thats better.

Whether we like it or not, its not for us to judge, Daisy said, her breath smelling of soup, meatballs and something sweet. Sams stomach rumbled at the scent.

Listen, the gardens not for feeding, its just the old folks spot. Hes a whiner, always saying yes, yes. If he learns to say YES, Ill buy a bun. Thats my final word! George declared, knitting his eyebrows together.

Daisy stared at him a moment, biting her lower lip, then smacked Georges thin back so hard the old man wobbled.

My final word: I wont let a starving child go hungry. Hes not a cripplehe just lags behind. Hell catch up. Got that, Sam? she asked, winking.

Sam stared at her, feeling an odd knot in his belly.

Come on then, lets go to the canteen. Its my day off, Lucys covering for me. Plenty of room at the stove for everyone. Follow me, you lot! Daisy rallied, marching like a general leading troops.

No time for that. Were heading home, George muttered, not keen on trespassing on anyones turf.

Better to trudge home, get Sam up to the eighth floor, press the lift buttons with a finger, count the floors. Sam would fidget, George would curse, wishing his grandson grew up a bit less well, a bit more helpful.

Sam fell silent, then resumed his soft yes, the mute little fellow he was.

Thus they left, with Daisy watching them go, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. She wanted to care for someoneanyone. Not George, of course; he wasnt her cup of tea. But Sam? He was the perfect candidate for a little extra warmth, food, a pat on the head.

Winter never seemed to end. Lucy hopped from one business trip to another, George still shuffled Sam to the garden, grumbling, tugging at his hat, buttoning his coat with trembling hands. They marched on, the redchecked scarf flashing like a lighthouse in the blizzard over a sleepy, weary town. Daisy kept an eye on them, moving back and forth.

One particularly bleak day, Daisy finally couldnt stand it and dragged them into her canteen.

Enough! Home, Sam! Come on! George shouted, reaching for Daisys hand.

Even he knew theyd reached a limitbeyond that, only darkness and despair. Sam sometimes searched for his mothers scent in the hallway, pressed his nose to her coat, and feared his granddad.

Sometimes Sam would cry in his sleep, reaching for someone; George would slip his hand in, but Sam would push it away.

Your love is foolish! George growled. You dont need a mum! Shes off at a restaurant with a glass in hand, while you whine here

So, with a sigh, George agreed to pop into Daisys workplace.

Right, George! Whats at home? Ive got a Charlotte cake! Lets go! Daisy chirped, leading the small and large men behind her.

All for the Gents was packed to the rafterscheap, hearty, and homelike. The menu: soup, roast, buttery buckwheat, salad, compote. Occasionally a pilaf, learned from a lover of hers, cooked not in a cauldron but still turning out a wowwow. Sweet carrots, finely chopped onions, rice grains separate and glossy, a dab of butter, meat happy as can be.

Enjoy, folks! Daisy called out when thanked.

She cooked as if for her own big familychubby kids and a labourloving husband. He might sip a small spirit with a salted herring, chat about politics, then sing a hymn. She always wanted three kids, gender irrelevant; just a warm bundle sucking at her breast, smiling with a toothless grin. Shed have fed them porridge, compote, soupseverything. Life, however, had other plans.

Why Daisy was alone, she never said. She lived, and that was that. Little women like her dotted the English countryside.

The crowd in the hall glanced at the triogranddad, Sam, and the cook. Regulars tipped their hats, nodded. That was how the patrons of All for the Gents greeted the old pair, grateful the master didnt kick them out.

Come on, Sam, have a spoon! Daisy barreled into the room, tray of plates in hand. Sam turned away and began to cry.

In the garden, old Mrs. Gill, pressing his lips hard, forced a spoonful of soup into Sams mouth. The boy twisted, and Gill swore.

And Aunt Daisy would scold

But things didnt go as planned.

She set a stool, placed her plate, sighed. George ate. The cold that had settled in his bones from the bus depot where he worked warmed, fragrant with bay leaves and salty cucumbers.

Weve known each other forwhatthirty years, right? Daisy began, addressing Sam. All sorts of things happenedarguing, making up, he even asked me to marry him, yes yes! She nodded, slurping a spoonful of soup into Sams mouth. Tasty? See? Always eat well, Sam. Bad food, no good. Lifes for joy.

Where does that joy come from when the lads alone, no mum, and Im clueless? George snapped. Maybe a tablet? Lucy wont let a diagnosis be made. Thats breaking a boys life! He snorted.

Joy comes from everywhere. Without it, lifes bleak, Daisy replied sternly. You must grin and carry on.

Sam opened his mouth like a fledgling, reaching for the spoon, then clumsily patted Daisys shoulder.

Oh, Sam, sorry, I got distracted, she said, ladling more soup, feeding him with a smile.

Soup vanished quickly, followed by a meat patty, its juices swirling, mashed potatoes on which Daisy drew funny faces, then smoothed them back into a neat little hill for Sam.

Tea came next, with a slice of Charlotte cakethe one Daisy always brought when visiting. She kissed the slice, then plonked onto a sturdy stool, a monument to kindness.

George loved her pies. His wife didnt bake, so she welcomed Daisys tarts with gratitude, never jealous of the friendship.

He loved even more to hear Daisy sing, her low voice rising from deep within, filling the room, making everyones hearts melt.

George hummed along, Sam echoed, and the adults fell quiet, leaving only Sam to whisper the last line of a song about a horse galloping across a poppy field.

He was that horseyoung, clumsy, stumbling over his own legs, never quite getting it right, fearing the unknown.

Later, after a quiet moment at Aunt Daisys, George sprang up, shook off sleep, and told Sam to pack up.

Daisy helped him dress, then, standing tall, said, Tom, give me a ring if you need anything. Ill help.

George nodded.

Five days later George felt ill, woke unable to rise. He had to wake Sam, feed him, take him to nursery, get ready for workyet he couldnt. A coughing fit left him curled under the blankets. Dizziness set in, night fell.

A frightened Sam sat on the edge of Georges bed, halfdressed in his pyjamas.

Come on, get dressed, George whispered, smiling. Sam, I love you, hear? I love you very much!

It was the first time hed said it plainly. Before, hed been shy.

Now he finally understood the need to speak.

Ehh You dont get it, do you? Poor thing

Sam threw himself onto Georges chest, pressing his lips to the chin, then hugged him tightly.

George became everything Sam neededmother, father, everyone. Sam finally understood.

Soon Daisy knocked on their door, urging Sam to open it. At last the door opened; George, grey and a touch frail, stood in the hallway.

Whats all this? Daisy snarled. Did your arm fall off? Speak up, hypochondriac! Ready to die? Lucy will pull you out of the coffin! And Ill help too! She swarmed the kitchen with bags.

Later she gave George uncomfortable injections in his fifth point.

Sam, in those moments, turned his head to Georges bald scalp and stroked his hair.

Dont spill whats that? the boy whispered.

Everyone froze; Daisy almost dropped the syringe.

See what he says! Dont cry, itll pass! Whats the fuss? she whispered, administering another jab.

George groaned, then roared with laughter, flipping onto his back and scooping Sam onto his lap, shaking him under the arms.

Youre lying, you rascal! Im not whining. Why should I whine when youre here? he muttered.

Something clicked for Sam; words began to flow. By summer, sitting on the riverbank with George, Sam, after smacking a mosquito on Georges hand, announced clearly:

I love you, understand?

I understand, George sighed, turned away, and weptjoyful tears.

Daisy urged them to stay happy. She was right; joy sat beside them, barefoot, chatting away. Lucy? Shed fled at the sight of a boy like this. To hell with her.

The pair became regulars at All for the Gents. Daisy always checked the window for them, whether on shift or not, and fed them regardless.

Deal, Daisy? Between us its just friendship and respect, no funny business, George declared one day.

Of course! Daisy laughed. You still need a proper feeding, so youll look the part.

George bristled, then softened. It feels good to be looked after.

The next time he bought Daisy flowersa bouquet of chrysanthemumsSam watched his grandfather rummage through the shop, sniffing, puckering his lips. Finally, the bunch was chosen.

Chrysanthemums have long since bloomed in the garden! Sam remarked, recalling a rhyme Daisy loved.

The love lives on in my ailing heart, George crooned, patting his chest.

Sam chased after him, leaping joyfully. A good day, indeed.

Soon Daisy arrived with tea and a slice of Charlotte cake, the one shed promised. She kissed it, perched on a sturdy stool, a solid block of goodwill.

George adored her pastries. His wife never baked, so she welcomed Daisys treats with gratitude, never jealous of the friendship.

He also loved hearing Daisy sing, her low voice filling the room, making everyones hearts melt.

George hummed, Sam echoed, the adults fell quiet, leaving only Sam to whisper the last line of a song about a horse galloping across a poppy field.

He was that horseyoung, clumsy, stumbling over his own legs, never quite getting it right, fearing the unknown.

Later, after a quiet moment at Aunt Daisys, George sprang up, shook off sleep, and told Sam to pack up.

Daisy helped him dress, then, standing tall, said, Tom, give me a ring if you need anything. Ill help.

George nodded.

And so the unlikely triogranddad, grandson, and the everready Daisykept returning to All for the Gents, where warm soup, a slice of cake, and a dash of humour kept the cold at bay.