The Winter of 1987 Wasn’t Remembered for Its Bitter Cold, but for the Endless Queues: How a Quiet Mo…

The winter of 1987 was one people didnt remember for how cold it was, but for the queues. The snow fell thick and heavy, yet the city always woke before it. By five in the morning, outside the local grocers tucked between the council flats, the lights were still off, but the queue was already forming.

No one knew quite what would be delivered that day. Someone heard thered be meat and milk. People came bundled in heavy coats, old scarves wrapped about their necks, clutching empty bottles and worn shopping bags. They lined up quietly, moving as if they’d done this since time began.

Margaret was sixth in line. She was thirty-eight, worked in a garment factory, and had set her alarm for half four, drinking her tea in the dark kitchen before slipping silently from the flat, careful not to wake her husband. He remained asleep, dreaming perhaps that today there might be a little extra on the table.

The queue soon doubled. Lists were scribbled on torn bits of notepad. Someone remembered numbers; another would nip home for a moment and return. Cups of weak tea were passed around from a battered flask. Bleak jokes, dry as the winter air, passed between themsurvival humour. No one complained openly; there was no point.

Then, halfway along the line, Margaret noticed her.

She stood closer to the wall, pressed against the cold brick, small and hunched, a thin scarf tied beneath her chin, wrapped in a threadbare overcoat far too light for such biting cold. Her bag hung limp from her wrist, her whole frame shivering.

It was old Mrs. Victoria.

Margaret recognised her at onceshe lived just two doors down. Shed recently lost her husband, only a couple of months before, and had hardly been seen outside since then. Now she stood in line, alone and silent, her eyes fixed to the paving stones.

Mrs. Victoria! Margaret called.

The elderly woman lifted her head, as if surprised to hear a familiar voice. When she saw Margaret, she managed a faint smile.

Margaret glanced back at her own placefifteenth, now. Then at Mrs. Victoria.

Come on, come up here. Stand in my place. Its not right for you to be out in the cold like this.

Mrs. Victoria murmured a protest, but Margaret was already moving aside. The others didnt need an explanation; someone even muttered, Let her be, love. Mrs. Victoria took Margarets spot, and Margaret fell back to where the old woman had stood.

Nearly forty minutes passed. The line crawled forward. When the grocers finally opened, the truth came swift and unapologetic: only the first twelve would get milk and eggs.

Margaret did a quick calculation: she wouldnt get anything today. But she was glad, at least, that Mrs. Victoria would not go home empty-handed.

Where are you going? Come backthis place was yours. Im an old woman, I dont need much. You shouldnt go home with nothing, Mrs. Victoria called after her.

No need, Mrs. Victoria. I gave up my spot gladly. Ill manage until the next delivery.

Come on, dear, take your place. Im not staying, Ive had enough.

Those standing nearby looked on with a mixture of surprise and admiration. It was hard to be generous with an empty stomach, and small kindnesses were rare enough to be noticed.

Margaret edged closer to the elderly woman, herself taken aback by her stubbornness. Linking arms, she said softly,

Dont go anywhere. Well queue together, then, and well share whatever we get. Just dont go home with nothing.

Mrs. Victoria nodded quietly, moving nearernot just for warmth, but for comfort. Together, arm in arm, they waited as the queue edged forward.

When they finally reached the counter, there was only enough for one more: a bottle of milk, a handful of eggs, and a small bit of meat.

Well split it, Margaret declared.

The shop assistant looked at them, at their red, stiff hands, at the way Mrs. Victoria leaned into Margarets side, and at how neither seemed to care who went first as long as neither went away with nothing. For a moment, she hesitated. Then she reached underneath the counter, pulling out a bottle of milk shed reserved just in case. Silently, she slipped it into their bag.

She divided the meat in two and placed a piece into each bag, tying the handles with a tight knot.

Thats better, she said softly. Enough for both.

Margaret wanted to say something in thanks, but the words caught in her throat. Mrs. Victoria murmured, God bless you, barely audible over the noise of the shop.

The assistant waved them away. Off you go now, youve been in the cold too long.

They stepped outside, not looking back. Snow fell softly. The queue had thinned. Those who witnessed the scene said nothing, but they remembered.

Not many people ever knew this story. It lingered only among those there that cold winters morning, outside the corner grocers. It reached just a handful of people, the ones who needed reminding that they werent alone, even if they never spoke it aloud.

Later, the tale would be passed along quietly. Do you know what happened in the queue once? Stories always started like that. No one made them grand, but they became memoriesbecause, in those years, the queues were about more than just food. They were about people and the way they cared for one another: saving someones spot, giving up a place to the weary, sharing a little normality from the little they had.

Margaret and Mrs. Victorias story was just one among many. There were countless mornings like it across the countrys shops and markets. Not all ended happily, but enough did that they stayed in memory.

For sometimes, when everything else was in short supply, the only thing that never ran out was kindness. And that, above all, is what got people through: a simple act of sharing, meaning more than any bottle of milk or bit of bread ever could.