Grandmas slippers, or a little about mercy
A bone thrown to a dog is no mercy. Mercy is a bone shared with the dog when you are no hungrier than she, my old friend James once wrote in his notebook of the 1920s.
Life, they said, is worth three pennies, trod underfoot and dumped by the roadside, yet it is a gift from God and therefore beloved. Then a darkness as deep as a cellar without a window settled over us. As the saying goes, from the poorhouse to the gaol.
We dabbed the tears from our roughhanded eyes, shook our heads with a guilty smile, and thanked the Almighty: He is merciful and kind; it could have been worse.
It could, indeed, but how much worse?
No one visited the sick and the aged any more. The days grew dull, lonely, even frightening, yet they bore no grudges: What good is it to sit beside us? Everyone has enough of their own sorrow. Their frail bodies, swaddled in threadbare coats and stained gowns, painted a picture of weary helplessness.
Their physical weakness was obvious, but their souls, though torn by illness, remained pure, trusting, kind, and grateful. Emily, a social worker, watched in awe as these lone souls, though battered by grief, radiated an unexpected warmth. Their eyes could comfort, their smiles could soothe.
Emily had come only for a brief spell, a temporary hardship, yet she slipped silently into their world and fell in love with the hard labour. As she once observed, only those whose hearts have truly glued themselves to the work stay within the social service. A heart full of love and compassion, a soul restless for humanity. Not everyone can love their own healthy, thriving kin, let alone strangers: the old, the infirm, the cantankerous, the suspicious, the forgetful, the untidy.
There are admonitions not to grow too attached to ones charges, lest the loss cut deep, but Emily adored those helpless, goodnatured women as if they were her own family.
A mother and daughter, both relocated after the war. The term relocated sounds bureaucratic, yet each story bears its own heavy cross. Long ago, before borders hardened, Victoria Fylde was sent to the north of England to help raise a steelworks. She married, bore a daughter named Margaret, they earned a modest home, and a grandson arrived. Life seemed a gentle river, until dark forces began to tear the country apart. Nationalist mobs, screaming slogans, drove strangers from their homes, seized what little was theirs.
Margarets husband, a local man gone mad with zeal, snatched their son and cast Victoria out, saying the Russians were no longer needed not even as mothers to their own children. In desperation, Victoria gathered what she could into a single suitcase, fled with her child and a few relatives, and aimed for the safety of the western counties. Three boarded the train, two reached the destination. Her husband could not bear the humiliation.
They became displaced persons. At first, they clung together in a tight little flock, helping each other, but as life steadied, the compassion among the migrants thinned. Soon Victoria lay low, her path overgrown, forgotten, abandoned by those who once cared.
The state says were useless, she sighed one bleak evening, yet they gave us a flat, a pension, and free social assistance. The state had not entirely abandoned us, but the people had. If we have nothing left, even our relatives turn away, and we bow to the powers that be. We have kin scattered across the country who once visited for fruit and warmth, but when we returned, penniless and ill, they hid. We sow the seeds of our own misery and then look for scapegoats, she muttered.
Emily visited Victoria and Margaret far more often than was proper. They welcomed her with open arms, never complaining, always grateful. Their world was small and closed, yet they asked about everything, rejoicing at the slightest novelty as children do, their hearts free of bitterness.
One day Emily resolved to stop by simply because she could. The women flung the door open, eyes alight: What joy! Daisy, youve brought us happiness! Sophie has found us, shes in town today! She lives just beyond the village, she promised to visit again! Their cheeks flushed, voices overlapped, wrinkles smoothed, backs straightened. Even their wornout slippers made less of a clatter as they shuffled.
Sophie, both clever and pretty, was praised by Victoria: You must meet her, Daisy! Victoria brewed tea, refusing any help, insisting, Today we treat you. Their chatter never ceased.
Dont let the pressure get to you, Daisy murmured, but she was truly delighted for them. A visitors smile can brighten a room, the sound of tiny bells of laughter echoing like a distant holiday chime.
The table was laid out, and Daisys heart lurched at the sight: a towering cake with frosting, chocolate sweets, slices of salami, smoked cod, cheesesStilton and Roquefortbright juices, jars of pickles, and many other curiosities. How much has Sophie spent on this, not knowing we cannot accept such gifts? Daisy thought, remembering the rules.
We understand, Victoria said, eyes twinkling, its a treat for you, Daisy. And may we have our little hat? she added, raising her eyebrows. Just for fun, Daisy chuckled, recalling Sophies diabetes.
Sophies parents had worked at the same steel plant, now long dead, taken too young, their memory a quiet ache.
Sophie, a shade younger than Mary, was fortunately healthy. What a beauty, so generous! they exclaimed, blushing, pointing to the towering piles of clothing in the corner.
What if there are grandmothers there? Victoria mused, looking up.
Like magicians, they pulled bright garments from large paper sacks: ripped denim kneesfashionably torn, not agedlong cozy cardigans, knit tops with dropped shoulders, flowing fulllength skirts, sleek cocktail dresses, sequined tees, a red satin nightdress, and lowheeled house slippers with a little white pom pom, its fauxfur slightly smudged. Denim jackets, windcheaters, long coats with wide belts, knitted caps, one with ears like a cats.
The higher the heap grew, the harder it became for the ladies to keep their smiles.
What is this? Margaret asked, bewildered by the heap. Why?
Perhaps, Victoria interjected, Sophie didnt know we were ill and oldfashioned.
Margaret shook her head sadly, Daisy, perhaps you know someone who could use this ragrich bounty?
Indeed the clothes were fine, even if worn. One must offer such things without slighting the recipient, even when they are in need. Tossing unwanted items at the poor is not kindness but heartless waste, like food scraps under the table. Sometimes it is better to walk past unnoticed than to drop a burden on a suffering soul.
Its a shame there are no gowns, Victoria lamented, pointing to the faded patches on a threadbare coat, tears gathering.
Emily felt a sharp sting of shame for Sophie and the elder women, who hardly ever left their homes. Last summer she had helped them out, but in winter descending the narrow stairs of a fivestorey block with a poststroke wobble was almost impossible, just as Margarets multiple sclerosis made any outing a trial.
They needed a few warm gowns, longer shirts, proper slippersthose oldfashioned sheepskin things that had become a dream. Their feet were constantly cold, and they needed more incontinence pads.
Emily, at a loss for words, embraced them, gently smoothing the few remaining silver strands on their heads. Those ragfilled sacks were like shoes for a limbless man to the Fylde women.
How the wellfed cannot fathom the hungry, she thought, we have grown hardhearted, hurting even as we try to do good.
Sophie returned twice more, each time bringing piles of unwanted garments, which the ladies neatly tucked into a sofa for lack of space.
Soon Emily finally met Sophie properly. She was indeed strikingwellgroomed, almost regal, a sight youd not see on the street. Though younger, Emily felt a flush of nervousness, but Sophie proved easygoing, loving conversation.
I never imagined how dire things were when I first drove out, Sophie confessed, searching for words, they once lived wellher husband held a respectable post, they were as high as the sky.
Yes, yes, Sophie went on, you see me now, I earned every penny, blood and sweat. You think my life was easy?
But life changes. Victoria once opened doors with a foot, now shes you wouldnt believe how important that was! She rode in a work car, now shes in a tattered gown Id sooner die than live like this, she sighed, but I never wished this upon them, truly.
She lingered on past successes, two fortunate marriages, each a calculated alliance.
Emily stayed silent, the judgment heavy.
Then Sophie fixed her gaze on Emily: Youre young, but look unkempt. Let me speak to the salon ownershes my friendand arrange a facial, a mesotherapy, perhaps a discount. I work at the reception, theres always time for coffee.
She sat up straight, proud, Twentyfive percent, maybe more, because my friends are friends of yours. I could even find you decent clothes.
Thank you, but no. Emily snapped, Buy Victoria and Margaret warm gowns and those granny slippers instead.
Slippers of what? Sophie asked, eyebrows raised.
Grandmastyle, sheepskinlined. Their feet are always cold. We have woollen socks from sponsors, but those are warmer.
Emily had long wanted to buy them, but three thousand pounds never fit into her budget.
Um Im not sure where to find them, Sophie admitted, shrugging.
And a proper television, perhaps an audioplayer for books, some fresh bedding.
Tell me, Sophie said, grabbing Emilys hand, I understand Victorias old, Marys a touch older, why the ragged coat, the scarf? Cant we dye the hair or cut it?
Emily, lowering her eyes, answered quietly, She lives in nappiesshe has incontinence, spends her life searching for a son, battling illnesses, keeping the house together. Why?
Each spoke their own language, as if from different worlds.
A pause fell. Emily hurried away, but could not say goodbye.
You know, Sophie revived, I told the village ladies, my neighbours, that I do charity work, and they promised to sort their wardrobes. Itll look like a lot!
Emily halted, stunned by the village womens generosity, a grin breaking as the scene turned absurdly comedic. She had seen many twists on mercy and charity in her years, but never a spectacle in which discarded trimmings were presented as salvation.
Dont toss what you dont need into the rubbish, then parade it as generosity, she thought, A true act of kindness asks first what the person truly lacks.
Sophie, buoyant, chirped, In our village Im the old lady among youths. I gave Victoria a gorgeous cardiganbetter than any work coat. I bought it from McAllisters for seventythree pounds, but the colour was wrong, a failed experiment. The girls said to sell it online, but Im too lazy. Someone could buy it, but our village witches would rather overpay than do a kindness. Itll be a splendid New Years gift! Trust me, Aunt Vicky knows her garments.
Emily muttered a halfremembered line from her grandmothers Ukrainian lullaby, Whats the use of a knot of three gold when Sophie frowned, What?
When you give alms, let the left hand not know what the right does, Emily recited.
Proud Sophie snapped, Who gave you the right to speak to me like that? You take on too much! She flashed a cutting stare, clicked her heels on the pavement, and slipped into a nearby café.
A sleek, expensive car pulled up; Sophie, coyly smiling, slipped into the back seat. Good heavens, how low our grateful folk have become.
Goodbyes, Emily whispered, hurrying to the bus. Across town, a solitary elderly woman awaited her at the window.
Sophie never returned to her neighbours. She bore a grudge against Emily, against them all, recounting to her village witches how undeservedly she had been slighted. She had offered sincere charity, only to be mocked by a social worker she deemed Dasha. She wiped tears, clenched her hands, and thought that all the slippers, gowns, and odd gifts were unnecessary.
Yet Emily, with a modest sum, finally managed to buy the sheepskin slippers for Victoria and Margaret, even pleading for a New Years donation for two warm gowns.
Thus, the thankless, ungrateful folk may descend, but for what reason they did so remains a mystery.