The sunshine is warm, so I decide to make the most of itair out my makeshift pillows and blanket. I stuff paper bags with sawdust for the pillows and use an old wall rug with a fox pattern as a blanket, stretching it between two birch trees with a rope. Beside it I place a wooden bench upholstered in red faux leather, spreading my homemade pillows across it.
Samantha Reed has been roughsleeping for more than a year. Her hope is to save enough, replace the documents she lost, and get back home to the south of England, where family and a normal life still wait. For now she lives in an abandoned rangers cottage that once stood deep in a forest. That forest has vanished, replaced by a sprawling landfill.
At first the stench is faint, but the waste piles grow not by days but by hours. Everything ends up here: demolition debris, broken furniture, old clothes, dishes. From the dump I scavenge a tiny wardrobe, a threadbare ottoman and even a wooden chest full of discarded garments.
Eventually supermarket vans arrive, unloading expired stock. After a careful sift I sometimes find edible veg, fruit and even frozen readymeals. Fresh water is a luxury; I fetch it from a polluted brook, filtering it through rags and charcoal I pull from the rubbish.
Firewood is plentysplintered trunks litter the site, so a stove is easy to keep alight. Days blend into a monotonous routine, and pockets of spare cash are rare. A coin found in a torn coat is a treasure, a wallet a find of the century.
One night a car rolls up. Thats normalmost people dump their trash under cover of darkness to stay unseen. This time the vehicle is large, an expensive SUV, looming in the moonlight like a beast on wheels.
A man steps out slowly, drags a massive roll from the boot, and hauls it deeper into the heaps.
Maybe its roofing felt? I could patch the roof the rain is coming, I think, urging the stranger in my mind, Come on, get out of here quick!
He drops the roll in a pit between the piles, looks around as if reconsidering, waves his hand, and climbs back into the car. A few minutes later the engine snarls and the SUV disappears into the night.
Finally, I exhale, slipping into work clothes.
I pull on huge rubber boots and step out. Dawn is already brightening; the air smells of pine. I recall a clearing over the hill where mushrooms growworth checking in the morning.
I head to the spot where the man left the roll, expecting a strip of felt or thick plastic. Instead I find a neatly rolledup carpet on the ground, the kind that once dressed a wealthy manor.
Wow a traditional English tapestry, I think. Beautiful and heavy. Too bad it isnt for roofing, I mutter, then add, Maybe Ill take it? Folded in half it could make a better mattress than those sawdust bags.
Excited, I rush to the roll. Its too heavy to lift, so I pull an edge to unroll it. Then I hear a faint moan.
Ive seen everything in my year on the streets, but my knees shake as I step closer and call out,
Whos there?
Silence, then another whimper and a barely audible female voice,
Its me Agnes Whitfield
With effort I tug the carpets edge and finally free the woman. She drops out, struggling to turn, and moans softly.
Hold on, Ill help you! I shout, rushing to her.
When the carpet lies flat, a small, thin woman in sensible clothes lies on the ground, a bruise darkening her temple. She looks around, bewildered.
Well, where have you taken me? To a landfill? Like this
Without a word I help her to my feet and lead her to the cottage. I set her in a chair, change into clean clothes, and watch her sob quietly as the reality of being rescued sinks in.
She whispers, Im alive He tried to bury me alive and even ruined his prized tapestry
I boil water, pull herbs from the cupboard, brew a strong tea and set a mug before her.
Im Eleanor Clarke, she says, A former English literature teacher.
Are you a girl? she asks, eyeing my short haircut and the mens work clothes.
Yes, it just happened that way, I sigh. I came to the city hoping to work as a governess, but at the station I was robbedbag, cash, documents all gone.
Why didnt you go to the police? she asks sharply.
I did, but they told me to sort things through the embassy. Consular fees, paperwork I have nothing.
She studies me, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.
Is there really no help? she asks. I dont know any services. I shrug. Now tell me, how did you end up in that carpet?
She shudders, tears spilling again.
Thats life for you How did it come to this
I mutter under my breath, Oh, why did I ask
She wipes her eyes, straightens, and looks at me with something like irritation.
Why should I help you? Do you even know who I am? When I get out, Ill cause a scandal he wont forget! And youhow can anyone live like this?
I lower my gaze, ashamed of my rags, my hut that now feels like a palace compared to the carpets contents.
She finishes her tea, inhales deeply, and as if speaking to an invisible man, says, Its alright Ill reach you She raises a clenched fist as if the offender stands before her.
Outside, dawn breaks. The first sunbeams pierce the tiny hut, lighting dust motes.
Eleanor, have you been here long? Do you know the way to the A1? she asks, standing slowly.
Of course, I reply. Will you escort me? she commands rather than asks.
She steps out; the morning air is cold and Im only in a thin wool suit.
Take a jumper or a coat, I suggest, but she wrinkles her nose, I wont freeze. Just get me to the road.
The road isnt far, I say, walking beside her. How will you manage that injury?
If you want to live, youll learn to cope, love. Keep moving; dont hold me back, she says, leaning on my arm.
On the way she mutters, What have they done here? Cut down the forest, abandon it. No new plantings, nothing left. Its disgusting!
We reach the A1 quickly. She nods, thanks me, and lets go of my hand.
Well then, little Samantha. From here on youre on your own. Ill try to help you.
I turn back, thinking, What a peculiar woman. She walks like a lady of the manor, voice firm and confident. Either a businesswoman or a former boss. It matters not now. If she helps, Ill be grateful for life.
Back at the cottage I tend to the stove, brew tea, pull flour from the pantry and begin making flatbreads. I pour boiling water over the dough, salt it, roll it with a bottle and fry it on an old tray.
This will taste good, I think, watching the breads brown.
Just as the breads finish, the door bursts open. Agnes Whitfield stands in the doorway, trembling from the cold, face pale, hands clutching her side.
Samantha, help
I grab her arm, seat her on the bench, and she curls up, groaning, It hurts, hurts I cant starve, cant stay out in the cold! And the drivers! Not one stopped, except one. I told him, Take me to Brighton! and he asked, How will you pay? Grandma, do you understand? Who am Inothing!
She sobs, and I hand her half a stillwarm flatbread.
Is that from expired stock? she asks.
No, just tossed away. Sometimes bugs get into the flourthen I sift it, pour boiling water over it. It turns out almost homemade and tasty.
Well, you surprise me! she says, quieting. I havent seen anything like this in a hundred years and I never want to again.
Youre almost ninety, arent you? I venture.
Almost. And now? You cant get to the city from here. At home theres no home for me. Only that scoundrel who dumped me like a sack of sand.
Youre not going to walk, are you? I ask. That would be too hard.
At that moment a familiar SUV pulls up outside, the same one that delivered the carpet. I realise its the same man.
Aunt Martha, quiet! I whisper. Hes back!
She raises an eyebrow, but I already have her seated, knees pinned, and whisper, Dont make a sound! He might hear.
She shivers, but stays still. The man circles the rubbish heaps, looks toward the cottage and heads our way. I press a finger to my lips, then help Agnes down into the cellar, close the lid with plywood and wait.
When theres a knock, I take a deep breath and open the door. A tall, welldressed man stands there, his expression as if the world beneath him is beneath him.
Good afternoon, he says, looking disdainfully at me. You live here?
Something like that, I reply, keeping calm.
And at night too? he continues. Have you seen anything odd? Found anything strange?
I put on an innocent face. What did you lose? I ask, as if clueless.
He scratches his head. Lost? You could say that So you spent the night here?
Yes, I said so.
And you didnt notice anything strange last night?
No, I answer, steadying my voice. Only the dogs didnt bark as usual. Otherwise, all quiet.
He studies me, then turns and goes back to his car, glancing at the cottage. I watch him until he leaves, then open the cellar hatch.
Agnes, still wincing, climbs out. She holds her side but no longer weepsonly fury.
Unbelievable! He came back for me Scoundrel! But you, Samantha, youre a good girlsaved my life twice!
So who is he to you, Agnes? I ask, unable to hold back.
My soninlaw, a nasty sort! My daughter died, and he now wants my share. I told him long ago he wont get a penny. Neither he nor his new fiancée!
She speaks as if her soninlaw stands before her. I left all the inheritance to my grandson. That greedy man gets nothing but what he earned himself: a business, cars, a house She laughs bitterly. But it isnt enoughhe wants to ruin my name too.
I listen, stunned by the wealth and greed I have only read about. By my standards, a man of that fortune should be calm, but here betrayal, danger, even an attempted murder loom.
My husband and I built an extraction company. We had government contracts, overseas property, yachts, a private plane. This soninlaw would have squandered it all if not for my grandson. Hes a proper manager. I know the business is safe.
So he wanted you to leave him something too? I guess.
Of course! After my wife died he tried to marry a young lady, wanted to send me to France so I wouldnt interfere. My youngest daughter keeps inviting me, but I cant stand the Germans. My grandson lives in England. Id go to him if not for this scoundrel. He took me, dumped me in a carpet at the dump.
I look at her with sympathy. Dont worry, Agnes. If you give me your grandsons address, Ill get there. He must know where you are.
Her eyes light up. Really? Oh, thank you! But theres a problempeople like me arent allowed to see him. Security will call the police straight away.
Then lets play another game, I smile. Youll wear my clothes, and Ill go to him instead of you.
She doesnt object. She discards her wool suit, changes into a long skirt and a loose sweater. I slip into her clothes; she nods approvingly. It suits you! If only you had heels, you could go to a party!
I have a pair, I say, grabbing shoes from the chest. Not my size, but theyll do.
While I finish the preparations, Agnes writes a note, her hand firm and confident:
James will recognise me. Let him take me away. Then well deal with that Richard properly!
Before I leave, I hug her. Take care, Agnes. Watch the windows, lock the door. If anyone comesgo straight to the cellar and hide deep.
Yes, commander! she smiles.
I step onto the road toward the city. Cars rush past, paying no mind to the lone figure in someone elses suit. Suddenly brakes squeal behind me.
Need a lift? a driver asks from a small saloon car. To the city?
I turn; a young man with a soft southern accent sits behind the wheel. I greet him in my native tongue, Fellow countryman?
Of course! He hops out. How did you end up here?
Long story, I sigh, handing him the note. I need to deliver this. Can you help?
He reads it, whistles, Its a stretch, but Im always happy to help a fellow Englishwoman.
I climb in, pulling on the unfamiliar shoes. Theyre huge, so Ive been walking barefoot, I joke.
He smiles and drives off.
On the way I tell him everythinghow I found Agnes, hid her, and that her soninlaw could return at any moment. He listens, mostly silent, offering occasional comments.
We pull up at a modest cottage. The driver, Tom, whistles again. Your acquaintances live well!
Theyre not acquaintances, I reply. Theyre salvation.
I press the intercom. A female voice answers after a moment, Whos there?
Eleanor sent me. A letter from Agnes Whitfield.
The gate opens. A tall young man in glasses rushes out. Whats wrong with grandma? Why isnt she calling?
Shes alive, I say quickly. But shes in danger. The sooner you get her, the better.
James nods, runs to his garage, jumps into his car and speeds onto the highway.
So shes in the city?
At the dump, in the hut, I answer. Her soninlaw dumped her there in a carpet. We hid, but he might come back.
James thinks for a moment. I left because my uncle said grandma flew to France. He showed me a plane ticket. I didnt believe him. Her number went dead. I felt something was wrong.
We merge onto the motorway. In the distance the landfills grey heaps loom, the cottage a smoldering silhouette. I gasp, Faster! Thats Agnes!
The roof begins to collapse. James shouts for me to wait, then darts toward the house. Flames crackle, the stove topples, and the roof caves in.
I hit the ground, covering my face. Rainlight, colddrips onto the fire. James stands nearby, silently saying goodbye to the old woman. I mourn the stranger who in these days became almost family, watching my shabby shack turn to ash.
Through the roar of flames and the rains patter a faint voice calls, Samantha! Eleanor! Open up quickly!
We rush toward the sound, finding a hidden opening behind the fence covered by an old iron sheet. We pry it aside and see Agness dirty but breathing face on a set of wooden steps, barely holding on.
James! My grandson dont cry! Her hoarse voice carries strength. Nothing went as he thought. That bastard got nothing!
It turns out Richard returned, doused the hut with petrol and set it alight. Agnes saw him through a cracked window and fled into the cellar. When the floor gave way she fell into the secret passage she herself once discovered, escaping the sudden blaze.
Tears spill from my eyesemotions I havent felt since losing my papers, money, hope.
Agnes grasps my hands. Dont cry, child! Youre coming with us! You owe us a debtIll pull you out of poverty. As long as I live, youll be safe.
At her grandsons house she freshens up, showers, makes a few calls. An hour later she announces, James, everything will be ready at the consulate tomorrow at ten. Youll take Samantha there; I have the contract. First, the girl must be dressed properly. YouTogether they boarded the train, leaving the smoldering ruins behind, their hearts hopeful for the fresh start that awaited them.
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