Beginnings & Endings |h.s.|

three

I have a question for you beautiful humans - would you like me to give an image for who I depict Margaret to look like, or not? Sometimes I feel if better to leave the imagery of the characters up to my readers' imaginations, and only provide written features. What would you like?

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"Breadsticks! Get your breadsticks here. Only 2 pence for a bundle," Margaret exclaimed loudly, repeating herself multiple times as she turned her head from side to side, alerting the customers on the bustling street of London's busiest market of her goods.

Margaret was tired. It was her first day of work, where she would be selling her baked goods to the public. Johnny, her new landlord and manager had requested that she begin with selling only breadsticks, to determine how well they would sell. She had risen early this morning, around three hours prior to the sun rising, to begin baking her breadsticks. Margaret intended to do well, after all, her survival was on the line, and so she spent her morning meticulously organizing and baking away, ensuring her breadsticks were of the highest standard, fresh and warm. She had proceeded to set up her stall as she awaited the rising of the bread, attempting to paint the walls of the wooden stall with the red paint she had found in the basement of Johnny's tenant building. The man had explained to Margaret that she was free to roam the basement for any resources she may need to better her stall in the market. Amongst them, she found a tub of red paint that was beginning to dry, some scrap pieces of cardboard and a glass milk cartoon container, which she decided would come in handy to hold her breadsticks bundles together.

Nevertheless, as tired as she may have been, Margaret continued to excitedly market her breadsticks as the customers moved up and down the street, from stall to stall, their woven baskets filled with the market's variety of goods. Knowing she not only had to pay six pence to her landlord by the end of this week, but have enough money left over to support herself with food to eat, and perhaps a new dress or two for work, she had a goal in mind, and that was to sell minimum of five bundles of breadsticks a day.

After a few hours of time had past, Margaret began to realize that providing for herself was not going to be as easy as she had assumed just this morning. She had only managed to sell two breadsticks so far, and with each hour that passed, the freshness of the bread grew weaker, making it less appealing to the public. The British dream that the newspapers sold was harder to achieve than ever, now with the war becoming rife globally. She was, however, desperate, and continued trying her very best to market her goods.

Unbeknownst to Margaret, as she continued her imploring in all directions, attempting to draw in customer after customer, she was being observed by a curious young man. Down the alleyway to her far right, there was a young man leaning against the soot-covered brick wall. Those who walked passed him would not give him a second glance, seeing as though he was dressed much the same as all the other men around the market - day-old trousers covered with dust and a matching blazer over a creased, button-up shirt adorned his figure. A gingham patterned newsboy cap sat atop his head. This is the way the young man preferred his life to be, hidden from the public eye.

The young man had made a habit of going on daily walks through Covent Garden Market, using the time to be alone with his thoughts and embrace the life of the commoners he was surrounded by. When he returned home, the young man could no longer pretend to be invisible, he had a status to uphold. However, out here amongst the crowds of town folk going on about their lives, trying to survive, he felt as though he could be normal. If only for a fleeting moment.

The young man kept his eyes on Margaret's petite figure, her golden brown locks swaying over the curve of the dress' laces on her back as the wind caught each ringlet. If the sun was not hidden behind the clouds today, he could have sworn the sunlight against her hair would have sparked a fire, the golden tinges so bright they still shone in the greying weather.

He continued to watch as the market's customers walked passed her stall, completely ignoring her attempts to sell them her breadsticks. He was curious, not only about why the town's folk were passing by this young lady so rudely, but he had heard her voice as she repeated the words, "Breadsticks! Get your breadsticks here. Only 2 pence for a bundle," and he easily picked up on the influence of an accent seeping through. He wanted to know where she was from and what on earth she was doing working in this scruffy market place in the middle of the busiest town in Great Britain.

The young man had an internal debate with himself, all the while still leaning against the wall which had now let its soot mark his once-clean blazer. If he were to go interact with the young lady with the peculiar accent, he risked being noticed for who he truly was, and whilst this made no difference to him in particular, he was subconsciously well aware of the trouble this would cause for his family name. On the other hand, the young lady's accent was strong and suggested to him that she was a foreigner, and a fresh one at that. If that were the case, would the young lady even know who she was talking to if they were to engage in conversation?

With fleeting thoughts on both sides of the scale, the young man eventually made a choice. Whether or not the choice was a good one, he was soon to find out, as he pushed himself off the wall and began walking in the direction of the badly painted stall labeled "breadsticks for sale."

"Hi, I'd like to buy some breadsticks."

Margaret's head snapped over to her right at the sound of a husky voice, where she was met with a young man who adorned a set of kind eyes. She noticed the flicker of something in them, and it almost came to light as pity, before she shook the feeling off. How could this individual feel pity for her, when no facts about her life were laid out on her sleeve. Despite being a foreigner, there was no way of anybody other than Johnny, her landlord and business manager, knowing that she was a struggling, young, eighteen-year-old woman desperate to support herself.

Margaret was unaware that she had gotten lost in her thoughts until she heard a muffled cough coming from the young man who stood before her.

"My apologies, Sir," Margaret said quickly. The hint of embarrassment as clear as day in the pink tint now littering her cheeks and nose. "2 pence a bundle," she continued.

With a nod, the young man opened his blazer's two buttons, digging in the inner pocket for the coins to pay for the breadsticks. As he felt around for the coins, he felt a shift in pressure on his right shoulder before it disappeared, and followed again once more. He looked up from his blazer pocket to see the young lady in front of him with her eyes and her gentle hand on his blazer's shoulder, dusting off the soot that left a prominent dirt mark.

It became clear to the young man that when he had looked up, he must have had a strong look of shock evident on his face as the petite lady stood backwards, retreating her hand and stating a firm "I'm sorry. You had some dirt on your jacket."

The young man blinked, handed her the coins he owed and mumbled a brief  "thank you," while grabbing the breadsticks and walking away all within a three second period.

Margaret was left slightly taken aback, but had come across such a variety of people today that she assumed this bluntness was part of the British culture. She was so grateful for the purchase, but thought nothing more of the man other than him being a helpful customer and she continued on, hoping to sell some more of her breadsticks before the sun set.

The young man was left with even more questions than he had at the beginning of his interaction. This young lady - a complete stranger - had treated him so kindly, helping him to avoid humiliation that may have come from being in public with a dirty set of clothing. As he continued walking in the opposite direction to her stall, he realized that in his focus on her act of kindness, he had not asked her where she was from and the accent she adorned remained a mystery.

On the young man's walk home, two young boys sat on a stump, with their legs crossed in front of them, a cardboard sign in their hands with the words "Hungry, Please help," written in thick, black ink. The young man walked towards them, handed over his bundle of breadsticks and continued on his way home.