Bread Lady: a short story

Bread Lady: a short story

The flour slipped between Melody’s fingers, cool as powdered silk and familiar as an old friend. She made a well at its centre, then picked up the jug of foaming yeast and gave it a stir. She bent to breathe its seaweed scent before adding the liquid to the bowl.

As she worked the mix with her hands, she let her mind drift to a kitchen-long-ago where she’d watched her mother do the same. She felt again the chipped edge of the Formica-topped stool digging behind her knees, and her mother’s engagement ring—taken off for bread-making to keep its diamond chips clean—warm as a sun-baked pebble in her fist. Melody had been in charge of the radio, turning up the volume for Mum to sing along whenever Elvis played. The silence in her own kitchen was broken only by the ticking of the clock.

When the dough was ready, Melody set it on the window ledge to rise. She rubbed her wrists—kneading was murder for her arthritis—and looked out at the leaden sky. It hung low over the rooftops, lightening only where it touched the sea at the horizon. The streetlights along the promenade already glowed orange, their sensors triggered by the bleak February afternoon.

The bag lady was back again, slumped on the bench at the corner, where the road turned downhill. Strange, Melody thought, how small her head seemed compared with her clothing-swaddled body. Perhaps inside she was tiny, like the last in a set of Russian dolls. Melody closed the curtains against the gloom, suddenly weary. She’d drop the bread round tomorrow. She crossed to her bedroom and opened her jewellery box. She sat for a while, the air around her growing salty with the tang of leavening bread. The ring stayed cold in her hand.

As she closed the front door the next morning, Melody tightened her scarf against the wind’s bite. The sun was pale behind the clouds and the sea steely, studded here and there with passing container ships. She gripped her basket and turned towards the brow of the hill. 

The bag lady still sat on the bench, looking out across the water. She had piled her carriers on the seat beside her. As Melody grew closer, she watched the woman reach into the nearest to pull out a plastic-wrapped loaf. She tore a corner from the first slice—a crust without crustiness, the kind that tastes like fog—and put it in her mouth. As she chewed, she shredded the rest in her lap; shrieking seagulls wheeled above her head.

When Melody was just a few feet away, the woman scattered bread across the pavement. 

“Morning, my babies,” she cooed. The gulls flapped at her feet and on the bench, their calls raucous and frantic. Melody hesitated, then crossed to the other side of the road. She pulled her hat low, but still she saw the woman’s eyes narrow as she passed.

Katy and her mother, Paula, lived in one of the brightly painted terraces that lined the steep hill in dolly mixture rows. 

“Hello, Bread Lady.” Katy had to tiptoe to reach the latch. She still clung to it, dangling, as the door swung open. 

Paula stood behind, drying her hands on a tea-towel. “Melody, Katy – not Bread Lady. Auntie Melody.”Melody smiled. The child had a point. Tone deaf, Melody had never lived up to Mum’s optimistic name choice. And she certainly wasn’t Katy’s—or anyone’s— aunt. The title was honorary, bestowed out of kindness after a few chance meetings in the park. 

“I made a cottage loaf. I thought Katy might like the shape.” She held out her basket.

“That’s so kind! You really shouldn’t—”.

“It’s no trouble. I’d never eat two, but it’s not worth making less.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Will you come in for a cuppa?” 

Paula’s smile looked warm enough. Melody hesitated, then thought of the bag lady and her flock of scavenging bird-friends. She shook her head. “Oh no—I was just passing.” She was already at the bottom of the steps as Katy called goodbye. 

Tuesday was her next baking day. On a whim, Melody doubled the quantities; the bounty made her heady. She hummed as she worked, but as she set the bread to cool, fear fluttered in her chest. Too late now—she couldn’t let it go to waste. She wrapped the loaves in greaseproof paper and put two in her basket. 

The bag lady’s carriers spilled open around her, revealing bright flashes of cloth, like petals unfurling to the ashen sky.

“Hello.” Melody forced a nervous smile as she drew close. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve brought you some bread.” 

The woman’s light eyes flickered. She was younger than Melody had expected, her skin leathery and threaded with veins but not yet sagging into jowls.

“Supermarket stuff doesn’t taste of much and—well, I thought you might like a change.” Melody reached into her basket and took out a loaf. “Crusty white.”  

The bag lady lifted a grimy hand. “Thank you.” Her voice rasped with the rust of night-time disuse. She put the bread in her lap and turned away. Greaseproof paper fluttered in the wind. 

Melody took a breath. She set her basket down and tugged away her glove. “I’m Melody,” she said. 

The woman’s eyes snapped around. She cocked her head to one side, looking at Melody’s hand for what seemed an age.

“Iris.”  Her handshake was no more than a dry murmur of skin. 

The gulls began to scream as Melody turned into Paula’s street. She looked back to see Iris scattering soft white crumbs over the pavement, and smiled. Her gloveless hand was still warm as she pressed the bell.

© Caroline Ward Vine 2018