In From The Cold
written by: Hanna von Randow
It was snowing in London. Not the perfectly symmetrical flakes that we cut from crisp white paper in art class at primary school, but clumpy blobs, already a bit dirty, having made their way through the smog before landing on the roads and footpaths. Slush might have been a more accurate description, as they formed a new terrain of treacherously slippery hills and valleys, pocked by hundreds of grubby footprints, tyre prints, and the odd paw print. Regardless, it was a freezing cold day and, without exception, everyone was wrapped against the bite of the wind which tore down the streets and alleyways in the surrounding areas like a junkie chasing a fix.
Maggie had woken that Saturday morning to a deathly cold flat. Her ears and nose felt disconnected from the rest of her face, and as soon as she had clambered out of bed, she’d defrosted them in the heat of the shower. Over her usual coffee and toast, she caught up with the news on her tablet, fired off a curt email to a co-worker, and completed the crossword on the Guardian website. She’d turned on the little bar heater, but it was struggling to do anything other than take the edge off, and she could feel the cold seeping through her flesh and into her bones. She needed to go somewhere warm.
After struggling into her heavy coat and winding her long, woollen scarf twice around her neck, she pulled on her gloves and boots, grabbed her handbag, and left the flat. She trotted down the winding stairs and pushed open the main door to the outside, immediately wishing she hadn’t. She wished she’d just stayed in bed, closed the door, piled on some blankets, and just bed rotted for the day, scrolling aimlessly or reading the novel she was persevering with, although she didn’t care about any of the characters. The cold was insane. It hit her like the blade of a knife, immediately numbing her face and challenging her winter wardrobe. She headed for the library. It would be warm and light and welcoming, and she’d be able to wander through its shelves, choosing stories of love and chaos, adventures and loss, miracles and fantastical creatures. And the council would be paying for the heat.
Maggie took her usual shortcut through the alleyway behind a bunch of shops. It was deserted except for a couple of weary kitchen hands drawing deeply on their vapes, weighing the cold against their need for nicotine. They didn’t even look up when Maggie trudged past them, her Wellington boots crunching and sloshing through the grey and icy mush beneath her feet. She turned the collar of her coat up, lowered her head against the wind, and marched on towards the busy road ahead. An uninvited thought started percolating and was on her lips before she could stop it. “I bet it’s all sunshine and beaches in New Zealand.” She was right, of course. In New Zealand, temperatures had reached 28 degrees, the beautiful white sand beaches glistened in the sun’s warmth as families picnicked, swam, played cricket and volleyball, parasailed, surfed, paddled, ate and drank, and basked in the glory that was Summer.
Zach, Maggie’s only child, had moved from London to New Zealand a year ago, taking with him his wife and children, Maggie’s grandchildren, who she adored. It had been a huge shock for Maggie as she negotiated the loss of them and her newly found and much-loved role of grandma. The chasm they left behind still gaped, black and consuming, a darkness she stayed busy enough to ignore, or at least stay a step ahead of. Maggie quickened her pace.
A few metres from the road, something caught her eye.
A stack of black rubbish bags sitting at a back door was moving in a way that wasn’t caused by the wind. Maggie stopped, wary. Her first thought was that someone was sleeping rough and waking, stirring. Her head prickled as she snatched a look behind her, confirming no one was around. The threat potential made her hug the other side of the alley and look anywhere but at the movement of the bags. Passing safely, she looked back and saw not a man emerging from the bags, but the mud-coloured snout of a dog. Maggie turned around and carefully approached. Judging by the size of its head, it was not a large dog, nor did it look at all vicious. The dog eyed her suspiciously, nevertheless, and retreated back into the pile of rubbish, leaving Maggie uncertain as to what to do next. Throwing caution to the considerable wind, Maggie began shifting the bags to reveal a nest of sorts, where the dog lay, curled against the cold, shivering despite its long, mud-caked coat. She made what she hoped were comforting cooing noises and crouched a little away from the dog, careful not to extend a gloved hand just yet.
Imbuing as much warmth into her voice as she could, Maggie coaxed the dog into looking at her, which it did with profoundly sad eyes. “You’re ok, sweetheart,” Maggie murmured and slowly took her glove off. She rested her hand near the dog’s head, and it sniffed her fingers gingerly. “Poor wee love,” she said softly as she rested the same hand on the dog’s too skinny body. “We need to get you somewhere warm,” she said with a determination in her voice. Unwrapping the scarf from around her neck, she gently tied it into a collar, which she slipped over the dog’s head. Slowly, she gave the scarf a soft pull, and the dog climbed shakily from its nest into the alleyway. Maggie did a quick check – four legs, no limping, eyes looked a bit vacant, but otherwise okay. Then she saw something which made her draw in a gasp of cold air. The dog’s belly was swollen with milk, and her nipples were red and engorged. It could barely stand upright. “Where are your babies, darling girl?” The dog looked up at her with the most sorrowful gaze, as if she understood Maggie’s question. Maggie moved the bags around to see if any puppies were also hiding in the pile, but found none. “Come on, little one. Let’s get you somewhere warm, shall we?” Suddenly tearful, Maggie tried to lead the dog down the alley towards the road, but she pulled against the scarf and whimpered her reluctance to follow.
Across the road ahead was a pub. Maggie hadn’t actually been inside, but she’d often stopped and looked through its windows. “The Biscuit and Chisel” sign hung outside, furiously flapping in the wind, its picture of a chisel being used to unsuccessfully break a biscuit appearing and disappearing as it swung wildly on its brackets. Maggie turned and looked at the dog, whose whole body was shaking. She bent down and scooped it up, and although it pushed against her to be let down, she determinedly made her way to the pub.
Pushing the door open, Maggie stepped inside and headed straight for the roaring fire in the hearth, which formed the centrepiece of the bar. Two older gentlemen sat playing chess in a booth close by, and the barmaid was setting up the tables with containers of cutlery, readying for the lunch crowd.
“Now what have we here?” One of the men queried. They’d left their game and had joined Maggie by the fire, where she was carefully laying the dog down on a rug.
“Where did you find it?” The older of the two asked.
“Hiding in a bunch of rubbish bags in the alley,” Maggie pointed in the direction she’d just come. The barmaid joined them now, too.
“She’s feeding. Did you find any puppies?”
“No, sadly,” Maggie replied. “It’s so cold out there.” The subtext hung in the air between the three of them.
“Well, I think this sounds like a rescue mission, don’t you, darling?” The older of the two men looked at his chess partner. Maggie looked up at them. “I’m Frankie,” Frankie said, holding out his hand, “and this is Carlos.” Maggie shook their hands.
“Sheila,” the barmaid added. “You need to warm up, love.”
“Maggie,” Maggie completed the introductions.
Frankie and Carlos had returned to their booth and were donning their coats, scarves, gloves, and hats. Ready to brace the freeze, Frankie turned to Maggie on their way out the door. “Just over there, yes?” He pointed towards the alley.
“Yes, in the rubbish,” Maggie confirmed.
Frankie retrieved his cane from the stand by the door, and he and Carlos stepped out into the road and crossed it, heading for the alleyway.
“Poor wee thing,” Sheila muttered. She disappeared into a room behind the bar and returned with a small stack of towels and a blanket. The dog was still shivering, despite the fire, so the two women did their best to dry it where they could and then cover it with the blanket. Exhausted, the dog allowed them. Sheila disappeared again and returned with some ham, which she broke into small pieces and offered to the dog. It raised its head, initially showing interest, but seemed too tired to even take the meat from Sheila’s hand. Sheila left a small plate of it by the fireside and once again disappeared, only to return with a cup of tea in each hand, one of which she handed to Maggie. The warmth of it was bliss, and Maggie eagerly sipped from her cup, feeling its heat course through her.
Frankie wasn’t one to give up easily. At the ripe old age of 84, his life had been full of adventures, some more chaotic than others, but all of them shaping who he was proud to be now. Carlos had been a lover once, when they’d both been young and bright-eyed, but after the steam had petered out, they’d somehow become closer and developed a love that surpassed that of just friends but wasn’t a romantic relationship. Carlos owned the florist shop nearby, and although he had staff, he still worked a few hours there on a Sunday, when those who knew and loved him would pop in for a chat and a catch-up.
And here they were, in the winter of their lives, ferreting around in the freezing morning in a back alleyway of London, looking for puppies. Frankie laughed at the absurdity but swung his cane around deftly parting piles of rubbish, poking in tyres and scattering any debris which may be hiding something. They’d already made their way down half of the alleyway without success, further and further from the black rubbish bags and from the likelihood of finding anything.
Carlos saw them first.
Cowering together in a little space under a stair were two tiny pups. Shaking violently, their eyes only recently having opened, they made minute mewling noises as Carlos scooped them up and tucked them inside his jacket, rebuttoning it hastily and joining Frankie.
“Look!” He said softly, revealing the pups’ wee heads.
“Oh, happy day!” Frankie beamed as the two men turned and strode back towards the Biscuit and Chisel.
Sheila had found a couple more blankets in the cupboards from when they’d lay them on the backs of the seats for customers to drape over their knees when the weather turned. She made a little basket out of them and lifted the dog into it gently, noting the animal was lighter than it ought to be. When the bell tinkled as the door opened and Carlos came bustling in, his arms wrapped around his own chest, Sheila rose to greet him.
“Puppies! Two of them!” Announced Carlos excitedly.
“Oh, wonderful!” Maggie said as Carlos unbuttoned his coat to reveal the tiny creatures. Sheila and Maggie took one puppy each and wrapped them in the towels, gently drying them off, then brought them to their mother. The dog’s eyes widened when she saw her babies, and as Sheila lifted the blanket off her, she made small sounds of what could only be described as joy. Placing each pup beside her, Sheila and Maggie stepped back and watched with amazement as they nudged and snuffled their way to their mother’s teats and began to drink.
The four of them stood around the basket like proud parents, grins on their faces and a shared warmth between them.
“She’s lucky they were still alive,” Frankie broke the silence.
“She sure was,” Carlos agreed, taking his friend’s cold hand and rubbing it vigorously. Frankie hadn’t noticed his hands had turned white. Sheila saw it too and motioned for Frankie to sit by the fire.
“Let’s get you warmed up, Frankie,” she said, pulling out a chair for him. Carlos kept a hold of his hand, massaging his white fingers until they turned a pale shade of blue, then a healthy red as the circulation returned.
“I’m ok. I’m ok. Stop fussing, would you?” Frankie smiled at Carlos.
The puppies had had their fill and now, shattered with exhaustion, they curled up with their mother and all three slept.
Maggie felt strange. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was welling up, rising through her like a tide pulling away from the shore, readying itself to crash once more. Before she could stop it, she burst into tears. Suddenly, she recognised that the scene in front of her was the most beautiful thing she’d been a part of for a very long time. Sheila gave her a small sideways hug, and Frankie and Carlos smiled a knowing smile. Maggie felt such a cacophony of emotions, crashing into and washing over her. Relief, joy, love, longing, but also connectedness, fellowship, and belonging. Sheila once more disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of steaming cups of mulled wine.
“On the house,” she said, placing the tray down gently on a table. “Cheers, queers,” she said, raising her glass to Frankie and Carlos. “Cheers, Maggie,” she said softly as Maggie took her cup and sipped from it. They all clinked cups and drank in silence for a moment before the question they were all forming made it out.
“What next?” Frankie asked.
***
Six weeks later, the Biscuit and Chisel door opened on a cold Saturday morning, and Frankie and Carlos looked up from their chess game with broadening smiles. Sheila came out from behind the bar and greeted Maggie with a hug.
“Hello, Daisy girl,” Sheila cooed, picking Daisy up and smooched her little face.
Carlos appeared beside them and scooped up the other pup. “Billy boy! I’m sure you’ve grown some since last week, you little rapscallion,” he clucked, scratching Billy under his chin.
Maggie led Tilly over to the table she was now a regular at and sat down by the hearth. Tilly sat beside her, not taking her eyes off Maggie, her tail wagging and her gleaming coat shining in the light of the fire.
- In From The Cold - June 15, 2026
