An elderly woman, Margaret, walked unhurriedly to the village shop, pondering how to stretch her money. She wanted to stock up on everything essential without wasting a penny.
Her pension was decent for those days—nearly thirty-two pounds. Plus, she had a small homestead: a garden, a vegetable patch, a cow named Daisy, and some hens. So, she managed just fine!
But the old woman hated unnecessary expenses and counted every cent. Whatever was left from her pension, she sent to the city—to her two daughters. What could she do? Both girls had tough lives. The elder one’s husband had been in an accident and was now disabled, barely able to walk. So, Beatrice worked for two—supporting their son and her ailing husband. The younger one, Claire, had three children. She stayed home with the little ones and didn’t work. Her husband’s pay was meager. They scraped by from paycheck to paycheck.
Busy with family chores, the daughters visited Margaret rarely. They came mostly for treats—pickles, jams, vegetables, fresh farm eggs. They stayed briefly with their mother, filled their bags to the brim, and returned to the urban hustle. At least they helped plant and harvest the potatoes. Well, that was something to be grateful for!
“Right, seven pounds I owe for firewood. This month, I’ll pay just two; the rest can wait. No need for grains yet—I’ve got plenty in stock, it’ll last ages. But pasta wouldn’t hurt. I’ll grab a whole bag of the cheaper kind. And don’t forget matches and lightbulbs. Otherwise, I’ll have to come back,” the old woman muttered thoughtfully to herself, not noticing the stone in her path.
“Oh, nearly fell! My own fault—should watch where I’m stepping!” The startled woman paused to catch her breath and suddenly spotted a strange object by the roadside. “What’s this now?” The nearsighted pensioner squinted, then stepped closer and realized it was a wallet.
“My goodness, what a fine one—black, leather, probably expensive. Who could have lost it here?” The old woman dithered in place, unsure what to do next. Then she glanced furtively around and slipped the find into her pocket. “Can’t just leave it on the road, can I? Anyone might pick it up. It’ll stay with me for now, and maybe the owner will turn up.”
After a few steps, she stopped again, peeked curiously into the wallet, and gasped in surprise.
“Good heavens, there’s a fortune in here! Unbelievable! One ten-pound note, another, a third. And so many fivers! Lord almighty! That’s 55 pounds in total. More than a pension and a half for me!”
There was also a small window in the wallet with a photograph of a young, beautiful blonde inserted in it. The old woman pulled out the photo and looked at the back. There was an inscription, but the handwriting was tiny, and her poor eyesight couldn’t make out a word. What a nuisance—she’d forgotten her glasses again!
The village shop was crowded. No wonder, since pensions were being handed out that day. But the shop assistant, Molly, was none too quick. The queue moved slowly, and Margaret stood lost in thought.
“Should I leave the find with Molly? She could ask around the customers. Loads of people come through in a day. Might do some good.”
She considered it, then thought better. That sly woman didn’t inspire trust.
— Hey, Margaret, what are you standing there gawking for? Come on, tell me what you want to buy! — barked the irritated shop assistant.
Snapping out of her reverie, the old woman bought what she needed, left the shop, but suddenly turned back and lingered in the corner.
— Forget something, Margaret? Come here, speak up.
— Well, I just wanted to ask…
— Need good flour? Take this one. You won’t regret it. A bit pricier, but top quality — said Molly, plonking a large pack of flour on the counter.
— I’ve got flour already. That’s not it.
— Then what? — asked the intrigued Molly.
— I wanted to ask you something.
— Out with it already! How long do I have to wait?
A long pause hung in the air. Finally, Margaret plucked up courage.
— You haven’t heard if anyone around here lost something?
— Nope, not that I know of. Why, what’s up? — Molly asked in surprise.
— Never mind, forget it — the old woman replied nervously and slipped quietly out of the shop.
Molly dashed after her.
— Wait up, Margaret, where are you off to? Find something? Tell me.
Margaret waved her off and hurried toward the road. Once home, she opened an old wardrobe, took a large casket from the shelf, hid the wallet inside, and shoved the casket under the bed.
Then, settling comfortably into her armchair, she pondered. “The poor soul’s probably searching for his money, and here it is in my casket. Maybe it wasn’t easy for him to come by. I know all about earning a crust. Worked for years myself.”
The next morning, the elderly woman headed to the shop again. She didn’t fancy asking Molly for help, but there was no other choice.
— Good morning, Molly — the pensioner greeted politely.
The shop assistant nodded curtly and carried on fussing with the goods. The old woman stood silently by the counter, waiting for Molly to deign to speak.
— Why so quiet? Say what you’re after. Here for bread?
— Well, I found a wallet on the road yesterday. Ask around the folks—maybe the owner will turn up.
— And how much money’s in that wallet?
— You’re awfully nosy, Molly. None of your business.
— Oh, Margaret, you don’t trust me — the shop assistant replied, offended. — And for no reason! Give me the wallet, and I’d sort it all out myself.
— No way, Molly. You never know…
— Fine. Not buying anything?
— No, I’m off. But do ask around, ask around.
Back home, the old woman pulled out the wallet again, recounted the money, turned the photo of the fair-haired beauty in her hands, and slid the casket back under the bed. “Well, we’ll wait a bit. Molly will spread the word around the area—maybe the owner will finally show up.”
But that day, no one came to Margaret’s, nor the next. Then, early in the morning, there was a loud banging at the door. “Who’s this at such an hour? Could it be for the wallet?”
The old woman hurried to the door, opened it, and saw the tractor driver, Tommy.
— Listen, Margaret, I… uh… for the wallet.
— Really? You say it’s yours? Who told you I have it?
— I was in the shop yesterday, and Molly told me. Said you’re looking for the owner — the tractor driver mumbled uncertainly, breathing a wave of booze over her.
— Tommy, you’re so scatterbrained. Must’ve been drunk, eh?
— Oh, don’t remind me, I’m an idiot. Meant to put it in my pocket, but missed in my cups. Then I noticed it was gone! — the crafty fellow perked up.
— What color was the wallet?
— Brown, Margaret.
— And how much money in it?
— Nearly ten pounds.
— Ah, Tommy, clearly not the wallet I found. It’s not brown, and the amount doesn’t match. So look elsewhere.
— Listen, at least lend me three quid. Need a hair of the dog. I’ll pay you back from my wages, promise.
— Off with you, quick march. The constable lives nearby. Watch it — the pensioner cut him off firmly.
— Alright, alright, I’m going — muttered the frightened Tommy and scampered from the yard.
Several days passed. The whole village heard about the find, but the owner still hadn’t appeared. As soon as Margaret stepped out, the women pounced with questions. What kind of wallet? How much money? But she just greeted them and went silently about her business.
Then an idea struck Margaret. “There’s writing on the photo. I should have put on my glasses and looked closely.” The handwriting was small but elegant and legible. So, peering hard, she read it syllable by syllable:
— To my dear ar-chi-tect Nor-man Harrington. To whom? Who is this Harrington? — the old woman frowned in puzzlement. — Archi-tect? No, architect. What words they use nowadays! Try remembering that!
The next morning, the pensioner set off on errands. She needed to go to the village hall to pay part of the firewood bill. She decided to take the photo just in case. “Who knows, they might explain this odd inscription.”
After settling the firewood, she went to the chairman.
— Listen, Harold, do you happen to know anyone called archi, archi… Oh, hang on, forgot the word.
— Archbishop, maybe? — the chairman boomed with laughter.
— Didn’t bring my glasses. Here, take it, read it — said the pensioner, pulling the photo from her pocket.
Harold took the photo, turned it over in confusion, then read the inscription.
— Architect Norman Harrington? Yes, I know him. He’s handling a project for us, building a feed complex.
— That’s it! Architect! Can’t get it right. So, where is he? Tell me quick, I need to find him urgently — Margaret rattled on impatiently.
— He’s gone back to the city.
— How do I track him down now? — the persistent pensioner pressed.
— You’re not planning a trip to the city, are you, Margaret? What’s this important business? Come on, spill it all.
— I found a wallet the other day. This photo was in it. And quite a bit of money. I want to return it soon. He’s probably worried sick, this archi… archi… Harrington, anyway.
— Hold on, old girl, don’t fret. I’ve got his phone number somewhere. We’ll call now, sort it out. Sit down, at least. Standing on those sore legs of yours — Harold said sympathetically and rummaged in his desk.
— Oh, finally — the pensioner sighed in relief and sat to rest on a chair.
The chairman pulled out a notebook, flipped through it, and soon found the number.
— Norman Nikolaevich, hello. No, not about work. Something else. Did you lose a wallet around here? Yes, yes, it’s turned up, safe and sound. Thanks to our pensioner, Margaret. When you come next week with the papers, you can pick it up.
Hearing this, the old woman fussed.
— I’ll dash home for the wallet.
— No rush, Margaret. Nikolaevich will be here next week. He’ll stop by himself — the chairman said with a smile.
— No, I don’t want strangers’ money in the house. It weighs on my mind — the elderly woman exclaimed and hurried to the door.
Less than twenty minutes later, the black leather wallet was on the chairman’s desk.
— Here, Harold, take it. See what a lovely wallet! The owner’s found at last. And you know what? Count the money yourself, alright? 55 pounds in all.
— Alright, to put your mind at ease, I’ll count. Yes, 55 pounds — Harold said cheerfully and locked the wallet in the safe in the corner with the documents.
— Thank God! Now I can relax. Time to head home.
— Off you go, Margaret, have a good rest—you’ve been rushing about, old thing. Thank you so much.
— Bye then, Harold.
As Margaret left, the chairman muttered, “Good on her. We should thank her properly.”
The elderly woman, overjoyed, practically floated home. “Thank the Lord! What a weight off my shoulders! Thank the Lord! Oh, what a fuss with that wallet. Thought I’d never sleep again.”
A few days later, a polite middle-aged man visited the honest pensioner.
— Good afternoon, Margaret. Mind if I come in for a minute?
— Come in, come in — the old woman invited warmly, guessing this was the architect Harrington.
— Oh, sorry, I’ve tracked in snow.
— No matter, sit down. I’ll make some tea.
— No, please, don’t trouble yourself. I’m leaving soon—meeting at three. I came to thank you. It’s not just the money. This wallet’s special to me as a gift. Thank you, thank you so much! — the architect said sincerely and offered her ten pounds. — Please, take it.
The woman refused politely but firmly.
— I was glad to help. But I won’t take the money. Don’t even try to persuade me.
Harrington smiled awkwardly, thanked her again, and wished her a pleasant evening.
— Wait, young man! Forgive an old woman’s curiosity. Who’s the lady in the photo? A real stunner!
— My wife, Eleanor.
— Then thank her, not me. If not for the inscription, how would I have found you?
When her next pension came, the woman went to the village hall and bumped into the chairman in the corridor.
— Hello, Margaret. Here to pay for firewood? It’s all settled for you.
— How’s that? — the old woman exclaimed in bewilderment.
— You helped someone. And he helped you! You know who I mean.
She froze for a second, then it dawned on her:
— Oh, him—the very one. Archi… archi… Dash it, forgot again.
— Yes, him. Who else?
— Give him my thanks, and you too!
Heading home, the happy pensioner smiled and murmured to herself: “What a good man, this architect Harrington.”
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