Short Fiction
So Do We
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So Do We follows a group of women who show up, every week, to a free food and clothing table on an ordinary suburban street. It's a small story about big things — goodwill, dignity, and what it means to keep turning up.
So Do We
The women carry tubs, supermarket bags, and water bottles glossy with condensation, straight out of someone's fridge. It's early afternoon and blisteringly warm; like you've stepped into a fan-forced oven.
Someone jokes about sunscreen. Someone else reminds them to put the sunscreen in the car, not on the table where it will be forgotten.
Marion unfolds the trestle legs of a table and presses down hard until they lock. She does this every week, even though the table belongs to the council and never wobbles. Habit.
She checks the time on her phone and then slides it into the back pocket of her cool grey linen pants.
"Same spot as last week?" she asks.
"Yes," Val replies. "Unless another group turns up,"
They line up the bags end to end on the pavement behind them. One group is for pantry staples: colourful packs of cereal, long-life milk, pasta and ruby-red sauce jars. Then there are the crates overflowing with unsold crusty bread and sweet bakery goods that Val collected yesterday. Their comforting aroma blankets the hot, still air.
Sunny, yellow bananas with sticky supermarket labels sit next to crates of hearty tins of soup. A tub of icy blue plastic water bottles is within easy reach. Val helps Marion split last-minute donations amongst the standard bags, everything from Tim Tams to instant coffee and muesli bars.
Most of the food is donated. People want to help, but they often don't know how. Doing this makes it easy.
There are two more tubs. Packed to the brim with clothes, a colourful mess of tops and bottoms, the soft fabrics ready to go in sizes for everyone. T-shirts are sorted roughly by size; warm socks lay in bundles, paired with elastic bands. A few jackets are folded thickly. A wobbly tower of towels leans against a pile of small sleeping bags. Even in the heat, people ask for jumpers.
Rebecca, the local politician, arrives, balancing several unwieldy food parcels that spill their contents unceremoniously onto the table.
"You're all saints for being out in this. Honestly, I'm melting just walking from the car."
She hands Val an envelope with a cash donation.
"For the socks." Val nods and smiles. "Thank you!"
The Sunday ladies haven't set up anything on the tables yet. They never do. It just becomes chaos if everything is out at once. You literally learn not to lay all your cards on the table.
Across the street, a lanky older man leans against a low brick wall, barefoot, eyes closed, oblivious to the heat. A woman brushes past him, heading towards the chemist before it closes.
The man slowly unfurls, steadies himself, then sits down again.
Shortly, the chemist's door flies open. Clutching a small white paper bag, a woman emerges blinking into the heat. The pharmacist turns the sign to Closed, his face worn as the door clicks shut.
"Shops are closing," Val says, checking the clipboard. "They'll be here soon. Rosters are full today. That's always good."
The others arrive now; parking is easier once businesses shut up shop for the weekend.
Anne carries a thermos; it's never too hot for a cuppa. Ruth brings extra towels she bought herself after they ran out two weeks in a row.
People drift out from the cooler parts of the street. Some in groups, supporting each other. Some alone, sitting back to watch before approaching.
Gradually the normal street becomes a noisy, hot, bustling hub of activity and exchange.
Denise arrives last, late and breathless, curls escaping from her bright pink headband.
"Sorry," she says, "I couldn't find the bag with the gloves anywhere."
"We don't need gloves," Anne points out.
"Still," Denise said, "I had them... somewhere."
Val tapes the sign to the table.
Free Food and ClothingEvery Sunday3pm–5pm
One corner peels. She smooths it flat.
They stand back. It looks generous. It always does at the start.
"Right," Val says. "Let's do this."
People drift over. A nod here, a smile there. Marion recognizes them. How they walk, who they are with, who likes to have a chat, and who waits at a distance.
She pours juice into a paper cup and slides it across the table.
"Could I have two?" the woman's face crinkles into a question. "My sister can't leave the baby. It's hot."
She nods toward a woman rocking a small bundle to her chest in the shade; a tiny hand clutching the woman's blue shirt.
"Of course," Marion says.
The space becomes crowded, busy and noisy. Anne laughs loudly at something Val says. Ruth is thanked three times for the socks she bought.
Denise unpacks and folds jumpers. Even in this heat, people ask for jumpers. And for sleeping bags.
A man in a clean hoodie takes two loaves of bread, then hesitates.
"Just one, please," Val says gently.
"Oh, right," he smiles, embarrassed, and puts one back.
Denise watches him go.
Anne watches him too.
"You know, some of them come every week."
Not accusing. Just stating.
Val does not look up. "So do we."
Anne shrugs. "I'm just saying."
Marion glances at the soup crate, already half-empty. She makes a mental note to pack more next time.
I'd rather run out. What's the point of taking it home? She mumbles to no-one.
At some point, Denise leans in close.
"Can I ask something?" She whispers.
Marion keeps her eyes on the table.
"Sure."
"Do you ever wonder ..." Denise trails off, glancing at the crowd. "I'm not saying they shouldn't be here. It's just, we don't have an endless supply of food."
Marion sighs, her mind drifting back to when she worked in the community. And to her own uncertainties.
"Change always seems to need heaps of money, and yet, here we are doing what we're doing with a table and a group of people who care. Things happen. Last week Rebecca found a home for a woman who's been in emergency housing for over a year. What a fantastic thing that is."
Denise nods, not fully convinced but not disagreeing either. She puts more men's clothes on the table.
Behind them, Anne hands out another bottle of water. It's not as cold now.
"Well, we need to pace the groceries," she says.
"We always do," Val agrees.
A man steps forward. "Got a jacket in medium?"
Denise straightens. "Let me check."
The afternoon presses on. Someone complains about aching feet. Roster changes are discussed.
"Same time next week?" Anne asks.
"Yes," Val says automatically. "And the same place."
Marion watches the contents of the bread crate shrink. She thinks of the loaf at home, still unopened.
By a quarter to five, the group has thinned.
"Not bad," Val says, ticking items off her sheet. "We stretched it."
It's time to pack up.
Anne pours the last of the hot water from her thermos onto the tiny grass strip.
"Same time next week?" Anne asks.
"Yes," Val agrees automatically. "And the same place."
One loaf remains, slightly squashed, corner torn. Denise turns it over in her hands.
"Anyone waiting?"
Marion scans the street. A man sits against the brick wall, watching the proceedings.
"He has been here for most of the afternoon," she says.
Denise hesitates. Then she does something she hasn't done all day. She walks around the table and approaches the man.
He looks up, startled.
"Hi," Denise says. "We're packing up."
"Oh," he says, "that's okay."
She holds out the loaf. "Would you be able to use this?"
"I got one earlier."
"I remember."
A pause. Honest. Awkward.
He shrugs. "I won't say no."
She hands it to him.
"Thanks."
He doesn't rush away. He doesn't explain.
Denise returns empty-handed.
Val folds the sign into her bag. "See you next week?"
"Yes," Denise replies.
Marion watches Denise turn the bread crate upside down, tapping it once so the crumbs fall free.
Denise doesn't brush them away. She just looks at them, then stacks the crate.
When they leave, the footpath looks ordinary again.
No sign.
No table.
No trace, except for a faint scatter of crumbs at the edge of the shade.
Marion steps over them carefully.
She doesn't know why.
