I Thought I'd Never Forget

It was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday.

Margaret Bloom, 74, retired librarian, punctual to the minute, lover of lemon tea and jigsaw puzzles, hadn’t so much as gotten a parking ticket in her life. Her days were quiet loops of routine—morning walks with her neighbour’s poodle, a brisk read of the paper, and, if she was feeling adventurous, a call-in to the local radio trivia hour. No one would look at Margaret and think: felon.

She had lived in the same modest red-brick cottage in Westover for over fifty years. A widow of twenty, her husband Harold had passed in his sleep, the way some kind-hearted souls in stories do. Margaret had found solace in books, letters, and the company of her own gentle, precise mind. The neighbours adored her; the postman brought her extra stamps for her collection; the local children sometimes stopped by to help with her garden. Her life, while unassuming, was one built on the bedrock of trust and community.

But that morning, something felt off. She couldn’t find her favourite cardigan, the cornflower-blue one with the pearly buttons. The tea tasted slightly metallic. Her slippers, arranged at their usual 45-degree angle, seemed shifted. And—as she later described to Officer Dewey—"I had the strangest feeling someone had rearranged my tomatoes."

Nevertheless, she soldiered on. Tuesday was market day, and the grocer’s shelves promised a wealth of small indulgences. The grocery store had a buy-one-get-one deal on fig jam, which Margaret considered both an extravagance and a necessity. She donned her shawl, found an acceptable substitute for the missing cardigan, and walked the two blocks to Coopers Market, her small purse tucked under one arm like a Victorian lady prepared for high tea.

The store was bustling with the usual crowd: Mrs. Pritchard arguing with the butcher over fat ratios, young mothers comparing baby food brands, and two elderly gentlemen debating the merits of Italian over Greek olives. Margaret smiled, nodding to acquaintances and pausing at the preserves aisle.

There it was: a glistening pyramid of fig jam, two-for-one. She carefully selected two jars, checking the expiration dates like a connoisseur.

Somewhere between the produce and the checkout, she grew distracted. The cashier was a new boy, jittery, with a constellation of piercings and a surprisingly rich baritone. His name tag read "Tristan," and he seemed vaguely afraid of Margaret.

They struck up a tentative conversation about the crossword in the Herald. Margaret had solved it in eight minutes that morning and offered a few clues. She paid for her items with exact change, as always, and left the store with the quiet satisfaction of a life well-lived.

Only when she reached her car did she see it:

A third jar of fig jam.

Unpaid, unscanned, nestled between the kale and the eggs like a stowaway.

Margaret stared. Her heart, usually calm as a metronome, began to thunder. The fig jam leered back, syrupy and unapologetic.

"Oh my stars," she whispered. She looked around, but no one was watching. No alarms rang. No footsteps rushed after her.

She could have turned around. Explained. It was clearly a mistake, and she was well-known. But something inside her—something long dormant—rebelled. "I'm tired," she thought. "I made it to 74 without a blemish. Maybe it's time."

She got in the car and drove home.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She dreamt of sirens and shadowy interrogations. The fig jam jar sat on the counter, quietly accusatory. In the morning, she attempted to return it anonymously—dropped it in the store’s donation basket with trembling hands. But it was too late.

A week later, the letter came. Cream envelope. Typed address. Inside, a polite but firm note from the store's loss prevention department:

*"Dear Ms. Bloom,

During a recent review of surveillance footage, it was noted that an item—a jar of Coopers Special Reserve Fig Jam—was not scanned during your checkout on Tuesday, 10:32 AM. We understand that errors happen. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to resolve this matter discreetly."*

Margaret stood very still. Then she did the only logical thing: she fled.

To Brighton.

She packed a suitcase—modest clothing, her favourite hand cream, a duffel bag of puzzles, and the jam jar. She left a note for her neighbour, Mrs. Green, saying she was taking a brief seaside holiday. By evening, she had checked into a modest inn overlooking the cliffs. The room smelled of lavender and distant salt. That night, she sat by the window, smearing contraband jam onto dry toast, her heart pounding with the thrill of criminality. She felt... alive.

At breakfast the next morning, the innkeeper—a stern woman named Edith with a penchant for floral aprons—offered Margaret a selection of teas.

"Do you have lemon verbena?" Margaret asked.

"Of course."

She sipped it, watching the sea turn from grey to silver.

She began writing postcards under her new name, Clara Worthing:

Dearest Madeleine, the sea is restorative. The jam here is ghastly. Too sweet, and never fig. I suppose that’s Brighton for you. Yours, Clara.

In the days that followed, Margaret began to reinvent herself. She started wearing wide-brimmed hats and took long solitary walks. She mailed dozens of cards:

Brighton is awash with mediocre marmalade. One forgets how dear a proper fig jam is. I do miss it terribly. —Clara.

And another:

A young man followed me today. Or perhaps he was simply lost. Still, unsettling. I clutched my handbag like a duchess guarding secrets. The thrill is not entirely unpleasant. Yours, ever slightly paranoid—Clara.

The man appeared again in the bookshop. Ordinary in every way—grey coat, polite smile—but Margaret’s instincts, honed over decades of cataloguing fiction and nonfiction alike, told her something was amiss.

Then came Thursday. A man in a sensible beige suit appeared at the inn—sharp-eyed and cheerful.

"Detective Inspector Merriweather," he said, flashing a badge that looked more like a librarian's card than police credentials. "I'm hoping you can help me find someone."

Margaret offered him tea.

He described a woman of her age and height, perhaps travelling alone. There had been no formal charges, just a community eager to see the matter resolved.

"We don’t want to cause a fuss. Just make sure she’s alright. People worry."

Margaret listened, nodded, and promised to keep a lookout.

When he left, she packed again.

This time she went inland—to a village known for its antique fairs and book festivals. She rented a small room above a bakery and took to attending mystery readings in the town square. People knew her as Miss Worthing, a retired archivist. She began sketching, took up calligraphy, and once even signed up for a fencing class.

Yet in every new place, she would spot fig jam.

A chalkboard menu: Fig and Goat Cheese Tartlets.

A market sign: Imported Turkish Figs. Jam Special: 3 for 2.

A street mural: a jar labelled FIGMENT.

Each one is a quiet reminder. Each one a whisper: "Remember who you were."

She began collecting lids. She told herself it was for art, but she arranged them in circles, like a mandala of regret.

Months passed. Margaret moved from town to town, never staying long enough to arouse suspicion. Her story grew richer: a daughter in Canada, an ex-husband who ran off with an opera singer, a youthful career in espionage. The jam jar travelled with her, now empty, now filled with wildflowers or pens.

One day, seated in a quiet cafe with a warm scone and the latest Christie novel, she heard someone mention Westover.

"Oh, the town with that jam thief? What was her name? Mildred? No—Margaret. Can you imagine?"

She chuckled softly. "Sounds like quite the character."

She mailed one final postcard:

Thinking of returning. My garden may have become wild without me. Perhaps it's time. Or perhaps not. There’s still a jar of plum jam here that requires careful examination. —C.

And so she remained: an enigma wrapped in twinsets and fig jam, always a step ahead, always looking over her shoulder.

The headlines would never read "Grandma on the Run." But in the dusty chapters of her once-uneventful life, Margaret Bloom would always remember that Tuesday.

The day she discovered how easy it was to get lost—and how good it felt, just once, to not ask for directions.