While were sorting out the sale of the flat, you can stay at the care home, her daughter said.
Martha had married very late in life. To be frank, fortune never seemed to favour her and at nearly forty, shed given up hope of ever meeting, in her estimation, a decent fellow.
Forty-five-year-old Desmond proved to be an unlikely prince. Hed been married several times before, had three children to whom, on a stern judges advice, hed handed over his flat.
So, after a few months of endlessly traipsing round rented flats, Martha had no choice but to drag her husband off to her sixty-year-old mother, Mrs. Mary Brown.
From the very moment he crossed the threshold, Desmond curled his lip and wrinkled his nose, making no secret that he took offence at the houses unusual aroma.
It reeks of must and old things in here, he muttered sourly. Could do with a good airing, if you ask me.
Mary Brown heard her son-in-laws words perfectly well but, with the patience of a saint, pretended she hadnt.
So where exactly are we meant to sleep? Desmond asked with a theatrical sigh, none too pleased with his new lodgings.
Martha began bustling around, eager to please her husband, and took her mother aside.
Mum, Desmond and I will take your bedroom, she whispered, and you can stay in the box room for a bit.
That very same day, Mrs. Brown was rather rudely shifted into the smallest, dingiest storeroom, which was hardly fit for anyone to live in.
She had to do all the heavy lifting herself, since her son-in-law flatly refused to lend a hand with her things.
From that point, life became heavy going for Mrs. Brown. Desmond complained about everything: the food, the cleaning, the colour of the wallpaper.
Above all, what he truly couldnt tolerate was the scent of age he claimed clung to the flat, an odour he insisted caused him an allergy.
Desmond would break into a series of exaggerated coughs whenever Martha appeared at the front door.
I cant go on living like this! Somethings got to give! bellowed Desmond in false outrage one day.
We cant afford to rent elsewhere, Martha replied, spreading her hands helplessly.
Ship your mother off somewhere, he grumbled, pulling a face. I can hardly breathe.
Where exactly am I supposed to send her?
Work something out! Frankly, nothings going to save this place. Best to sell the flat and buy somewhere new, Desmond declared, almost triumphant. Thats the answer! Have a word with your mother!
What am I meant to say? Martha fretted.
Use your imagination! That flat will be yours after shes gone anyway. Just speed up the process, Desmond replied breezily.
It feels a bit off…
Who matters more, her or me? I picked you up at forty, and who else would have, eh? Desmond pressed, knowing just which buttons to push. Youll wind up alone again. Whos going to rescue you next time?
Martha cast a nervous sideways glance at her husband and shuffled off to the makeshift box room where her mother hid away.
Mum, surely youre not happy living here? she began, awkwardly tentative.
Are you moving me back into my old room? Mrs. Brown asked, flustered.
No, weve got another idea. Youre planning to leave me the flat in your will, arent you? Martha said, her voice filled with hope.
Of course I am.
So why wait? Lets sell up now and get a nice place, somewhere in a good building.
Cant we just fix this one up a bit?
No, we ought to buy something bigger.
So… where do I go, love? Mrs. Browns lower lip trembled.
You can stay in a care home for the time being, Martha announced brightly, as though it would be a holiday. But its only temporary well take you home as soon as its all sorted.
Really? Mrs. Brown looked at her daughter with such hope.
Of course, Mum. Well sort the papers, renovate, and then bring you home, Martha said, clutching her mothers hand.
With little choice, Mrs. Brown trusted her and transferred ownership of the flat.
Once the paperwork was done, Desmond rubbed his hands in glee and barked, Pack up the old womans things well drop her off at the care home.
Already? Martha faltered, her conscience uneasy.
Whats the point in waiting? Ive no use for her, not even with her pension. More trouble than shes worth. Shes lived her life; now its our turn, Desmond declared, businesslike.
But we havent even sold the flat yet…
Do what Ive said or youll end up all alone, Desmond commented, leaving no room for argument.
Two days later, Mrs. Browns meagre belongings and the lady herself were loaded into a car and taken to the care home.
During the ride, she discreetly wiped away tears, heart twisting with dread.
Desmond didnt accompany them. He insisted he needed time to air out the flat from the old-lady smell.
Check-in at the care home was performed speedily. Martha, unable to face a prolonged goodbye, hurried away in shame.
You promise youll come back for me, love? Mrs. Brown asked, voice tiny and trembling.
Of course, Mum, Martha murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.
She knew Desmond would never let her bring Mrs. Brown to the new flat.
Having claimed the old ladys flat, the pair wasted little time selling it and bought a new one.
To top it off, Desmond insisted on registering the new flat in his own name, arguing Martha couldnt be trusted.
After a few months, Martha tried again to speak to him about her mother. Desmond flew into a rage.
Mention her again and Ill throw you out! Desmond shouted, hating talk of Mrs. Brown.
Martha bit her lip, understanding perfectly that her husband meant what he said. She never brought up her mother again.
Once or twice, Martha nearly plucked up the courage to visit the care home, but each time she imagined the old ladys tears and changed her mind.
For five years, Mrs. Brown waited, always certain Martha would return for her.
But Martha never came. Worn out by loneliness, Mrs. Brown quietly slipped away from the world.
Martha only learned of her mothers passing a year later, after Desmond turned her out of the flat and she found herself remembering the mother shed abandoned.
The burden of guilt pressed so heavily on Martha that she withdrew into a convent, seeking forgiveness for a loss she could never mend.
