We Still Have Work to Do at Home… Granny Violet fumbled with the garden gate, shuffled to the door, wrestled with the rusty old lock, stepped into her chilly, empty cottage, and sank onto the chair beside the unlit stove. The air smelled of long absence. She’d only been away three months, but already cobwebs hung from the ceiling, the old wooden chair whined beneath her, and the wind howled down the chimney—as if the house itself was scolding, “Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave us for? How will we get through winter?” “Just a moment, my dear, let me catch my breath… I’ll get the fire going, we’ll be warm soon,” she murmured. Only the year before, Granny Violet flitted nimbly about the cottage: whitewashing, painting, fetching water. Her slight, spry figure bowed before the icons, bustled by the stove, darted through the garden, planting, weeding, watering. The house rejoiced with her—the floorboards creaked cheerfully beneath her swift, light step, doors and windows yielded eagerly to her strong small hands, the stove faithfully baked plump pies. They were happy together: Granny Violet and her beloved old house. She’d buried her husband early. Raised three children, saw them all educated and respectable. One son was a naval captain, the other a military colonel; both lived far away and rarely visited. Only her youngest, Tammy, stayed in the village as head agronomist, at work from dusk till dawn, popping in to treat her mum to homemade pies on Sundays—then the two wouldn’t see each other for another week. Her consolation was her granddaughter, Sweet Sophie, who’d practically grown up at her granny’s knee. And what a beauty she’d become—large grey eyes, waist-length wavy blond hair shining like ripe barley. Whenever she lashed it into a ponytail, the village lads would be utterly transfixed, jaws dropped. She carried herself so regally—how did a country girl end up with such poise? Granny Violet had been a looker herself in her youth, but an old photo next to Sophie’s made the difference clear—she a shepherdess, Sophie a queen… Brainy too: Sophie finished agricultural college in the city and returned home as an economist, marrying the village vet and, as a young couple, was granted a new brick house—practically a manor by village standards. Still, around Granny Violet’s old cottage, the garden flourished, everything growing and blooming, while Sophie’s new place had yet to sprout more than three humble stems. Truth be told, Sophie wasn’t much for gardening—though a country girl, she was delicate and always shielded by her gran. Then Sophie had a son, little Vinny. No time for gardens now. So, Sophie begged her gran to come live in the modern house—no more stove-tending, all mod-cons! By then, Granny Violet was turning eighty, her legs growing unreliable, and she reluctantly gave in. She stayed with Sophie for a couple of months—until one day Sophie sighed, “Oh granny, I love you so! But why are you just sitting all the time? All your life you’ve been on your feet, but here you just lounge. I want to build a proper home life; I thought you’d help.” “But my dear, my legs don’t work like they used to… I’m old now.” “You didn’t start saying that till you moved in with me…” So Granny Violet, not fitting the role she was hoped to fill, was gently sent back to her old cottage. Heartbroken at her failure, she took to her bed—her legs shuffling slowly, worn out after a lifetime’s service. Even reaching the table was a challenge, the church, impossible. Reverend Barry, her long-time priest and friend, came to visit. He found Granny Violet in her cold kitchen, writing large, shaky letters to her sons: “My dear boy, I am well, thank God, I want for nothing.” Yet the inkblots betraying salty tears told another story. Barry saw she needed a helper—perhaps Annie, the sturdy neighbour, twenty years her junior? He brought bread, biscuits, and half a still-warm fish pie (with love from his wife Alice), cleared out the ashes, stacked the firewood, got the kettle boiling. “Oh, my dear! Oh, Father, help with these addresses? I write like a chicken scrawls, the letters will never get there!” She fussed, and he obliged. Soon Annie began calling on her, Reverend Barry regularly confessed and communed her, and Annie’s husband, Old Pete, would ferry her to church on weekends. Life grew easier. But Sophie, the beloved granddaughter, never visited; then, within a couple of years, fell gravely ill—a cancer, far worse than anyone imagined. Sophie wasted away in half a year, leaving her husband shattered, and little Vinny, four years old, unwanted. Tammy took him in, but she scarcely had time between her farm duties, so Vinny was about to be sent off to a council boarding school—one with a good reputation, hearty meals, children home for weekends, but no substitute for family. Then, in Old Pete’s sidecar, Granny Violet arrived at Tammy’s. “I’ll take Vinny. As long as I live, my great-grandson won’t go to an institution,” she declared. Stunned by her resolve, Tammy packed the boy’s things. Neighbours tutted: “Poor dear’s lost her wits—who will care for her, let alone a little one? He needs love, meals, everything! Why is Tammy letting this happen?” After Sunday service, Reverend Barry braced himself for disaster. Yet in the snug, tidy cottage, he found Vinny cheerful and Granny Violet, once feeble, moving briskly about, baking pastries as if she’d never been sick a day in her life. “My dear Reverend! Don’t leave yet—I’m making cheese buns for you and Alice and your boy!” Barry returned home amazed, and his wife Alice pulled out a blue journal to read a family story: “Old Nell Egerton had reached the end of her long life. One wintry night, knowing the end was near, she bade her family fetch the vicar. Nell confessed, took communion, and lay waiting. Suddenly, a newborn’s howl from the hallway—her granddaughter home from hospital with a colicky babe. The noise roused Nell; with effort, she sat up, put her feet to the floor, found her slippers, and began rocking the child. When the family returned, they found Nell, lively as ever, pacing the room, soothing her great-granddaughter, while the baby’s mum finally got some rest!” Alice smiled, closing the notebook: “My great-gran Nell loved me dearly—she simply couldn’t allow herself to die. As the old song goes, ‘It’s far too soon for us to go—there’s still work to do at home!’ She lived another ten years, helping my mum raise me, her favourite great-grandchild.” And Reverend Barry smiled at his wife in return.

We still have things to do at home

Old Granny Vera managed to open the garden gate, hobbled slowly towards the front door, fiddled for ages with the rusty, ancient lock before finally getting inside her old, chilly cottage. She collapsed into a kitchen chair by the cold, unused fireplace.

The house smelled musty and abandoned. Shed only been gone for three months, but the ceilings were already draped in cobwebs, the antique chair groaned under her weight, and the wind howled down the chimneya cross old house, greeting her like, Where have you been, mistress? Whod you leave me to? How on earth are we supposed to last the winter?

Hold on, hold on, my dear old friend, give me a second Let me just catch my breath and Ill get the fire going… well warm up in no time.

Just a year ago, Granny Vera was still bustling energetically around the placewhitewashing, touching up paintwork, fetching pails of water. Her tiny, sprightly frame would bend low at the family photos, then flit nimbly by the stove, or flit about the garden to plant, weed, and waternever still for a moment.

Back then, the house seemed to come alive with her energythe wooden floors would merrily creak under her quick feet, doors and windows would fly open with the lightest touch of her neat and calloused hands, and the old range cheerfully cooked up plump pies. She and her house made a good team.

Her husband passed away far too early. She raised three childrenall well-educated, respectable folk now. One sons a merchant navy captain, the others a lieutenant colonelboth living far away, rarely making it back to the village. Only the youngesther daughter Emilystayed, now the villages head agronomist, out working from dawn to dusk. On Sundays, Emily would dash by, eat up some of Veras cakes, and then, for the next week, itd be radio silence again.

Veras real comfort was her granddaughter, Sophie. You could honestly say Sophie grew up with Granny.

She really did turn into a beauty, that Sophiestriking grey eyes, thick golden hair like ripe wheat flowing to her waist, all in curls that looked almost golden in the sun. Even just a ponytail made the local lads freeze in their tracks. Jaws dropped when she walked past. She carried herself like she belonged on magazine coverswhich youd never expect from a country girl.

Vera herself was considered quite pretty in her youth, but put her old portrait next to Sophie… it was like comparing a village girl with a princess.

Clever, too. Sophie finished university in the city studying agricultural business, but came back home to work as an economist. She married the local vet. They received a brand-new house through a programme for young familiesa grand, solid brick place by anyones standards.

Only thing was, at Granny Veras, all round the cottage, the garden was brimming with flowers and fruit trees; in Sophies new lot, nothing had grown yetjust a few scraggly saplings. Besides, gardening was never Sophies strong suit. Even though she was a country girl, shed always been a gentle soul, sheltered by Granny from drafts and heavy work.

Then Sophie had little Toby, and after that, there was no time for gardens and veg patches.

Sophie kept begging Granny Vera to move in: Come on, Gran, the house is spacious, modern, no need to light the fire every night

But Vera had just turned eighty and started to feel her age; her legs, once so light, became heavy as if her ailments had been waiting for that very milestone. Eventually, she gave in and moved to Sophies.

She stayed there for a couple of monthsuntil one day she heard:

Oh Gran, you know I love you to bits, really I do! But why do you always just sit there? Youve always been busy your whole life, always helping! Now youre just lounging around my house I want a proper family home, I hoped for your help

Oh darling, I cant anymoremy legs dont work like they used to Im old now…

Hmph You only became fragile once you came here

Not long after, Granny Vera, having not lived up to her granddaughters expectations, was sent back home.

The guilt that shed failed her beloved Sophie truly floored Vera. Her feet seemed glued to the cold floor; every trip from bed to the table felt like a mountain climb, and going to her beloved churchimpossible now.

Thankfully, Father Richard popped by to see his faithful parishioner, who, even in illness, had always lent a hand at the ancient church. He had a good look around.

Granny Vera sat at the table, busy with her usual monthly letters to her sons.

The cottage was chillyfire barely burning, floor freezing cold. She was wrapped in her warmest old cardigan, a battered headscarf (unthinkable, considering shed always been so tidy), and worn-out slippers.

Father Richard gave a sighVera needed someone to help her out. Maybe Ann could? She lived nearby, was still fit, about twenty years Veras junior.

He pulled out some bread, ginger biscuits, and half a still-warm fish piecourtesy of his wife, Martha. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared the old ashes out of the fireplace, brought in enough logs for days, lit the fire, fetched water, put the big, blackened kettle on to boil.

My dear boy! Oh, I mean, Fatherwill you help me with the addresses on these envelopes? My handwritings all over the placetheyll never reach the boys if I do it!

Father Richard sat, wrote the addresses out, and glanced at the lettersbig, wobbly writing stuck out on the page: Im doing very well, my darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!

But those letters full of good news were all splotched with blurred inkclearly salt tears.

Ann became Veras regular helper, Father Richard made sure she received communion, and every big holiday, Anns husband Uncle Petera retired sailorwould bundle Vera into his old motorbike sidecar and take her to church. Bit by bit, life steadied itself.

Sophie stopped visiting. Then, a couple years later, she fell terribly ill herself. Her stomach had always troubled her, but the symptoms were far worse: it turned out to be lung cancer. In just six months, she wasted away.

Her husband barely left her gravehed get a bottle, drink, pass out at the cemetery, wake up, and go get another. Their four-year-old boy, Toby, was left to fend for himselfdirty, runny nose, never properly fed.

Emily took him in, but with the demands of her job as head agronomist, she couldnt care for Toby as he needed. They started paperwork to send the boy to a boarding school.

It was supposed to be a decent placethe energetic headmaster, full meals, weekends at home if you liked. Not a real home, of course, but Emily couldnt see another waywork kept her late, and pension was still a way off.

And thats when, in Uncle Peters old sidecar, Vera rolled up to her daughters. Uncle Peterbig, jolly, his sailors vest bulging over his stomach, anchor and mermaid tattoos up both armslooked ready for anything.

Vera said simply, Ill take Toby, hes coming with me.

Mum, you can barely walk these days! How will you manage? Cooking, washing for a little boy?

As long as Im breathing, Tobys not stepping foot in any boarding school, said Vera, firmly.

Emily was stunned by usually perky Veras resolve, fell silent, and began to help pack up young Tobys things.

Uncle Peter drove the pair back to Veras cottage. He just about carried both of them inside. Neighbours tut-tutted:

Shes such a lovely old dear, but clearly lost her marbles taking on a child nowshe needs care herself! Little boys arent puppies they need attention! Cant imagine what Emilys thinking.

After Sunday service, Father Richard visited, bracing himself for the worstwould he need to remove little Toby from a bedraggled old woman?

But the cottage was warm, fire roaring in the grate. Clean and content, Toby lounged on the sofa listening to a childrens storybook record. And Granny Vera? She was practically skipping round the kitchen, greasing the baking tray, kneading dough, cracking eggs into the curd. Her frail old legs moved quickly and easilylike before her illness.

Father dear! Im whipping up some cheese tartshold on! Martha and your Charlie will get a treat hot from the oven

Richard returned home, still gobsmacked, and told his wife what hed seen.

Martha paused, then pulled down a big blue notebook from the bookshelf, leafed through to a certain page:

Old Nan Egerton lived out her long years. Everything passeddreams, feelings, hopesall sleeping peacefully under the soft white snow. Its time to move on, to a place with no suffering, no sorrow, no sighing. One blizzardy February evening, Nan Egerton prayed for ages before her family photos, then lay down and said, Call the vicarI think Ill be passing today.

Her face was white as the snow outside.

Family called the vicar; Nan confessed, received communion, and for a whole day lay there, taking neither food nor water. Only her faint breath showed any life.

Then the door swung open: a blast of icy wind and a newborns wail.

Hush! Nans dying here!

Cant silence a baby, the mother mutteredshed just come home from hospital, swaddling a tiny new daughter. That morning, everyone had left for work, leaving the dying Nan and young mum alone. Milk hadnt come in, the mum was at her limit, and the babys screams didnt exactly make dying easy for Nan.

But Nan stirred, her unfocused eyes sharpened, she struggled up, swung her legs over the edge, feeling for her slippers.

When the family rushed homehaving pleaded off work for her final momentsthey found Nan not even considering her last breath. Far from itshe was pottering round the room, cradling the contented baby, while her exhausted granddaughter caught up on a well-earned nap.

Martha closed the diary, looked at her husband, smiled softly, and said:

My great-gran, Vera Egerton, simply adored me. She just couldnt bring herself to die. She used to singIts too soon to leave the worldthere are still things to do at home! She lived another ten years after that, helping my mumyour mother-in-lawto raise me, her favourite great-granddaughter.

Father Richard returned the smile.