9th April
Today, I find myself writing with a mixture of relief and sadness. Life has a way of catching up with you, I suppose. Only recently, I fell rather illquite suddenly, at that. Not a single one of my daughters came to see me as I laid in bed, feeling ill and incredibly lonely. The only one who made sure I was cared for was my granddaughter, Lucy. It was Lucy who brought me tea, changed my sheets, and made sure I had something warm to eat.
But my daughters did eventually turn up, as they always do, just before Easter. I suspect it wasnt out of concern but for the usual haul of country treats and fresh eggs they expect me to prepare. I stood at the garden gate to greet them, my heart a confusing mix of longing and resolve. What brings you here? I said, colder than I meant.
My eldest, Margaret, stared at me in disbelief. Mum, whats all this about? she cried.
Nothing at all, I replied. Its just, Ive sold up. All of it. The whole lot.
They stood there, mouths agape. What do you mean, sold up? And what about us?
They didnt understandperhaps they never would.
Living in Ashcombe has always been drearytoo quiet by half. So, any event, even a small one, was something for people to talk about for days. When Lucy, my granddaughter, came to live with me, it was the talk of the village. She was the daughter of my late daughter Charlotte, and after Charlottes death, no one in the family wanted to step forward. Lucy spent almost two years in foster care before I gathered my courage and brought her to Ashcombe.
The villagers gossiped, as villagers do. Some sang my praises; others, ever the cynics, muttered about financial motives and the social services allowance. To be fair, my reputation from years running the village shop wasnt spotless. The local women still tell tales of my penny-pinching and constant quarrels with the neighbours.
To my own childrena son working as a GP in Oxford and two daughters living comfortably in LondonI was mostly just a source of homemade chutneys and fresh fowl. My little farm was more productive than any in the area. I kept ducks and chickens, tended a trio of pigs, and had goats that often outsmarted me at feeding time. Two acres arent much, but it was enough to keep me on my feet. I never really could afford to hire help, which is why I so desperately needed Lucys assistance.
I confided my plan one day at lunch to my old school friend, Mary, who still works the tills at our village shop. Ill have Lucy here with me; shell be better off than in foster care. And at least the village gossips will have something nice to say about me for a change.
Mary agreed, of course. Shes always depended on me, really. Quite right, Elsie. And shell be a help with the farm too.
Lucy, for her part, was just happy to belong somewhere, to be given tasks and to do them well. The villagers started calling her Cinderellanot unkindly, but perhaps more sharply than they realised. Some of the women confronted me at the market. Elsie, have a heart! The girls all skin and bone from working so hard! But I always shot back, Mind your own, and let me see to mine.
Despite the hard work, I had great plans for Lucy. I was sure shed become a vet one day. But then something unexpected happened the summer Lucy turned fourteen; the new director at the village hall, a young woman named Emily, came to live in Ashcombe after finishing her music degree. She visited every household looking for local talent with Mr. Parker, our village organist, not far from her side.
Mr. Parker was quick to let Emily know what a good group he could put together if only he had a better piano. Before long, they were assembling a choir. What they lacked was a soloist. Thats when Emily had the idea to search the school for a new voice. Lucy was pushed into auditioning by her teacher, Mrs. Thatcher.
Come on, Lucy! Ive heard you singgive it a go! Mrs. Thatcher encouraged.
Please, Miss, I need to get home or Granny will be upset… Lucy pleaded.
Dont worry, Ill explain everything to your gran. Nows your chance!
Lucy didnt hesitate long and sang with the same soul she gave to her chores, her audience usually only the goats and ducks. Emily was stunned. A real natural, that one, she whispered to Mr. Parker.
From that moment, Lucy was in rehearsals every week, and even I couldnt object, though it meant less help on the farm. It was Mary who pointed out, Imagine, Elsie, your Lucy famous in London ten years from now! On the telly! In the papers!
I wasnt as easily swayed. What good does that do me? I have no one else to help with all this work! Perhaps I sounded like the wicked stepmother in those old English tales. Even Mary seemed to look at me differently after that, and our friendship cooled.
Lucys singing brought her much joy and numerous opportunities. She toured all the local villages, sang for harvesters and milkmaids alike, and eventually won a county competition. Through it all, Lucy never stopped caring for mesitting by my side night and day when I fell ill. My daughters, on the other hand, only ever arrived when there was profit or food to be had.
That Easter, after my outburst at the garden gate, the girls left with nothing. I turned to Mary once more. Thank you for opening my eyes, friend. I nearly ruined Lucys life trying to keep her tied down.
Have you really sold it all, Elsie? she asked.
All of it. Except the goatI kept her for company.
And your daughters?
Theyre adultslet them fend for themselves.
Years passed. Lucy rarely returned to Ashcombe, what with her teaching, performing, and all the constant travel. Whenever she could, shed still call me, and she always sent a little money when she could spare it. But this week, shes finally managed to visit.
As we pulled up to the cottage, I watched her sonmy great-grandsonstirring in the backseat. Mum, are we there yet? he mumbled.
Were here, Max! And look, Grannys waving!
Despite my age and aches, I swept Max into my arms and kissed his cheeks. You are my little sunshine! I thought Id never see this day. I hugged Lucymore gently; I didnt want to muss her hair.
I saw your concert on the telly, loveyou really were the star!
She giggled, ever modest. Hardly, Gran. Im just plain old Lucy who happens to sing a bit.
No, darling, dont be shyyoure a star to me! I told her, my eyes brimming. If it werent for you and Mr. Parker, Id be nobody.
Lucy tried to hide her handsthe same hands that once scrubbed my floors and carried pailsbut I noticed. I pulled her close, and we held each other as only family can. Tears slid down my cheeks as I asked her forgiveness for all the old wrongs, but she hugged me even tighter.
In the end, what matters is having someone in this world to care forand for someone to care for you in return.
