A Son Gives Up His Mother
Margaret Joan Hargreaves, who had seen her sixty-eighth summer, stood by the slightly open doorway of her own bedroom, holding two cups of tea in her hands, though by now the tea had grown quite cold.
Beyond the door, her son, Richardforty-twospoke quietly, almost in a whisper, as people do when theyd rather not be overheard.
Mum, try to see it from my perspective. It isnt forever. Theyve got good facilitiesI’ve checked. Youd have your own room, three proper meals a day, a nurse on call day and night.
It took Margaret a moment to grasp what was actually being discussed. She stepped into the room and set the cups down on the coffee table. Richard sat on the settee, studiously avoiding her gaze.
What are you talking about?
The Willow Grove home, Mum. I mentioned it before, but you didnt really listen.
Youve not said a word about any home to me.
At last, Richard looked up at her. In his face was the sort of conflicted, stubborn guilt she remembered from his childhood; it was the same face hed worn after he broke the neighbours window with a football and struggled to explain himself.
I did speak to you. Last time I visited.
Richard, last time you were here all of twenty minutes. You brought a bag of oranges and hurried off. Exactly when during those twenty minutes did you mention putting me in a home?
He stood and walked to the window. Outside, the garden was as familiar to Margaret as her own breath: three silver birches by the play park, the old bench with peeling green paint, and Tabby, the cat who lived under the hedge. It became oddly important, just then, that Tabby should be in her usual place. Margaret looked. The cat was nowhere to be seen.
Mum, please. Dont turn this into a tragedy. Willow Grove isnt what you imagine. People live therethey do things. Emilys been, she says its lovely.
Emily, then. That meant Emily had already been in on this conversation.
I see, Margaret said.
What do you see?
I see it wasnt your idea.
Richard turned sharply towards her.
Mum, thats not fair. It was a joint decision. Both of us think youd be better off. Youre alone here, and its getting hard for you again. Mrs Tinker from next door said your blood pressures been up. At Willow Grove, there are doctors on hand, people to chat with, and nice gardens.
Richard, she said, as coolly as she could, this is my flat.
The pause after that was long and brittle.
Mum
It was my flat, she corrected herself, because at that precise moment, she remembered the paperwork shed signed two years ago. Richard had explained it all: taxes, convenience, a mere technicality, nothing would changehed sworn it. Shed signed because she believed him. Because he was her son.
Mum, please dont be like this.
Be like what?
That face.
Margaret dropped her gaze to the cold tea cups. Shed made mint, his favourite. She remembered.
When did you want me to leave?
Mum, come on, dont put it like that.
I asked a question, Richard.
He turned away again, back to the window.
Emily reckons by the first of September would be best. We well, we need more space. She needs a home office. And we were thinking of redecorating.
First of September. That left three months.
Margaret picked up her cup and walked slowly from the room. She made her way to the kitchen, placed the cup in the sink, and stayed and stared out at the brick wall of the neighbouring housea view she knew as well as anything. Thirty-eight years shed looked at that same wall. At first, with her husband, Peter, whod gone seven years prior. Then alone. Here, shed made jam and pickles for winter, fed little Richard porridge, cried quietly into her sleeve at night when no one could see.
Her son walked out from the sitting room and stood in the kitchen doorway.
Mum, say something. Please.
What should I say?
That you understand. That youre not upset.
She turned to look at him. He was tall, handsome, the image of his father. Shed often thought that was a good thing. Now she wasnt so sure.
I love you, Richard, she said simply. That doesnt change.
He took that as agreement. She saw relief easing his shoulders, the tension melting from his face. He came over, gave her a quick hug, said something about how brave she was, how often hed visit. She stopped listening. She just counted up three months in her minda lot could be done in three months.
***
The truth Margaret learned from Lucy.
Lucy was thirteen, Richards daughter from his first marriage, and it was Lucy who rang her gran a week later. It was late. The childs voice had the shaky steadiness of someone whos already cried and is struggling to sound normal now.
Gran, I heard them talking. Dad and Emily.
Lucy, where are you?
At Mums. I was at Dads over the weekend. Gran, Emily said you wouldnt go to the home voluntarily. That theyd have to push you.
Margaret said nothing.
She said, if you were stubborn, there are ways. The flats already signed over, so youve got no rights, legally. Dad just stood there, Gran. He didnt even say anything.
Lucy.
I dont want them to send you away. You dont want to go, do you?
No, darling, I dont.
What will you do then?
Margaret looked across at the cabinet where photographs stood: Peter in his youth; Richard on his first day at school; Lucy, aged three, with a bucket on the beach.
Ill think, Lucy. Dont you worry.
Can I still visit, Gran? No matter where you end up?
Of course you can. You must.
She set the phone down and stayed sitting in the hush that followed. Then she walked through the flat, as people do before a long journeycarefully, attentively. She rested her hand on the doorframe, where Richards childhood heights were marked in pencil. She traced the lounge windowsill Peter had painted white so many years before. She stood in the bedroom and gazed at her things.
Next morning, she rang the local Citizens Advice and asked about the gift transfer papers. The conversation was brief and dispiriting. The woman explained, in a flat, efficient voice, that a gift is irrevocableit could only be challenged with proof of deceit or duress, which was near impossible to prove.
Margaret thanked her, hung up, and went to make soup.
***
The cottage was twenty-six miles out of towna little timber building Peter had crafted with his own hands, proud of every inch. The roof leaked, the stove smoked in rain, and the fence had sunk lopsided into the soil. No one had really gone for three years, except Margaret in summer, briefly, to plant a patch, take the harvest.
She arrived late August, towing three large bags and a couple of boxes. Just the essentials: clothes, pots, documents, photographs, books, woollen blankets. The little television from her bedroomPeters old one. Her sewing machine.
Richard called the following day.
Mum, whats happening? Youre gone. Why didnt you tell me?
Whats to tell? You said first of September. It isnt here yet.
Mum, cant we talk about this normally?
Theres nothing to talk about, Richard. You told me your decision. I made mine. Its fine.
Mum, you cant live there in winter. Theres no proper heating, waters from the pump
Theres a fire. I can manage.
Its not sensible.
Its very sensible, she said, and felt something in her, which had been raw and fragile for weeks, quietly harden. Richard, is everything alright?
Me? Im worried about you.
So, everythings fine. Ive things to do. Goodnight.
She ended the call and went to inspect the roof.
The roof was direat the far end, the veranda boards had rotted, wind got in. Margaret found some tar paper and nails in the shed and made do with patching the hole. Not very skilled, but enough to keep most of the water out. She checked the garden, the pump, drew water. It was clear, cold, a taste of iron.
The plot next door belonged to Mr George Perkins, who was about seventy and had lived out there year-round for five years since his wife died. Margaret hardly knew himjust nodded when they crossed paths, swapped a surplus plant now and then.
He turned up by her fence that evening. Short, wiry, with neatly trimmed moustache and check shirt.
Good evening. Saw youve turned upbags and all?
Ill be wintering, she said.
He nodded, eyeing the makeshift repairs on the roof.
Right. Youll want to check your flue, then. Itll be blocked, no ones used your fire since last autumn. Dangerous to go lighting it.
You know about the flue?
Could hear you up there. Ive kept an eye out, now and then.
Margaret looked at him, surprised.
Thank you. I didnt know.
Glad to help. Shall I sort your flue for you? Doesnt take long, just need to know how.
An hour later, the fire was roaring cleanly. George took his tea on her veranda, and their silence was companionable, not awkwardlike between those who have nothing to prove.
How long have you lived here, Mr Perkins? she asked.
Five yearssince Mary passed. Let the flat to my son, moved out here. Nothing for me in town anymore.
Dont you mind living alone?
Im used to it. How about you?
Margaret told him the essentialsnot all, just the core. He listened without fuss or over-sympathy, which is heavier to bear than indifference.
It happens, he said. Children rarely know what theyre at. Think they do, but later theyre surprised.
Hes a good manmy son.
Never doubted it.
Shes just stronger, Margaret said softly, surprised at herself.
Then youll be stronger now, George replied, plain as ever.
She smiled ruefully.
Im wintering in a leaky cottage at sixty-eighthow strong is that?
Strong enough. Well sort the roof. Ill lend a hand.
He finished his tea, stood up.
If you dont mind, Ill have another look at the flue in the morning. And those veranda boardsIve spare timber.
I dont want to put you out.
Thats your call, he replied, and went home.
***
September was full of workwhich saved her. Margaret was up by dawn: lit the fire, made porridge, walked out on the land. She needed to finish before the cold: clear the patch, dig the beds, stack firewood. George brought a load of birch logs, helped pile them. They worked side by side, few words, and for Margaret, it was reassuringstartlingly so.
Richard rang again in mid-September.
Mum, how are you?
Perfectly well.
Its cold, though.
Ive the fire. Quite warm enough.
Mum, its not convenient. I could find you somewhere nearer, nice places, not as isolated.
I like it here, Richard.
A pause.
Hows Lucy? she asked.
He hesitated.
Shes mostly with Victoria.
Victoria had been Richards first wife, Lucys mother. Theyd parted ways nine years back, not bitterlyjust grew apart. Victoria was a good woman, always kind to Margaret.
You see her often?
I try. Emily doesnt really like me lingering there.
Margaret said nothing. Beyond the window, autumn wind tumbled the last leaves from the apple tree.
Well, Mum, call me if you need anything.
I will.
But they both knew she wouldnt.
October brought driving rain, the road turned to mire, and the bus grew unreliable. Margaret found herself, for the first time, truly cut offand it unnerved her, that real, physical aloneness.
For the first week, she called Lucy every evening.
Gran, is your fire warm? Are you eating properly?
Yes, darling. Yes, alls well. How are you?
Fine. Dad came Sunday. He asked about you. Emily was with him, in the car.
Thats alright, love.
He looked sad, Gran.
Thats his business, Lucy.
Are you angry with him?
Margaret thought a while.
No. Im sad, not angry. Theres a difference.
What do you mean?
Anger wants payback, or for someone to see their wrong. Sadness is just accepting what is.
A pause.
Gran, youre very wise.
Just old, love.
They arent the same.
Margaret chuckled, surprised to find herself laughing in the dark.
Youre right, Lucy. Not quite the same at all.
January bit hard. Pipes froze, firewood vanished quick, and sometimes she woke at night to keep the fire in. Once, the water pipe burstshe had to carry snow and melt it on the stove till George fixed it, bringing insulation and a blowtorch. They spent a day at it, fingers numb, but got it done.
Thank you, she said over tea by the fire, I dont know what Id do without you.
Youd manage, he said.
I wouldnt have.
Well, perhaps not. But youd try. Thats what counts.
Dont you mind helping me all the time?
He looked at her, mildly surprised.
Not at all. Youre not a stranger, Margaret. Were neighbours.
There are different sorts of neighbours.
There are. Not all the same.
In February, Lucy arrived for a visitwithout warningfrom the Saturday bus, rucksack and a carrier bag with oranges and a chocolate cake.
Did your mum let you?
She brought me to the stoptold me to say she worries about you.
Tell her thank you. Come in, youre frozen.
Lucy stepped inside, admired the warm cooker.
Its cosy, she pronounced.
Is it?
Yes, really. Properly cosy. Like a real home, not a hotel.
Margaret looked at her granddaughter and realised how grown shed become in a yeartall, serious, with Richards dark eyes.
Gran, tell me about Granddad. Tell me about when you and he were young here.
They sat at the window with tea, and Margaret told Lucy: about Peter building the cottage, their first night on rickety camp beds, sleeping in their coats for the cold. About planting the first potatoes, childishly pleased at the harvest. About little Richard, frightened of the vegetable patch at dusk, calling for his mother every five minutes.
He was scaredy?
Nojust had a lively imagination. He saw monsters everywhere.
And then?
He grew up. Kept the imagination, lost the fears.
Lucy considered.
Do you think he knows what he did wrong?
Im not sure, love. Thats his question, not mine.
But it was unfair.
It was. But lifes justice rarely arrives as we wish.
Does it ever?
Sometimes something better comes. More needed.
Like what?
Margaret looked out at the white fields and pines.
Peace, perhaps. This window. This tea. You here. Thats what matters.
Lucy sat silent a moment, then noddedthe way a person does when they dont quite understand but feel the truth in it.
***
March brought thaw and the sweet, fresh scent of wet earth and pine needles. One morning, standing on her step, Margaret realised she was content. Calmno longer in spite of her circumstances, but simply so.
She listened to the drips, amazed she could feel wellthat this, perhaps, was what it meant to endure. Not to win, not restore everything lost, but to weather the storm and find herself again, changed, but still whole.
George hailed her from the fence.
Mrs Hargreaves, Ive seedlings for cucumbers and tomatoesinterested?
Of course. Thank you.
Ill bring them by later. Mind the fence therethe far boards shifted since the snow.
Ill check it.
If you need timber, Ive some.
I might be able to do it myself now.
He smiled, moustache twitching.
Of course you can. Just saying.
April brought real work. Digging, mulching, setting up the greenhouse, mending the well-head. Margaret worked, tired, but ate and slept well. She noticed she thought of the flat less. The pain had fadednot forgiveness or forgetting, but a scar now, not an open wound.
Richard rang in April again. His voice had changedquieter.
Mum, how are you?
Fine. Its spring, work everywhere.
Im glad. Mum, I wanted to say I think of you.
She did not answer at once.
Thats good, Richard.
Will you come and visit? Just for a day?
No.
Why not?
Im happy here. This is home now.
Mum
Alls well, Richard.
A silence.
Hows Lucy? You speak with her?
She came in Februaryshell visit again soon, Victorias happy about it.
Thats good, he said softly. Thats really good, Mum.
***
Summer at the cottage was nothing like Margaret remembered. In other summers, shed come as a guest, quickly exhausted by the garden and pining for creature comforts. Now, the land, the work and the harvest were hersthey had real weight: every cucumber, every potato, every jar of jam.
Lucy came and stayed the summer. Victoria cautiously rang in Junewould Margaret mind having her granddaughter from June to August?
Id be delighted, Margaret said. Shes a help.
She speaks of you so fondly, Victoria said, pausing. Im glad she has you.
And I have her, Margaret answered.
Lucy brought books, her tablet, and a notebook for stories. She pitched in in the garden, learned to light the stove, draw water, never complained. In the evenings, they sat on the step, drank tea with wild herbs Margaret had picked, and talked, sometimes for hours, sometimes just sat.
George took to Lucy at once, taught her bird calls, explained the wells workings, described how to read weather from clouds. Lucy listened with rapt attention.
Hes nice, Lucy observed one day. Grandad George.
Hes our neighbour and friend, Margaret corrected her.
But hes like a grandad. Just a different one.
A different one, yes.
Lucy gave her a sidelong look.
Gran do you like being with him?
I do. Were friends.
Just friends?
Lucy, Margaret replied, attempting sternness but laughing too. Dont you start.
I only asked!
Were friends. Thats a lot.
Lucy nodded, dropping it.
In July, Richard phoned, voice tight.
Shall I come up then? he said. When would be good?
This weekend, if you like. Lucys here.
I know. Mum, I need to talk.
Alright. Come, well talk.
Margaret didnt dwell on the call. Whatever would come, would come. She had stopped expecting anything nownot out of indifference, but from the wisdom born of letting go of what others cannot give.
***
He came that Saturday, alone. Parked by the gate, came in, looked around at the neat garden, the new veranda boards, curtains in the windows.
Lucy ran to greet him, they hugged. Margaret watched them from the stepsfather and daughter, much alike, both a little awkward after absence.
Hello, Mum, Richard called.
Hello. Ive made lunch.
They spoke of little things at table: Lucys summer, the garden, George. Richard listened, nodded, ate his soup. Margaret observed himthinner, with dark circles she didnt remember.
After lunch, Lucy slipped away with her book. Richard lingered, fiddling nervously with his spoon.
Mum, I have to tell you something.
Go on.
Emily wants she wants Lucy sent to boarding school. She says shes not her responsibility, that shes in the way. I tried to argue, but Emily well, she always gets her way.
Margaret stayed silent.
Lucy overheard last week. Emily didnt know she was in the next room. Lucy hid, wouldnt come out for hours. I took her to Victorias after.
I know, Richard. Lucy called me, very late, in tears.
Richard looked at her, startled.
She told you?
She did. I tried to comfort her.
Mum, Im sorry.
His voice was quiet, heartfelt, without drama. And perhaps because of that, Margaret believed him.
For what are you sorry?
For everythingthe flat, doing as Emily said, the home, letting you down.
Richard
No, Mum, let me. I still thought I was doing the right thing, that everything would be easier. I kept saying to myself: Willow Grove is nice, theyll look after her. But that was a lie. I just wanted to clear space, because Emily wanted it. I couldnt say no to her.
Why couldnt you?
I dont know. Shes so certain. Beside her, I feel small, as if everything I care aboutLucy, youis just a problem. Only her wants matter.
Margaret looked at him: her boy, forty-two, still somewhere that frightened child avoiding the garden at dusk.
Do you love her, Richard?
He was silent a long time.
I dont know, Mum. Maybe I did. Not now and Im not sure when it changed.
What will you do?
Im leaving her. Said so already. She wasnt surprisedmaybe shes tired too.
Where will you go?
Ive found a flatnothing big, enough for me. Mum, Im not asking for you to come back to the old flat, I know thats not possible. I just came to
To say sorry, Margaret finished for him.
Yes. And to ask: can you forgive me?
Margaret stood, went to the window. She watched Lucy outside, folded on the wells bench, book in hand. Summers golden dusk haloed everything.
I forgave you long ago, she murmured. It doesnt mean Ill go back. Or that things are as they were. But youre my son, Richard. That remains.
She heard him breathe, silently, trying to steady himself.
Mum.
Yes?
Can I visit?
Of course. This is your cottage too. Your father built it for you as well.
She turned. Richard looked at her exactly as hed done long ago, when ill as a boy and shed sat with him, holding his handlooking at her as one does when unafraid.
***
Lucy didnt return to town with her father.
It happened naturally. At the end, Richard checked in with her, Lucy said she wanted to stayshe preferred Grans, had things to do. Richard glanced at Margaret. She shrugged.
If she wants to. If Victoria says yes.
Victoria agreed. Lucy stayed.
August passed, then September. Lucy started at the village school, two miles away. Margaret walked her to the lane that morning, watching her disappear with her rucksack, and reflected on the odd ways life works out.
Richard now rang weekly, sometimes more. Their conversations were different: quiet honesty, small truths. Discussion of his work, his new flat, cooking adventures. Margaret listened, sometimes offered recipes.
Mum, he said once, dont you miss the city?
No.
Not at all?
Not at all. Never expected I wouldnt, but I dont.
Im glad, Mum. Really.
I know.
One day, George asked if Margaret would be formalising guardianship of Lucy.
I think so, she said. I need to discuss with Richard and Victoria. Lucy wants that.
Thats the right way. Shes happy here.
And youre fond of her?
Sharp lass. Curious about everything. Children like that need simple surroundings, or theyll build themselves from other peoples hopes.
Margaret studied him.
You see her clearly.
Ive got an eye for peoplehad to, once.
And me?
A pause.
I see you, Margaret. Youre not the same woman who arrived last autumn.
How so?
Freer. Not free from everythingfree inside. Theres a difference.
She thought about that.
Its the right word.
They grew quiet together. Over the fence, Georges winter wheat was sproutinga patch hed taken on for interest, as much as profit.
George, do you ever feel you ran away from life? Isnt it too quiet, here?
I did, at first. Not anymore.
Why not?
This is life, Margaret. All of this, he waved at the garden, sky, trees. The other life isnt more realjust different.
Margaret nodded.
***
October brought cold again. Margaret stoked the stove now with practised ease. Lucy returned from school and settled at the kitchen table with her homework as Margaret made soup.
Gran, we have to write an essay. About someone we admire.
Who will you choose?
You. May I?
Of course, Lucy. But dont exaggerate.
I wont. Ill tell the truth.
What truth?
Lucy chewed her pen.
That you came here with nearly nothing. And you didnt break. You didnt get angry or moan all the time.
Margaret stirred the soup.
I did feel sorry for myself. Just not aloud.
Thats honest, said Lucy. Feeling sorry for yourself in silence isnt weaknessits good manners.
Margaret looked over.
Where did you read that?
Nowhere. I just thought of it.
Put it in your essay, thenits well said.
Lucy smiled, bent over her page.
Outside, it was dark already. Beyond the field, birds called to each other, night drawing them in. The pot of soup gurgled on the hob; on the shelf stood photographsPeter; Richard on his first school day; Lucy at three, holding a seaside bucket.
The gate creaked. George stepped into the yard and knocked.
Mrs Hargreaves, Ive got some good sauerkrautmay I bring you some?
Bring it in, Mr Perkins. Ive soup onitll go together.
Ill get it.
Lucy looked up.
Grandad George?
Yes, thats George, said Margaret.
Lucy slid off her stool and hurried for the door, calling,
Grandad George, come have tea with us! Theres soup hot!
Margaret heard him chuckle, heard Lucy chatter about her homework and about Gran, heard his gentle voice reply.
Margaret tasted the soup, added a pinch of salt. This was her saucepan, her cooker, her homea little wooden house with creaky floors, a mended roof. But it was hers.
In a few weeks, Richard would visit. The threeRichard, Victoria, Margarethad agreed to talk about Lucy officially. Lucy knew, but waited calmly, having learned by now what mattered.
Margaret didnt know what might happen next. Shed stopped making great plans, lived day by dayand that was enough.
George set his jar of sauerkraut on the table.
Smells good, he said.
Sit down then, nearly ready.
Lucy fetched three bowls, arranged the table as shed learned to do, neat and careful.
They sat together.
Outside, the night pressed up to the windows and lit the three of them and the shining steam. Their reflections, blurred at the edges by the old glass, shimmered together in the kitchen lamplight.
Gran, said Lucy, serving soup, Dad is coming next weekend, isnt he?
He is.
Good. I want to show him. Hes never seen it in summer, only winter.
Everythings different in summer, Margaret said.
Different, but better?
Margaret looked at Lucy, at George quietly eating his bread, at the bowls of soup, the homemade sauerkraut.
Better, Margaret replied. Much better, Lucy.
Then let him come and see, said Lucy.
