An ungrateful son is worse than a stranger, they say, and I have lived to see how true that can be. I am Mary Whitfield, eightyfour years old, and I sit on a weatherworn bench at the bus stop just outside the cottage where I have spent most of my life. Beside me lie a canvas tote and a paper bag, packed with almost everything I own.
It was three years ago that our little household of five thrived in a modest threeroomed terraced house: myself, my daughter Helen, my grandson Ian with his wife Natalie, and their boy Arthur, my greatgrandson.
The peace began to crumble when a new accounts clerk, Ruth, arrived at Ians office. She had driven in from London, for reasons no one could explain, and was given a room in the local hostel and a job at the firm. It seemed a tidy enough arrangement, but Ruth was not content to simply settle. She began to watch the men at work and set her sights on Ian. Married as he was, she shrugged off the old saying that a wife is a wall.
One April evening Ian came home, gathered his things, and said his goodbyes, remarking, Only at fortyfive did I truly understand what life and love really are. Natalie said nothing, waiting for Arthur to sit his school exams, and then made plans of her own:
Well move to the city for Arthurs university. Well live in my parents old house, though its been boarded up for three years. Well fix it up; if we cant do it ourselves, my brother will help. Ill find a quick job at the school.
Her brother arrived two days later, loading the van with trunks, and they set off. Arthur hugged his greatgrandmother tightly.
Dont worry, Gran, Ill visit, he promised, and he did, twice, while Helen was still alive. When Helen passed, Ian and Ruth moved into the flat, and Arthur never returned.
Life grew poor for me under Ruths rule. At first she was shy, inviting me to sit at the table and sharing the meals she cooked for herself and Ian. Then she ordered me to stay in my room.
You leave crumbs all over the kitchen; its easier for me to sweep your room once a week than mop the floor three times a day here, she declared.
From then on Ruth boiled porridgeoatmeal, barley, or rice pudding. I ate it for breakfast, lunch, and supper, washing it down with tea that had long gone cold.
One day Ruth announced that her son would arrive in a week. She and Ian discussed where to place him after his stint in a youth centre, knowing he would not be taken for any respectable post.
Ian left for work the next morning, and Ruth handed me a slip of paper.
Heres the address of the oldpeoples home, she said. Go there and thank them for not throwing you out onto the street. She slammed the flats door behind her.
I made it to the bus stop, but my failing eyes could not decipher the address. A young man stood nearby. Sonny, could you read the address and tell me which bus goes there? I asked. He looked at me and replied, Where are you off to, Mrs. Mary? Arthurs just arrived and is looking for you. Let me give him a ring.
Within five minutes Arthur was at my side. He explained that Natalies former neighbour, who had retired as a caretaker at the home, had told Ruth she wanted to send me there, and the neighbour had supplied her with the address. Natalie had urged Arthur to come back to the village and bring his greatgrandmother with him.
Arthur gathered my possessions, placed them in a taxi, and said, Ill take you, Gran, like a queen, back to the city. Mums already prepared a room, and the gardens full of apple trees in blossombeautiful!
When Ruth and Ian learned that Arthur was taking me to the city, they were delightedthough only briefly. As they sorted the papers, they discovered that I had been the legal owner of the flat from the start; my late husband had merely a lifelong right to reside there. Consequently, Ruth and Ian were forced to return to the hostel.
I sold the flat and handed the proceeds, a modest sum of £12,500, to Arthur so he could buy a place in the county town. Property there is dear, so he could only afford a onebedroom flat, but it is in a new building and spacious. He intends to marry soon, securing a roof over the heads of his young family.
Thus the tale of an ungrateful son, a meddling clerk, and a stubborn old woman comes to an end, remembered now as a warning that kindness and rightful ownership endure longer than selfish ambition.
