Thirty years I worked in a textiles factory, all so my children would have a better start than I did. For my seventieth birthday, they chipped in for a flower basket with delivery.
I stood alone in the flat, holding that basket of flowers brought by the courier, and I cried. If someone had told me forty years ago that this would be me on my seventieth, Id have laughed it off as a bad joke. But life has a bleak sense of humour, and it never asks if youre ready for the punchline.
That Thursday morning, I woke at six on the dot. No need, reallyold habits from thirty years of dragging myself up before sunrise for the first shift at the factory.
I stitched blouses, aprons, work overalls. Back when Leicester had a few places like this, row after row of machines, and always women hunched over, fingers pricked, dreams of their children pricked even deeper into their hearts. Because really, who was it all for, if not them?
My DavidGod rest himworked on the railway. We kept the house together, between us. Nothing extravagant, but we had enough. Studio flat in Stoneygate at first, then later we managed to swap for a proper two-bedroom over in Clarendon Park.
Central heating, a little balcony over the carpark. Still, our children had clean clothes, a hot meal, and books for school. Simon had private tutoring for his English literature, Emily took computer evenings at the adult college. David put in endless overtime and Id pick up bits of sewing for the neighbourscurtains, a wedding dress here and there after hours.
It paid off in the end. Simon finished law at Oxford and now runs a practice in London. Emily started her own business out in Manchestersome marketing thing; I never quite caught what exactly, but people pay her, and thats all that matters. Im proud of them, truly. Only lately, pride tastes a bit like tea with no sugarstill hot, but theres something missing.
David passed away eight years ago now. His heartquick, no warning. Laid his head down at night and just didnt wake up. For the first year, the children phoned every day. Second year, once a week. Now, Simon rings Sunday after lunch, if he remembers.
Emily sends texts, always quick, like telegrams from far away: Mum, you well? Love you. I reply: Fine, love. What else can I say? That most evenings the telly is the only company I have? That last Saturday the only person who spoke to me was the lady at Sainsburys tills?
Id spent a whole week fussing over my birthday. Silly old womanbaked a cheesecake, the old-fashioned one on a buttery base, just like my mum did. Bought a new cloth. Polished the best chinawedding gift from Davids aunt, never used except for something special. Four settings. Simon had said hed see if he could get away and Emily wrote shed check her schedule.
Simon rang early. He sounded exhausted. Mum, I cant, Ive a hearing in court. They moved it forward, couldnt turn it down. Ill pop round Saturday, alright?
An hour later, text from Emily. Not even a call. Mum, conference in Birmingham, wont make it, love you, will make it up at the weekend!!! Three exclamation marks. As if punctuation might fill her space at the table.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at four plates. At my cheesecake. At the new cloth with cheery sunflowers, picked because it seemed bright. I began quietly putting things away. Plates back in the dresser. The cloth folded up. Covered the cheesecake with a tea towel.
At three oclock, the intercom rang. Courier. Young chap, maybe twenty, blue jacket. He had a huge basketroses, lilies, something else I didnt recognise. A card: Dearest Mum, wishing you health and all the very best! Simon and Emily.
He smiled. Happy birthday, madam. Someone loves you very much.
The basket was heavy. I set it in the front hall, closed the door, and seated myself on the little stool by the coats. There I satfive, maybe twenty minutes. The flowers smelt so strong, almost suffocating, in my narrow hallway.
That evening, Margaret rangthe only neighbour I speak with still. Seventy-five, lives one floor below, just as alone as I am. Ivy, its your birthdaycome down for a cup of tea. Ive baked apple pie. So I did. We sat in her kitchen until ten. Margaret never asked after the children. She knew.
Saturday, Simon came by. Aloneno wife, no grandchildren. Three hours, one of which he spent on the balcony with his mobile. Left a white envelope of cash on the hall table before going. Emily cancelled, in the endsomething came up, Mum, but Ill be there for Christmas, I promise.
And thats when I realised. Its not that my children dont love me. They do, in their own way, in the brief gaps between court dates and business meetings. They love me as I once loved my sewing: well-meaning, honest, but always with one eye on the clock, hands busy elsewhere. Thirty years, I worked so theyd never have to. But no one warned me that the price of their smoother life would be me alone in a tidy, quiet flat.
Margaret and I ate the cheesecake. The flowers stood a week, then wilted and went in the bin. I tucked Simons envelope in the drawer with Davids old railway certificates.
Yesterday, I bought myself a ticket for a short trip to the Lake District. Coach, two days, group of seniors. Margarets coming with me. Told Emily over the phone and she was taken aback. Mum, since when do you gallivant around?
Since my seventieth, love, I replied.
She went quiet for three seconds. Then said, Thats great, Mum, and changed the subject. But in those three seconds of silence, there was more than all the exclamation marks in her texts. One day shell understandmaybe when shes sixty and stares at her own empty table. I wont be waiting for that to happen.
Im seventy now. Ive got my health, a travel ticket, and a neighbour who bakes a cracking apple pie. David would have said, Ivy, stop fussing and go. So Im going.
