Blythe lived a rather ordinary life, shuffling along a dull, overused lane with her head bowed low why bother sticking her neck out when there were hardly any merits to count? Her looks were averageaverage.
Her husband, Ian, would often say that everything about Blythe was plain. He never noticed a hint of beauty in her; he had missed it long ago.
Once, though, Blythe had been one of the first pretties at university slim, sweetfaced, a bit of a skeleton, though her hips were a touch broad, a trait shed inherited from her grandmother Agnes, a sturdy, roughhewn woman from a Cotswold village. Agness genetics couldnt be denied, even if science tried to argue otherwise.
Blythes paternal line was intellectual: engineers, literary scholars, university graduates. They polished her a bit, straightened her posture, gave her a nose that didnt look like Agness, shoulders that werent flared out like a farmers, and legs that werent made for rubber boots and clogs but for sensible city shoes.
Thus, the parents produced a pretty, tidy, painfully shy and quiet daughter which, in a way, was a blessing. Grandmother Agnes could launch into a tirade so long it would curl your ears into tubes, complaining about everything. Blythes mother, Olivia, tried to be like that at first after marrying Blythes father, Frederick, but eventually she bit her tongue and settled down. In a comfortable flat with a ficus in the hallway, surrounded by fellow academics and other bright lights, you didnt dare raise a fuss youd be shown the door in a flash.
Olivia quieted, and Blythe grew even more reticent.
Raise a proper lady, you will! croaked Agnes, shuffling out of her battered galoshes, which had long lost their shine, as she visited to see her grandchild. And you, dear, are wilting. Youll be nothing but a barren moor, drifting wherever the wind blows! Wheres our whole family gone off to? Midsomer? Dont you know?
Frederick shrugged and hid away from his garlicsmelling motherinlaws kitchen, retreating to his study while Olivia brewed tea for her mother and listened to tales of her own upbringing.
Agnes never rushed. Shed linger over the tablecloth, rattling off news about the village, neighbours, who was on whose side, then drift into garden talk harvests, both hers and the neighbours. Finally, shed snap a toothy grin and call out for the granddaughter hiding behind the kitchen doors glass panel.
Blythe would step out timidly, eyes darting at her mother, who turned away. Frederick never welcomed his motherinlaw, even though her pickled cucumbers in vodka were a hit. He told Blythe to keep her chats with Agnes short. So Olivia was instructed to send Blythe back to her room. Yet, on the other hand, Olivia had helped raise Blythes newborn, had nursed threeyearold Emma through a nasty bout of pneumonia, when shed become listless and stopped eating. Aunt Eleanor swooped in, whisked the child away in a winter coat, driving an old council car to the city.
Frederick later swore he shouldnt have let that happen, but Olivia calmed him down. With good food and proper care, Emma recovered quickly, grew plump, and clung to her visiting mothers chest with a sigh of relief. Frederick merely waved a hand, opened his mouth, shut it again, and gave Agnes a sideways glance.
Agnes possessed a certain forceful confidence, as if she could flash a spotlight on every thought Olivia dared not entertain. Even her soninlaw feared her.
Why dont you welcome me, dear? I gave you a decent wedding gift! Im not great with words, thats my fault, not a sin! Agnes lamented loudly while sitting at Olivias house, offering her granddaughter a huge chocolate bar.
Blythe nodded politely but placed the bar on the table instead of eating it.
What? Bite it, love! Take a bite! the guest urged, but Olivia stopped her.
Freddy wont allow sweets before dinner. Its not customary here she whispered, which made Agnes flush and Olivia feel embarrassed. Still, there was a man in the house, a head, and Olivia never became the lady of the home; she hovered, trying not to speak up. When guests arrived for Ian, shed set the table, smile, and nod nothing more to say. Blythe took her cue, never showing off.
After a while, Eleanor grew tired of staying at her soninlaws house; everything irritated her. After a few spats she stopped visiting. Occasionally, when Frederick was out, shed call, listen to the endless ringing, lower her head, then sigh contentedly at Blythes voice.
Darling, why havent you visited? Youre missing out shed whisper, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief. Everythings fine, dear. Im at university, todays a holiday, Mums at the clinic, Dads at work, Blythe would answer, shrugging.
Life seemed to run by a set of unspoken rules. Father was the wise head, educated, while mother was simple, still snacking on sunflower seeds and spitting them into a palm, which annoyed Dad. He demanded she refine her snacking, but she refused, so he sent her to the balcony.
Sit there if you cant understand how repulsive it is! hed bark, waving his hand at the balcony door. And there she stayed, in a nightgown, flicking shells into her palm, sighing at her pale, limp legs. She was grateful to Frederick for loving her, pulling her from the countryside, forgiving her many faults, and raising her.
Olivia had trained as a teacher; Frederick first saw her at a dance in the local park, fell in love, and they married, producing Blythe. Their families were surprised by the union of an urbane, studious line with a rustic, robust one, but deemed it a noble blend of two worlds. Olivia thrived in city culture.
Blythe followed in her mothers footsteps, also studying teaching, yet never held a job, just like Olivia. She married Ian, whose background was a touch simpler than Fredericks but still intellectual. By the 1960s, the cool crowd were the mods, not the oldschool types. Ian, however, was a traditionalist, reading heavy classics, philosophising in long essays. Frederick knew him from a project and approved the match.
Blythe and Ian moved into a threebedroom flat that Ian shared with his parents. His elder sister had already moved to the States. Ians parents, now elderly, stepped back, handing the household reins to Blythe. They told her to pack up and move to the country cottage, saying, Well let you mulberrypunch your way through life, but we cant have two matriarchs in the kitchen. And they left.
The flat was gloomy: darkstained wooden paneling, piles of sheets, towels, mismatched curtains, an endless array of chipped china, dim bulbs, and curtains forever drawn to hide the neighbours curious glances. Blythe thought the place drab. She wanted new curtains, fresh furniture, maybe a lick of polish on the parquet, but all that would cost a fortune and Ian, who prided himself on thrift, was happy as it was.
Ians frugality bordered on the absurd. He saved every penny, which Blythe initially mistook for a sign of sturdy husbandhood. Shed grown up assuming the man made all the decisions, and the wife simply agreed.
Ian was an intellectual but not of a privileged lineage; his parents had modest jobs, hoping their child would bring honour to the family. He was a junior researcher, nearing forty, with a dissertation looming on his desk, but never finding the time to write it. He ruled the household like a tiny despot.
Whatever you need, love! Ian would say when Blythe announced a pregnancy. Dont push yourself, you look pale! hed add, his voice syrupy with canned fishsmell.
When Blythe finally told him she was pregnant, Ian froze, his lips forming a perfect O, as if the concept of children were a new exotic fruit. Well we werent uh he stammered, frowning. He liked to calculate everything, and this unplanned baby threw his spreadsheets into chaos. Nows not the time, love! No, well have to stop this! he muttered, glancing at the clock. Make me a coffee, but a tiny one, enough for a month.
Blythe stared at him, his oily face smelling faintly of sardines, and suddenly vomited on his lap. Ian leapt up, swore, chased her out of the kitchen, and the bathroom echoed with his curses as he fumbled with soap. When he finally emerged, Blythe was gone, the flat empty save for a few tiny perfume bottles and a halffinished knitting project.
He sat, stared at the empty chairs, and, after a long sigh, turned on the telly to watch the weather forecast another lie about sunshine.
The baby, a skinny boy named Kirby, arrived on schedule. Agnes, ever the storyteller, declared him as slender as a violinist. Olivia, now caring for her grandson while Blythe was at work, watched Frederick pull out toy soldiers and miniature cars from a childrens museum gift shop.
Daddy, hes only six months old! Blythe giggled, holding the baby.
Right, well need more toys, then! Frederick replied, arranging the toys on the floor and trying to coax Kirby to crawl.
Kirbys arrival set off a whole new chapter for the family. Agnes would pop over with a steaming mug of tea, reminding them to check the babys hat and protect his tiny ears. Ian, still a bit of a bore, would linger in the hallway while Blythe bundled Kirby in a swaddle, then head out for a brief stroll with the pram.
One evening, after the house had quieted, Agnes gathered the three women herself, Olivia, and Blythe for tea. They sipped, glanced at the thin wedding band on Blythes finger a cheap piece Frederick had bought, just enough to look decent, as hed said and talked about the future.
Love may be love, but a bit of calculation never hurt anyone, Olivia muttered, halfsmiling.
Exactly, Agnes replied, Weve lived our lives side by side, shared joys and sorrows, and now we have a grandchild. Thats the real wealth, not the titles or certificates.
They all agreed to keep moving forward, to make do with what they had, and to smile at the absurdities of life.
Eventually, Ian grew weary of the endless phone calls and the constant reminders about Blythes salary. He knocked on the garden gate, surveyed the plot, and muttered about the misplaced greenhouse and the crooked rows of carrots. Blythe, pack up, its time to go home! he shouted through the window.
A rosycheeked Agnes peeked out, eyes bright. Did you get dusty on your travels?
Call my wife, will you? Ian barked.
Its alright, shes asleep. Shell stay a bit longer, Agnes replied, waving a hand.
Why are you bringing her back? Shes not leaving! Ian sputtered. Give me my ring back! Its mine!
Agnes tossed the ring onto the path; it clinked against the grass. Ian dropped to his knees, searched, and finally held it up, a grudging grin on his face. Alright, thatll do. Goodnight then. He shut the window, pulled the curtains, and stared at the curious neighbours peeking over their hedges, remembering his fathers colourful curses. He swallowed them, recalling his neardoctorate, and decided to keep his language civil.
They divorced quietly; Blythe packed her things, and Ian even helped load them into a taxi, telling nosy neighbours that the temporary arrangement was best for the child. He later returned to the empty flat, poured a shot of gin mixed with water his fathers old recipe and turned on the TV, where the weather forecast again promised sun that never came.
Years later, Blythe, now a schoolteacher, tiredly shuffled home after a long day, collapsed onto the kitchen chair while Ian lounged in the bedroom, a book in hand, waiting for dinner. She dreamed of the evening ending quickly so she could finally rest, while Ian sipped his tea and mused about education, politics, and how teachers are just nothing, really.
Maybe you should become a nursery nurse, he suggested, if you want a proper job.
At least Ill have a decent pension, Blythe replied, halflaughing.
One day, while Blythe was sorting through the cupboard, she noticed her wedding band thin, cheap, just so it didnt look tacky as Ian had said and slipped it off, feeling a strange mix of relief and nostalgia. She closed her eyes, imagined herself as a little child drinking warm milk, feeling safe.
Ian, hearing a knock, turned up the garden gate, looked around, and declared, Blythe, its time to go home!
Agnes, perched on the doorstep, called out, Did you get dusty on your travels?
In the end, the family learned that life isnt about immaculate résumés or perfect flat interiors; its about the messy, loving moments shared over tea, the stubbornness of a grandmother, the stubborn frugality of a husband, and the resilience of a woman who keeps going, no matter how many curtains she has to pull back. The three generations Agnes, Olivia, and Blythe remained together, sipping tea, laughing at their quirks, and hoping that, as long as theyre alive, everything will turn out just fine.
