There are still things to do at home
Granny Edith struggled with the old iron gate, her thin arms trembling as she pushed it open, her steps shuffling slowly up the path. The front doors lock, rusty and stiff, resisted her efforts, but at last she was inside her chilly cottage. She sank down on a wooden chair beside the cold, unused hearth.
The air was thick with the scent of emptiness.
Shed only been away three months, yet already cobwebs clung to the ceilings, the timeworn chair groaned beneath her, wind howled softly in the chimneyher old home seemed to greet her with reproach: Where have you been, Edith? Who did you leave me to? Howll we survive the winter?
In a moment, my dear old soul, let me catch my breath soon Ill get the fire going and well warm up again
Not even a year ago, Edith would flit about her cottage with easescrubbing, touching up chipped paint, hauling buckets of water. Her slight frame would bend in respect before the family photographs on the mantel, or dance around the kitchen, or flash through the garden, planting, weeding, and watering before the sun was high.
The house seemed to come alive with her, floorboards creaking in welcome under her light feet, doors and windows opening gladly at the touch of her skilled, weathered hands, the stove producing golden pies with effort. Life was content for the both of them: Edith and her old home.
Shed lost her husband young. Alone, she raised three childrenall well-educated, all finding their way in the world. One son became a naval officer, the other, an army colonelboth far from home, rare visitors.
Only the youngest, her daughter Margaret, remained in the village, now the head agronomist. She was out at work from dawn to dusk, dashing round for a Sunday visitjust long enough for Edith to spoil her with homemade sconesthen another week passed before they met again.
A saving grace was her granddaughter, Lucy. You could say Lucy was all but raised by her gran.
And what a beauty she grew into! Great grey eyes, hair the colour of ripe wheat, falling in thick, glimmering curls down her backsomething almost luminous about her. Shed tie it up, a few strands would tumble across her shoulders, and the local lads would stare speechless. Such elegance! And from a country girl!
Edith had been pretty herself in youth, but put an old photo next to Lucysit was the difference between a farmers daughter and a queen.
Bright as well. Lucy finished university in the city with a degree in agricultural economics, only to return to her village to work. She married a local vet, and with a government scheme for young families, was given a brand-new home.
And what a house it was! Sturdy red brick, solid as a manor by village standards.
Just one thingthe old cottage, Ediths, was surrounded by fruit trees and blooming borders. Lucys new house, fresh and neat, had nothing yet growing about it but three lonely stems poking up in the garden. Lucy, though a villager, had never really been one for gardening, her gran protecting her from every chilly draught, sparing her any hard work.
And then little Tom was bornher hands were full. Vegetable beds hardly mattered.
So Lucy started urging her gran, over and over: Come live with us, Granthe house is warm, no need to fuss with fires.
Edith, at eighty, had begun to ail; her nimble legs had started to betray her, just as if her body was waiting for this landmark birthday to tire all at once. She relented in the end, and moved in for a couple of months.
Until one day, Lucy said gently,
Gran, I love you, you know I do! But you just sit and sit! Youve always worked, always been busy. But here, you seem to settle into a chair I need some help, GranI want to keep chickens, start a vegetable patchI thought youd help me
I just cant, love. My legs Im too old now
Hmph. The moment you moved in, you turned old, did you?
In the end, disappointed and not quite needed, Edith left and returned to her cottage.
Worried sick that shed let her granddaughter down, Ediths spirits and body sank. Her shuffling steps barely carried her from bed to table; getting to her beloved church was suddenly out of the question.
Vicar Charles paid her a visit; hed always relied on Ediths help for every need at the village church. He sized up the chilly room with practised eyes.
Edith was busy at the table, writing her usual letters to her sons.
It was cold, the fire burnt low, the floor icy. Edith wore her warmest cardiganwell past its bestan apron smudged and tired, and fraying slippers on her feet, she whod always prided herself on neatness.
With a sigh, Charles realised Edith needed help. Perhaps Mrs. Anne Pearce from up the lane? Strong, and a good twenty years younger than Edith.
Hed brought gifts: fresh bread, biscuits, half of a still-warm fish pie from his wife, Sarah.
He rolled up his sleeves and cleaned out the hearth, fetched a stack of logs, got the fire roaring, set a blackened kettle to boil on the stove.
My dear boy! OhVicar, I meant! I need help with these envelopes. If I write them, the Royal Mailll never manage to read my chicken-scratch.
Charles sat beside her, tidied up the addresses, glanced quickly at her trembling letters. Large, shaky words jumped out: I am doing ever so well, my darling boy. I have everything I need, thank God!
But her cheerful letters were stained with splashesthe kind that only ever come from tears.
Anne began checking on Edith, Charles offered regular communion, and Annes husband, old sailor Pete, would ring her to Sunday service on his motorbike. Life, slowly but surely, found a rhythm.
Lucy, though, didnt come by, and a few years later, she fell terribly ill. Shed always had stomach trouble, brushed off sickness as nothing more than indigestion.
But it wasnt her stomachit was lung cancer. No-one could say why, but Lucy wasted away in half a year.
Her grieving husband practically moved to the grave, drowning his sorrow with a bottle; little Tom, just four, was left dirty, hungry, and alone.
Margaret took Tom in, but her job kept her too busy. No time for childcareplans were quietly made to send Tom to the county home.
It was a decent place, the matron was kind, the children well fed, and home at weekends.
Hardly a real home, but Margaret had no choice.
Then, one evening, in the sidecar of Petes old Triumph, Edith arrived at her daughters. Pete, in a sailors jumper, anchors and mermaids tattooed on his arms, looked every bit the defender.
Im taking Tom, Edith announced.
Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage a childhe needs clean clothes, food
As long as I have breath, Toms not going to any childrens home, her voice brooked no argument.
Margaret, taken aback by her mothers stubbornness, fell silent, gathering up Toms things.
Pete rode them back to Ediths cottage, then virtually carried both old and young inside. The neighbours gossiped behind twitching curtains: Good old Edith, always kind, but she mustve finally lost her marblesshe cant look after herself, let alone a child! Its not a kitten, its a ladhe needs care. Whats Margaret thinking?
After Sunday service, Vicar Charles visited with dreadwas he about to find poor Tom, hungry and dirty, in the care of a tottering old woman?
But nothe house was warm, fire blazing. Tom sat clean and content, listening to fairy tales on a crackling old record player. Edith, her frail old legs now animated as if by magic, darted about the kitchen, brushing butter on a tray, kneading dough, whisking eggs.
Vicar! Im making some cheese bunswait a minutebring these round to Sarah and young Arthur while theyre piping hot
Charles arrived home, still shaken with wonder, and told his wife what hed seen.
Sarah thought for a bit, pulled out a thick blue diary from the bookcase, turned to a marked page:
Old Mrs. Hargreaves lived a long life. All her hopes, her dreams, all that shed felt and loved, slept now beneath the quiet snow. One February evening, she prayed a long while by her mothers photograph, then said: Call the vicarI think Im dying.
Her face turned as white as the drifts outside.
Her family fetched the priest, she confessed, took communion, and for a day and night didnt eat or drinkonly gentle breaths showed her soul remained.
Thenthe door opened, cold air, a babys shriek.
Hush, hushGrans dying, someone chided.
I cant silence a babyshe was just born, she doesnt know she oughtnt cry!
Her granddaughter, Emily, had come home from hospital, newborn in arms. Everyone was outthe dying Gran and the flustered new mum, alone. Emilys milk hadnt yet come, the baby screamed and screamed, and old Mrs. Hargreaves journey to the other side was interrupted.
But then, the dying old woman lifted her head, her wandering eyes found focus. She sat up, swung her bare feet to the floor, groped for her slippers.
When the family hurried home, they found Gran not only alive, but stronger than beforewalking the room, cradling the now-content baby, while her exhausted granddaughter rested on the sofa.
Sarah closed the diary, looked at her husband, and ended softly:
My great-grandmother, Vera Hargreaves, loved me dearly, and simply couldnt let herself die. She used to sing, Too soon to go, theres still things to do at home!
She lived ten years more, helped my motherand your mother-in-law, Anneraise me, her beloved great-grandchild.
And Charles smiled gently in reply.
