The Daughter Faded, the Mother Flourished
The autumn in Littlebridge this year is damp and biting. Rain taps restlessly at the windows of the village surgery from the crack of dawn, as if its trying to squeeze inside for a bit of warmth. Im here, sorting records, but my heart feels as though stray cats are clawing at it. It’s quiet, no one seriously ill, yet worry curls in me, like gnats swirling before a storm.
Suddenly, the door groans open, heavy and reluctant. There, on the threshold, stands Vera Whittaker.
Oh, Vera Fifty-something, yet she looks as though she’s just been laid to rest pale, worn. Her grey scarf is askew, her coat hangs on frail shoulders like an oversized hanger, and beneath her eyes are deep shadows, as if someone rubbed coal under them. And her hands. Those crimson, swollen hands, trembling from icy water, fussing with a coat button.
Susan, she rasps, her voice barely audible, nothing but a hoarse whisper. Got any drops? My hearts pounding, throbs right in my throat. And mum… Mum needs some Valium. Another episode, we didnt sleep all night.
Through my glasses, I glance at her and feel a chill inside. Not long for this world, I think. Standing before me is a woman with just a thimbleful of life left, like a dried-up well with only a puddle at the bottom.
Sit down, I say, reaching for the blood pressure monitor. Why do you drive yourself so ragged, love? You look a state.
No time, Susan, Vera doesnt even sit, just leans against the doorway. Mums alone. If she wants water or her blood pressure jumps, I must run. Just please, give me the medicine.
I hand over the bottles, she grabs them with her stiff fingers, and disappears out the door. Only cold wind swirls around my ankles. I watch through the window as she trudges hunched in the mud towards her house, thinking, Lord, what did she do to deserve such a lot? Its not her mother in that house, but a millstone around her neck.
Mrs. Zinaida Whittaker used to be a stately woman, boisterous. Spent her whole career at the parish council, loved to boss people about. Yet when she retired, she took to her bed.
My legs wont hold me, she complained. My hearts stopping,” she’d cry.
Ten years she lays there. Ten years Vera circles her like ivy.
The next day, I could no longer resist bundled up and went to check on them under the guise of a visit. As I step inside the cottage, everything is spotless, rugs crunch underfoot, and the scent not of illness, no but pies and stewed cabbage.
Zinaida towers on her bed, queenly, propped up by a mountain of pillows. Her face is rosy, smooth, not a wrinkle out of place, eyes bright and sharp.
Ah, Susan! she rumbles. You finally popped by? Cant rely on this hopeless case, she nods toward the kitchen, never get any help. I tell her: Vera, my chest is burning! and she says: Mum, I just need to finish milking the cow. Shes more worried about the cow than her own mother!
Vera meanwhile is lugging a heavy enamel bucket, legs buckling, back curved like a bow. She sets the bucket down, kneels and begins scrubbing the floors, silently. Only the whistling sound of her breath fills the air.
Zinaida, I say firmly, You could have pity on your daughter. Shes turned transparent.
Pity? Zinaida sat upright on her pillows. And who pities me? I raised her, lost sleep for her, and now what? Can’t even beg for a glass of water? This illness is my cross, Susan. And shes my daughter, its her duty.
Looking at Zinaida, I see she has enough health for three men. Her illness is named boundless love for herself. She drains the life from Vera like a spider from a fly. She believes she’s ill so fiercely that others believe it, too.
And Vera doesnt lift her head, just wipes the floorboards over and over. Scrape-scrape. Scrape-scrape. That sound still rings in my ears the sound of despair.
A month passed. Winter arrived, the first snow flew sharp and bitter.
One evening, while Im sipping tea with biscuits, theres a knock at the window so fierce the glass rattles.
I open it and there stands Peter, the neighbours lad, eyes wide as coins.
Susan! Hurry! Aunt Veras collapsed! Right by the well! Wont get up!
I dont remember how I ran old legs carried me on their own. When I get there, Veras lying on frozen ground, buckets toppled, water spilled and frosting over. Her face is as white as the snow, lips blue.
With some help, we carried her back inside.
From the bedroom, Zinaida shouts:
Whats this racket?! Vera! Where on earth are you? My hot water bottles cold!
I bent to Vera, checked her pulse a thin thread, barely ticking. We rang for the ambulance; they rushed her off to the district hospital. A massive heart attack.
Zinaida is left alone.
I go into her room. She sits there, blinking.
Wheres Vera? Wholl change my chamber pot? Wholl cook my porridge?
Vera is in hospital, I say, unable to hold back. Youve driven her, Zinaida. Shes dying.
Liar! she screeches. She did it on purpose! Wants to escape, abandon her helpless mother! Selfish!
I feel so disgusted, I could spit, if not for my oath. I gave her water, shoved a tablet in her hand, and left. How will you manage now…?
But fate’s a creative mistress. The next day, the village bus arrived. Out came Nadia Zinaidas granddaughter, Veras daughter.
No one liked Nadia in the village. She left for London ten years ago, right after school. Never returned. Folks said she was proud, raised her nose at village life. Vera wept silently for her, wrote letters, but never got an answer.
Now shes here. Leather jacket, smart short hair, sharp gaze. She doesnt resemble her mother or grandmother.
She visits me first.
Hows Mum? she asks, brisk, businesslike.
Mums in a bad way, I reply. Intensive care. The doctors say her body is completely exhausted. Shes spent.
Nadia clenched her jaw, pursed her lips.
Right. Ill go see Gran.
What happened at their house became the talk of the village. I pass by a day later, and hear cries Zinaida wailing. I think the old womans being murdered. I dash inside.
A scene fit for the stage. Zinaida sits, red as beetroot, waving her arms. Nadia stands before her, calm as a mountain, holding a bowl of soup.
I wont eat this! shrieks Granny. Its unsalted! And cold! Vera always gave me piping hot! Wheres my daughter?!
Your daughters in hospital because you drove her there, Nadia says flatly. And Im not Vera. I wont salt it. If youre hungry, eat. If not, dont.
She puts the bowl on the side table and leaves.
Water! Zinaida screams after her. Fetch water, you heartless creature! Im dying!
Nadia stops in the doorway, turns:
Theres the jug, theres the glass. Your hands work, dont they? Go ahead.
I thought Zinaida would collapse. She hasnt touched a glass herself in ten years!
Susan! she spots me. Bear witness! Shes starving me! Cruelty!
But Nadia looks at me with steely grey eyes, and I see such pain in them, it makes me want to cry. This isnt cruelty, ladies. Its surgery. Shes cutting out the rot to let the poison drain.
Two weeks Nadia trained her grandmother. Tough love.
I wont empty your chamber pot. Thats what the commode is for. If you can sit, you can move.
Change the sheets? Do it yourself. Youve got hands.
If you yell, Ill lock the door and go work in the garden.
The village buzzed. Shell finish off the old woman, gossips at the well whispered. But I kept silent. Because I saw Zinaida is coming back to life!
At first, she nearly exploded from rage. Then hunger made her pick up a spoon herself. When Nadia absolutely refused to bring water, I saw it with my own eyes: Granny got up! She groaned, gripped the bed rail, and shuffled to the table.
After another month or so, Vera was discharged.
Nadia brought her home in a taxi. Vera remains weak, pale, but no longer invisible. She walks, clings to her daughter’s hand, terrified to step inside. She fears itll start again: Where have you been, lazybones, my toe is itching.
They enter the cottage. Silence.
Mothers room is empty, bed made.
Vera clutches her chest:
Dead?
No, Nadia smirks. Shes in the kitchen.
They go through to the kitchen and there sits Zinaida Whittaker. At the table, glasses perched on her nose, peeling potatoes herself!
When she sees Vera, she sets the knife aside.
A pause hangs, so heavy that you can hear the old clock ticking. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Vera leans against the doorframe, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mum… you got up
Zinaida looks at her, then at her granddaughter. Her gaze is strange. Not angry. Just confused, as if shes awakened after many years.
With this sergeant in a skirt around, she mutters, but without the old venom. Then quietly adds:
Sit down, Vera. The potatoes are getting cold.
I look at them old and young and think: how much strength do people waste on manipulation, on playing at sick and miserable? Life isnt a draft; you dont get a second go. Sometimes, to save a person, you dont fluff their pillow you snatch it from under their head.
Winter ended. Melted snows roared away, carrying the stale, musty old life with them.
May arrived. Do you know what May is like in Littlebridge? The airs so sweet with hawthorn blossom you could taste it with a spoon. The evenings are deep blue, and the nightingales in the hollow sing as though theyre turning your soul inside out.
I stroll by the Whittaker house in the evening.
The gate is shiny and painted. Tulips blaze in the garden Veras pride.
In the yard, a table is set. The old brass kettle gleams in the sunset.
Three sit together.
Zinaida in her wheelchair (she still cant walk far), but she holds her own cup, dips a ginger biscuit herself. Her scarf twinkles, threaded with gold.
Nadia sits close, laughing at something, laptop perched on her knee now working remotely from the village.
And Vera Vera walks in the garden. Not running bent over, but walking, slowly, gently touching the apple branches, inhaling the white blossoms. Her face is serene and luminous. The wrinkles remain, of course, but her eyes her eyes are alive.
Vera sees me, waves.
Susan! Come for tea! Weve opened the gooseberry jam, your favourite!
I step in, the gate squeaking with familiar homespun charm. I sit with them. The tea is hot, strong, and smoky.
You know, Susan, Zinaida says suddenly, gazing at the sunset.
I always thought love meant someone fusses over you, brings things. But its not that Love is when someone wont let you give up. When they force you to live even when you have no strength.
Vera comes over and hugs her shoulders. Quietly. Nadia lays a hand over her grandmothers.
We sit there, blessed silence, only a cricket tuning its violin behind the stove, and far off, a cow moos as the herd returns. Its so good, Lord. Peaceful. It feels as though all will be well now.
I look at the surgery, at our dusty lanes, at the cottages with their carved window frames, and think: nowhere is better than your home village, when theres harmony in the houses. Here, even the air heals, and the earth gives strength, if only you pull the bitterness out of your heart like garden weeds.
