Understand this! That old woman is nobody to us! Eleanor shrieked, trying to convince her daughter that she was right. Susan winced, as if ready to weep, then lifted her head and declared, Then she is the most beloved NobodyOne in the world for me, and it will stay that way!
It happened that from the manychildren farm family of John and Lucy all the daughters were married off, and only the youngest, Martha the quietest and most gentle remained untouched. Apparently her fiancé had never been born, or had wandered off to some faroff moor. Lucy mourned for her, saying that Martha stayed a solid pillar for her parents until the children of her nowurban nephews finally began to appear.
First came Victor, the son of the eldest sister, bowing low and begging, Aunt Martha, could you look after my daughter? The nursery wont take her, and my wife needs to go to work. Martha, now a grown woman, stood at a crossroads: her parents were ageing, how could she leave them? And the city frightened her. Yet Victor pleaded earnestly, promising not to neglect his own mother and father. He had already come many times to plant and dig potatoes, to fix the roof.
Her parents urged the lingering daughter to go, whispering that perhaps in the town she might meet a gentleman. The old woman, despite being well into her forties, was not yet a crone. Susan did not know that they had already discussed how Martha would fare alone while they escorted her to the guestroom. In the town, perhaps she could settle among relatives. Thus the farm girl became a nanny. Victor thought it through: his aunts friend had found a parttime job, and Marthas apprenticeship continued to flow.
Victors eldest daughter started school, the second arrived soon after. Marthas own mother and father passed away, and she was no longer caring for Victors children but for another nephews brood. The mantel of labour passed from hand to hand through the family, taking children from cradle to schoolgate. It seemed she had become unnecessary. The nephews, instead of luring her, began to bear with her. Thanks, Victor! they muttered.
A couple of years before the aunts presence started to feel like a weight, the familys country house surrounded by berry woods, mushroom glades, and a river was sold by Marthas sisters children for a tidy sum of pounds. Victor seized the moment, Lets all chip in and buy a little room for Aunt Martha. She has a share in the house; she shouldnt have to live under a bush!
The nieces shivered, but finally let go, while their wives fretted, If she dies, who inherits this tiny household? The housing question was always a thorn. Victor, a good soul, waved his hand, Whoever serves the tea will get what she decides. And so, if she lived, the lonely aunt would not be left to drift. Victor, however, never reached fifty; a bout of gastritis and then cancer took him.
When Victor vanished, the kin forgot about Martha. The children were grown, no longer needing nannies, and Martha, now in her seventies, was left with a modest oneroom flat. She moved in with only a table, a wardrobe, and a folding cot simple belongings. Accustomed to tending tots, she felt the ache of emptiness, until a familiar vacancy appeared.
One day, while standing in line at a shop, a young woman at the cash register turned to Martha and asked, Do you happen to look after children? My daughtershes pale, just had heart surgery, not ready for nursery. I need the kindest nanny, with board. Martha leaned toward the girl, who brightened suddenly and whispered, Come! Ill tell you stories. And so Martha acquired a new charge.
Susan entered her fourth year of childhood, and raising her was pure delight. The little, spry girl bonded with her caregiver, calling her PuddingMartha, a nickname the old woman accepted gladly. The girl had to do breathing exercises, avoid the sootfilled streets, and keep to a routine. Though uneducated, Martha obeyed every rule to the letter. Susan grew strong and healthy.
When night fell and the world dimmed, the girl would ask, Pudding, tell me a story about your life. Martha would spin simple, earnest tales, even sharing a private episode: one time she had returned home on a riverboat with a pregnant nieces husband, had cared for the first child until preschool, then the second arrived, and the nieces wife whisked Martha away early.
On that boat a young woman named Olive turned, cradling a baby. Olive, a student, had been abandoned by her lover, the child was born, and her parents, oblivious, might cast her out. She whispered, I need somewhere safe for my baby; perhaps God has sent you. Olive placed a hefty bag at Marthas feet, handed the infant, and fled as the boat docked.
Minutes slipped by; the baby whined. Martha, never a mother herself, unfolded a blanket, sang a lullaby, and discovered a note: Olive apologized, signing Ally. Inside the bag were baby clothes, powdered milk, and a thermos of hot waterno birth certificate, perhaps the child was born outside a hospital.
The boat pulled away. Martha fed Ally, feeling a bitter sorrow, recalling the whispered God sent you. Dreamlogic swirled: Well live together; shell be my daughter. The nephews wife, arriving in a panic, demanded, Why take a strangers child when we have our own? The captain intervened, and the baby was taken from Martha. She would never forgive herself for not seizing the chance.
Susan, eyes brimming, clutched the old woman, At least I have you, nanny. Martha nodded, Youre mine, my little girl. Yet Marthas status in the household remained precarious. Eleanor had taken everything she could from her. At first the street nanny was a full family membertrusted, fed, given a small stipend she tucked away with her pension.
One evening Eleanor, blushing, suggested, Martha, youre idle. Lets rent out the room. The moneys modest, but we could pay for Susans music lessons. A dusty piano sat in the house; Eleanor wanted her daughter to learn without a conservatory. Martha agreed, and they began renting.
Years later, Eleanor inherited a tidy sum from the sale of a relatives flat. With Marthas consent, the tiny flat was transformed into a spacious onebedroom apartment, titled jointly to Susan and Martha. By then, the extended family had lost interest, and everything settled quietly.
Time fluttered by. Susan blossomed into a striking, perfectly healthy young woman, finished school, and moved to the neighbouring town to study. Martha handed over her modest savingsenough for rent, a bit for a wedding perhaps. By then her sight was fading, her steps shuffling, the old woman smelling of age, a lingering question: why had she become Eleanors burden? Her own mother lived elsewhere, needing no care, yet this stranger lived under her roof, demanding tea, pills, and constant attention. Was this why Eleanors husband lingered later after work?
Eleanor shifted Martha into a dark pantry, remarking irritably, For Gods sake, get your own place! She addressed her formally, underscoring that Martha was nobody. All the kindness Eleanor once showed vanished.
Eventually, the nieces, one by one, left their children with Martha, and she stood aloneher only link to the past being the flat shed helped secure. Susan, drunk on university life, barely remembered the nanny, asking her mother over the phone, Hows the nanny? and hanging up. She visited home rarely, content with the parcels of provisions her parents brought. In her second year, she and a classmate rented a flat together, and Marthas saved money came to the rescue again.
After passing her exams, Susan burst home with news: Mum, Andrew proposed! Hell come with his parents this weekend. No big fuss, but I need a white dress and wheres the nanny? Ive got her a special gift! She raced to the room that had once been Marthas. Eleanor, a little embarrassed, followed. Susan, frantic, called out, Mum, wheres the nanny? Eleanor, sighing, said, Shes in the dark cupboard. Your father moved the shelves, turned it into a room. Martha cant see anyway, so its quieter.
Susan flung open the cupboard door, barely making out a frail bed and the crinkled figure of Martha, who stared back with hollow eyes. Eleanor, refusing to witness the heartwrenching reunion, slipped away to the kitchen. Susan, tears streaming, brushed Marthas lined cheeks, whispering, Nanny, forgive me, my little one. Youre my ripe berry, my sweet bun. Marthas voice crackled, Susan, dear child, weve met. She felt the girls head, murmuring, Youre beautiful.
Two hours later, Martha, having been washed, fed, and rested, sat on the edge of the old bed in the same room shed shared with Susan. A shy smile played on her lips. On her knees lay a small box of scented herbs a present from Susan: lavender, rosemary, chamomile, each releasing its own perfume. The air turned into a meadow, and though blind, Martha felt, for the first time in years, the world of scent, touch, and sound swirling around her.
Behind the closed kitchen door, the mother tried to negotiate with her angry daughter. Its hard for me, caring for a blind old woman, managing your fathers midlife crisis. Your grandmother lives elsewhere, needs nothing, but Im expected to look after this one. Susan whispered, What if I lock you in the cupboard for forty yearswill you understand? Eleanor shrieked, Shes nobody to us! Susan winced, then lifted her head, Then to me shes the most beloved NobodyOne on Earth, and that wont change! The argument ended, but Susan took matters into her own hands, postponing her fiancés parents visit indefinitely, inviting only Andrew, introducing him to the NobodyOne.
From the flat that had once been the familys, the tenants were evicted; the lease was rewritten in Susans and Marthas names. They bought secondhand furniture cheaply, turned the place into a modest home.
Susan, at first, doubted Andrews willingness to reshape her life around an elderly stranger. Yet he, a medical student, sensed the moral weight and stayed. They married in a simple ceremony, Susan studying speech therapy, Andrew becoming an eye doctor.
Martha, though not as helpless as the mother had painted, could still manage half a day alone. She feared that her presence would spoil the girls life, that she would become a burden. Yet she persisted, her days filled with the scent of herbs and the soft murmur of Susans laughter.
When Susans mother tried to arrange a care home for Martha, she pulled strings with an influential acquaintance. Susan, intoxicated by university life, forgot about the nanny, only asking, Hows the nanny? and hanging up. She returned home rarely, satisfied with the occasional visits of parents bearing groceries. In her second year, she and a roommate took a flat together, and once more Marthas modest savings rescued them.
After her exams, Susan flew home, breathless, announcing, Mum, Andrews proposal! Hell come with his parents, well have a modest wedding, and Ive brought a special gift for our nanny! She stormed into the room that had once been Marthas. Eleanor, a shade of embarrassment, followed. Susan, panic rising, shouted, Mum, wheres the nanny? Eleanor, trying to sound calm, replied, Shes in the dark cupboard. Your father turned the shelves into a room. She cant see, so its quieter. Susan flung the cupboard door open, glimpsing a bedraggled bed and the frail figure of Martha, eyes empty yet steady.
Eleanor, refusing to witness the painful scene, slipped into the kitchen. Susan, tears wetting her cheeks, pressed her palms to Marthas lined cheeks, whispering, Nanny, forgive me, my little one. Youre my ripe berry, my sweet bun. Marthas voice rustled, Susan, dear child. Weve met. She tucked her hand around the girls head, murmuring, Youre beautiful.
Later, Martha, fed and washed, perched on the edge of the old bed with a shy smile. Susan placed a small tin of dried flowers beside her lavender, rosemary, chamomile each releasing a gentle perfume. The room seemed a blooming meadow, and though Martha could not see, she lived again through scent, touch, and the soft hush of Susans voice.
Thus the dream slipped away, leaving behind the echo of a forgotten NobodyOne, a house that breathed with the scent of herbs, and a girl who finally understood that love, even when blind, can be as vivid as a field of wildflowers.
