Vera Whitmore stood before the familiar little gate, leaning her weary back against the wicker fence. She had sprinted from the bus like a woman possessed, and now her strength had abandoned her. Seeing the pale blue-grey smoke curling from the chimney, she pressed a hand to her chesther heart hammered so fiercely it might crack her ribs. Though the air was crisp, her brow glistened with sweat. She wiped it away with a quick motion, then pushed open the gate with resolve.
Her practised eye noticed the shed had been patched up. Her son no longer wrote, but he hadnt lied: the old family home was kept in order, just as hed promised. She bounded up the porch steps, ready to embrace her dear little Edward.
But the door swung open to reveal a stranger, dour-faced, with a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, his voice rough as he studied her.
Vera stood frozen.
“Wheres Edward?”
The man scratched his chin, eyeing her without a shred of courtesy. She shrank under his gaze, painfully aware of her shabby quilted jacket, scuffed boots, and stained bagthe garb of someone down on their luck. But one doesnt return from a stroll after being taken away in summer to find autumn already fading. She had only the clothes shed worn in prison.
“Edward is my son. Where is he? Is he all right?”
The stranger shrugged indifferently.
“Dunno. Shouldnt you know?” He moved to shut the door, then hesitated. “Edward Whitmore?”
She nodded quickly. The mans expression softened.
“He sold me this house four years back. Youre welcome to come in if you like…”
“No, no!” Vera waved her hands, nearly stumbling off the step. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
He shook his head. She turned back toward the gate. She could go to her old friend Martha, but Martha had a sharp tongueshed heap scorn on her. And a mothers heart whispered that something terrible had happened to her boy.
Trudging slowly to the bus stop, she lost herself in bleak thoughts. What had gone wrong? Edward had been so trusting Four years ago, hed relied on a “friend” and ended up tangled in fraud. If Vera hadnt taken the blame, hed have faced a far longer sentence. Theyd given her only five yearsan old woman. Released early for good behaviour, theyd even paid her fare home.
Sitting on a cold bench, she whispered,
“Where do I look for you, my boy?”
Tears welled in her eyes. Her heart had lurched three years prior when Edwards letters stopped. Now her worst fears seemed confirmedhed even sold the house. She dried her cheeks with a handkerchief.
Suddenly, a black car pulled up beside her. The dour stranger, the houses new owner, held out a slip of paper.
“Found this address in the papers. If you like, Ill drive you into town.”
She clutched it like a lifeline.
“Thank you, lad, but dont trouble yourself. Ill manage.” Heartened, she headed for the rumbling bus approaching in the distance.
Half an hour of jolting rides and bewildered wandering brought her to a crumbling building. She pressed the buzzer again and again, holding her breath. Would they answer only to deliver grim news? Tears streamed unchecked.
When the door swung open, her joy knew no boundsthere he stood, rumpled, a little drunk, but alive! Her Edward! She sobbed, reaching for him, but he didnt share her joy. He stepped back, holding the door ajar.
“Howd you find me?”
Stunned by his cold welcome, she faltered. Edward turned her toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Mum. Cant let you in. Im with a woman who wont have ex-cons under her roof. Sort yourself outIve not a penny to spare.”
Vera tried to mention the houses sale, but the door slammed shutlike a gunshot to the heart. She didnt cry anymore. Head bowed, she descended the steps. Martha had been right: shed raised a scoundrel. Shed have to admit it and endure her scolding, homeless and alone.
Back in the village, fate struck againMartha had died six months prior. Her house now belonged to distant nephews. Under a light drizzle, Vera huddled at the bus stop, pondering the future.
Headlights startled her. The stranger from earlier, the houses new owner, called out:
“Get inyoure soaked!”
She refused through sobsshe had nowhere to go, and this strangers kindness seemed too much. He practically bundled her into the car.
They talked. Vera shared her bitter tale, omitting only the visit to her son out of shame. The driver, Andrew, offered her a place to stay, at least for a while. So Vera Whitmore returned to her old home, now Andrews, and there she remained.
Andrew worked from dawn till dusk, running a thriving timber mill. She took charge of the housecooking, laundry, choreseasy enough with modern appliances. Andrew, still young and divorced, had no plans to remarry.
Her presence was just what he needed: an orphan raised by the state, he now knew the warmth of a home. Whenever she spoke of leaving, hed say,
“Where would you go? This is your home!”
Gradually, her heart thawed. A blood son couldnt be replaced, but Andrew proved a rare sortalmost like her own. As winter neared, she began bringing him lunch at the milljust a short walk, and often he was too busy to come home.
One day, she arrived with a thermos of steaming beef stew and meat pies. She shooed a stranger from the office, spread a clean cloth. Andrew laughed:
“Mrs. Whitmore, youre a generalno arguing! What if he takes offence?”
She frowned.
“Thinking of making him foreman? Look at his facea right rogue. Trust my instinctsprison taught me to read folk.”
He shook his head.
“Come now, Mum! His references are solid. Cant judge on a glance.”
She was right. A month later, the mill suffered heavy lossesthe man had been smuggling timber and vanished with a lorryload. Andrew, grim, admitted his mistake.
Hiring a new crew, he decided: since “Gran” had the knack, shed help. From then on, Vera sat in on interviewsAndrew asked the questions, she observed, jotting down verdicts. Page after page: “quarrelsome drunk,” “proven thief,” “lazy sot”succinct, precise.
She spotted the good workers too, even the rough-edged ones. But one candidate gave her pauseher hands trembled as she stared at the form.
Andrew studied the visitor: the man whod sold the house. Edward gaped, watching his mother beside the owner, fidgeting with his cap. His wife had sent himthe mill paid well. He never expected to find his mother here; hed thought her vanished.
In the silence, Andrew took the verdict slip. Vera had written two words, then fled. Edward smirkedof course theyd hire him. His mother would vouch for him.
Andrew read aloud:
“Blasted wastrel.” He shooed Edward like a fly. “Out! I trust Mums judgment.”
