Theres always something left to do at home
Old Granny Edith fumbled with the garden gate, her fingers sluggish and clumsy in the damp afternoon. She shuffled to the battered door of her cottage, fussing with the rusty lock, and finally stepped inside the chilly, hollow house. She lowered herself onto a creaky chair by the cold, unlit hearth.
The air inside carried the melancholy scent of emptiness.
Shed only been gone three months, but the cobwebs stretched thick across the beams. The Victorian chair moaned quietly under her weight, while the chimney wind muttered in the fluethe house seemed to greet her reproachfully: whereve you vanished to, mistress? Whom did you hand me over to? How do you imagine Ill see through the winter?
Just you wait, my dear Give me a moment to catch me breath Ill have a fire lit and well get some warmth going
Only a year ago, Granny Edith darted about her old house, brisk as a cricketpainting here, scrubbing there, hauling cold water from the rain barrel. Her petite form bobbed before the icons, then fussed about the cooker, then flitted through the tangled roses in the garden, planting and weeding and watering with tireless hands.
And the house chattered in sympathy, the old floorboards squealing cheerfully under her nimble step. Doors and windows swung wide at the merest brush of her gnarled but lively fingers, and the ancient oven baked grand pies with tender pride. The house and Edith, they were made for each other.
Shed lost her husband youngput him in the churchyard years ago. Raised three children, schooled them, sent them off to see the world. Henry, her eldest, captained a merchant ship. Robert, the second, was a colonel in the army. Both lived far away and visited seldom.
Only her youngest, Alice, remained in the village, chief crop expert at the local farm co-op. Work kept her away from dawn till dusk. On Sundays, shed dash in, her arms full of groceries and baked treats, then vanish again for another week.
Ediths one consolation was her granddaughter, Pippa. Pippa had practically been raised by her granny.
And what a pretty thing shed grown up to be! Big grey-blue eyes, hair the colour of late summer barleythick, curly, shining so bright youd think she wore a golden crown. Shed tie it back, and still, it tumbled over her slim shoulders, making all the village boys stare, open-mouthed and daft. Such poise! Howd a farm girl from Suffolk turn out such a beauty?
Granny Edith herself had been handsome enough in her time, but set her old wedding snapshot next to Pippas portrait and youd think: shepherdess vs. princess
Pippa was sharp as a tack, too. Off shed gone to the agricultural college in Norwich, graduated top of her class, come home to number the farms ledgers in tidy columns. She married Tom, the village vet. Theyd got a solid brick house through a young familys scheme.
And what a house! Sturdy, red-bricked, handsome enough to be called a villa, not a house, in those days.
Only trouble was, Pippa’s shiny new garden looked sparsethree lonesome stems and a handful of nettles. She never quite took to gardening herself. Despite her village roots, Pippa was gentle, protected from every draught and hardship by her doting gran.
Then came little Johnny, her baby boy. Gardening could waitlife was busy enough.
So Pippa started urging Edith, Come live with us, Granny! The house is spacious and warmno need for stoking the range.
As Edith turned eighty, her once lively legs gave up, waiting only for this round birthday to grow weary. Wearied by loneliness, she was easy to persuade.
She stayed with Pippa a few months, until, one evening, she overheard:
Oh Granny, I do love you, you know I do! But must you always just sit? You never stop, never did! And now, you just rest Id hoped for help round the house, a bit of company
But I cant do much, dear, my legs dont carry me Im just an old woman now
Hm. The very day you moved in, you went old
So, soon enough, Granny Edith, not living up to expectations, went back to her own empty cottage.
The shame of not helping, not doing enough for her beloved grandchild, left Edith bedridden. Her legs shuffled slowly across cold stone floorsworn out from years of hurrying. Reaching the table became a trial of endurance, the church a journey to another world.
Father Charles, the kindly parish priest, came himself, calling on his loyal, now ailing, congregant and former helper at the church bazaar. With a sharp eye, he took in the scene.
Edith was at the table, writing her customary monthly letters to her sons.
It was chilled inside; the fire burned fitfully, the stone floor icy. She wore a faded woollen cardigan and a grubby old scarfthe neatest housekeeper in her dayher feet clad in worn slippers.
Father Charles sighed: Edith did need a helper. Perhaps Anne from the post office? She was hale still, and only sixty, twenty years Ediths junior.
He pulled loaves and currant cake from his satchel, plus half a still-warm fish pie (Mrs. Alexanders best). He rolled up his cassock sleeves, shovelled ash from the range, fetched firewood three times over, stacked the logs in the corner, lit a decent blaze, fetched water, and set a hefty blackened kettle on the hob.
My dear, oh!that is, Father, could you help with addresses on the envelopes? If I scrawl like a hen, the postman will never deliver!
Father Charles sat, wrote the addresses, and glanced at the wobbly letters on Ediths pages. His eye caught the enormous, trembly words: Alls well here, my darling boy, I want for nothing, thanks be to God!
But those alls well letters were blurred by hastily-dried ink, and some stains looked awfully like tears.
Anne started popping in to help, and Father Charles called by to hear Ediths confession and bring communion. For high days, Annes husband Uncle Petean old Navy mangave Edith rides to service on his battered motorbike. Life settled into a gentle muddle.
Pippa stopped visiting. A few years passed, then came news: shed fallen gravely ill. Shed always had stomach troublesput them down to nerves. But now it was cancer. And, just like that, Pippa faded away within six months.
Her husband took to the churchyard, bottle in hand, sleeping beside her grave, waking only for another stroll to the village shop for whisky. Their boy, Johnny, just four, was abandoned, dirty, hungry, sniffly.
Alice took him in, but her days as chief grower left her no time for a child. Plans were soon made for Johnny to head off to the local childrens home.
The home had a reputation for care, a brisk headmaster, three decent meals a day, children taken home at weekends.
Not quite a family upbringing, but Alice had no choice; she had shifts into the night and years until retirement.
But then Edith arrived in the sidecar of Uncle Petes ancient Triumph, Pete in a stripy jumper with anchors and mermaids tattooed up both forearmsbraving dragonflies and thistles alike.
Ill have Johnny with me, Edith said simply.
But Mum, you hardly walk at all! Hell need meals and clean clotheshes a handful!
As long as I draw breath, I wont let Johnny go to the orphanage, Edith said, voice firm as oak.
Startled by the steel in Ediths gentle voice, Alice fell silent, then packed Johnnys things.
Uncle Pete drove them home, unloaded them both, then practically carried them into the house. Neighbours shook their heads:
A sweet old dear, Edithbut dotty in her old age, it seems She needs looking after herself, and shes fetched home a child! Hes not a puppyhe needs proper care. What on earths Alice thinking?
After Mass, Father Charles walked up the lane with a sinking feelingwould he find Johnny hungry and dirty, destined to be rescued from a feeble, well-meaning old woman?
Inside, the cottage was warm, fire blazing. Johnny in fresh pyjamas listened to The Gingerbread Boy on an ancient record player, full and content.
As for feeble Edith, she cheerfully dashed about: brushing a tin for buns, kneading dough, cracking eggs into the curds. Her legs, once so tired, worked briskly, spry as they were before illness.
Dear Father! I just started baking Give us a moment. Something hot for Mrs. Alexander and young Joecant send you home empty-handed
Father Charles made his way home, baffled by the miracle scene, and told his wife.
Mrs. Alexander frowned thoughtfully, took down a fat blue notebook from the shelf, leafed through, and found a page:
Old Granny May saw her days out. All washed awaythe dreams, the feelings, the hopessleeping under a snowy white blanket. Her time had come One wild February evening, May prayed long before the icons, then lay down and told the household, Fetch the vicarIm off to the next world.
And her face turned whitewhiter than the drifts outside.
They fetched the priest. May confessed, took communion, and then lay silent a whole dayneither food nor water passed her lips. Only her faint breath told that her soul still lingered.
Then, the front door banged wide: a gust of icy air and a babys wail.
Shh, shh! Grannys dying
I cant stop a newborn cryingshe only just arrived and doesnt know its not allowed
Her granddaughter, Lucy, returned from hospital with a tiny, red-faced baby. Everyone else at work, leaving the dying old woman and the new mother alone. Lucys milk hadnt come in, she was worn out, and the infants howl rattled the rafters.
Dying Granny May lifted her head, her unfocused eyes clearing. With effort, she sat, slipped bony feet to the floor, groped until she found her slippers.
When the family returned, fearing the worst, they foundmiracle!May wasnt dying at all. She had changed her mind entirely, bustling around, rocking the now-contented infant, while exhausted Lucy slept on the sofa.
Mrs. Alexander shut the diary, smiled at her husband, and added:
My Great-Granny Vera loved me too dearly to let go. Shed say, No time to dietheres work left at home.
And she lived another ten years, helping my motheryour own mother-in-law, Mrs. Alice Thomasto raise me, her favourite great-granddaughter.
And Father Charles smiled back at his wife.
