There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val opened the creaky garden gate with trembling hands, shuffled across to her door, struggled for ages with the rusty old lock, finally stepped into her cold, unheated cottage, and settled onto a worn chair beside an icy hearth. The cottage had that musty emptiness of a house left without its owner. She’d only been away three months, yet the ceilings already draped with cobwebs, the antique chair sighed under her weight, wind howled in the chimney—the house met her with grumpy reproach: Where have you been, Mistress? Who did you think would see to me? How are we supposed to survive this winter? “Now, now, my darling, just you wait a moment and let me catch my breath… I’ll get the fire going, we’ll warm up soon enough…” Just a year ago, Granny Val was bustling about the old cottage: whitewashing, freshening the paint, fetching water. Her small, spry figure would bend in deep bows before the icons, tend the range, flit through the garden—in time to plant, weed, and water. The house rejoiced with her, the floorboards merrily creaked under her lively steps, doors and windows sprang open at the first touch of her hardworking hands, the old range baked up fluffy pies with enthusiasm. They were happy together: Val and her longtime home. She lost her husband early, raised three children and made sure every one of them became someone. One son was a ship’s captain, another a colonel, both lived far away and rarely came to visit. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village, now the chief agronomist, always at work from dawn to dusk. She’d visit Mum most Sundays, relishing her pies—then a week would go by with no visits. Her real joy—granddaughter Sveta. Really, it was Granny Val who’d raised her. And what a girl she turned out to be! A beauty—big, storm-grey eyes, a cascade of oat-blonde hair falling in shining curls to her waist, glimmering with life. When she tossed her mane into a ponytail and strands fell over her shoulders—the local lads were struck dumb. Mouths hanging open—literally. A perfectly sculpted figure. How did a village girl grow up with that sort of posture and beauty? Granny Val had been pretty in her day, but compare an old photo of hers with one of Sveta—she a shepherdess, her granddaughter a queen… Sharp as a tack, too. Sveta finished university in the city—agricultural economics—then returned home to work as an accountant. She married a vet, and through a young families’ scheme, they were granted a brand-new house. And what a house! Solid, dignified, all brick—a proper English country home for the times, not just a house. Her gran’s cottage was surrounded by gardens, everything blooming and bearing. The new house had only a struggling flowerbed so far—three lonely stems poking out. And truth be told, Svetlana had little knack for gardening. Though a country girl, she was gentle, always shielded by gran from any chill or hard work. Then came a baby boy, little Vassily. There was no time for gardening after that. So Sveta began begging granny to come live with them: “Come now—my house is big and modern, there’s no need to bother with the hearth.” Granny Val began ailing as she turned eighty—as if illness were waiting for a grand occasion. Her once sprightly legs grew weak. She finally gave in. She lived a few months with her granddaughter. Then she heard: “Granny, dear—I love you so much, you know I do! But why do you just sit there? You’ve always been busy, always bustling! Now you just take up space… I want to run a household here, I was hoping for your help…” “But I can’t, love, my legs simply won’t move anymore… I’m old…” “Hmm… Funny, you only became old once you got here…” So the grandmother, failing to live up to expectations, was swiftly sent home again. Distraught that she’d let her beloved granddaughter down, Granny Val took to her bed. She shuffled across the floor, her legs unwilling to go farther—after a life of running, they were tired. Reaching from bed to table became a daily trial; getting to church was now impossible. Father Boris came visiting his longtime parishioner—once such a vital helper at the old village church. He looked around with a practised eye. Granny Val sat at her table, hard at work—writing her usual monthly letters to her sons. It was chilly: the hearth barely warmed the air, the floor was icy. She wore a well-loved old jumper, a faded scarf—she, once the very picture of neatness and order—worn slippers on her feet. Father Boris sighed—she needed help. Who to ask? Maybe Anna, living nearby, strong and at least twenty years Val’s junior. He took out some bread, gingerbread, half a big fresh pie filled with fish—a present from his wife, Alexandra. He rolled up his cassock sleeves, cleared the old ashes from the range, brought in a heap of wood for several fires, stacked it in the corner. Lit the fire, fetched water, set the big blackened kettle on the hob. “My dear boy—oh, Father, I mean! Help me with these addresses for the envelopes. If I write it in my chicken scratch, the post won’t find them!” Father Boris sat down, wrote out the addresses, glanced over the shaky lines of her letters. What caught his eye—in large, wobbly print: “I am doing so well, my dear son. I have everything I need, thank God!” But the pages meant to tell of Granny Val’s good fortune were all splotched—with ink blots, and from the shape of them, probably salty tears. Anna took charge of the old lady. Father Boris made sure to visit, bring confession and communion; on big feast days, Anna’s husband Uncle Pete—an old salt with anchor tattoos—would bring Val to church by sidecar motorcycle. Life began, little by little, to look up. Her granddaughter disappeared—and after a couple of years, fell gravely ill. Svetlana had long struggled with digestive trouble, chalking up every complaint to her bad stomach. It turned out to be lung cancer. How she got it—no one would ever know. Svetlana faded in half a year. Her husband lived at her grave, bottle in hand, sleeping there, waking up for another drink. Four-year-old Vassily was left unwanted—dirty, runny-nosed, hungry. Tamara took him in, but with all she had to do at work, she had no time to look after her grandson. Plans were made to send Vasya to the local children’s home. By local standards, it wasn’t a bad place: a lively headteacher, decent meals, children could go home on weekends. Not a real home, of course, but Tamara had little choice—late hours and many years till retirement. And so, one day, Granny Val arrived by sidecar to her daughter’s: Uncle Pete at the handlebars, sporting a striped sailor’s shirt, anchors and mermaids adorning his arms. Both looked ready for battle. Granny Val announced: “I’ll take Vasya home to me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk! How will you manage a little lad—you have to cook for him, do his washing!” “As long as I’m alive, Vasya won’t live in a children’s home,” she said firmly. Taken aback by normally gentle Granny Val’s resolve, Tamara fell silent, packed up the boy’s things. Uncle Pete carted granny and the boy home, all but carrying them into the cottage. Neighbours shook their heads: “Lovely old soul, always so kind, but clearly losing her marbles now—she needs looking after herself, and she’s brought a child! He’s no puppy—he needs care. Whatever is Tamara thinking?” After Sunday service, Father Boris set out for Granny Val’s, full of foreboding—would he find a starved, filthy little Vasya needing rescue from his frail grandmother? He found the cottage warm, the fire blazing. Little Vasya, clean and contented, sat on the sofa listening to a record tell the story of the Gingerbread Man. And the “decrepit” old lady? She flitted through the kitchen: greasing a baking tray with a feather, kneading dough, cracking eggs for cottage cheese cakes. Her weary old legs now moved lively and sure, as if she’d never been ill. “Dear Father! Just baking a few currant buns… Give us a minute—there’ll be hot treats for your Alexandra and Koozie!” Father Boris returned home, still amazed, and recounted it all to his wife. Mother Alexandra considered a moment, then fetched a thick blue notebook from the shelf, flipped through and found the page she wanted: “Old Mrs. Yates had lived a long life. It had all passed in a flash—hopes, dreams, loves, all sleeping under a soft white winter blanket. The time had come for the place where pain and sorrow cease… One stormy February evening, Yates prayed long before her icons, then lay down and said, ‘Call the vicar—I feel I’m dying.’ Her face turned as white as the snow on the windowsill. The family fetched the priest, she confessed, took communion, then lay for a day and a night, taking neither food nor water. Only the faintest breathing showed her soul still lingered on in her old body. The bell rang—icy winter air blew in with the door, and an infant’s wail cut through the silence. ‘Hush now, Gran’s not well…’ ‘I can hardly silence a baby—she’s just born, hasn’t learned not to cry yet…’ Her granddaughter Annie, just out from the maternity home, had returned, baby in arms. That morning everyone else had gone to work, leaving the dying old lady alone with the young mum. Annie’s milk hadn’t come in properly; the baby was wailing and wailing, making it nigh impossible for Yates to die in peace. The dying Yates sat up, found her slippers, shuffled across to the crying child, and took her in her arms. When the family returned, expecting the worst, they found Mrs. Yates moving about the room, gently rocking the now contented, peaceful baby, while Annie, worn out, rested on the sofa. Her mind made up—not to die just then—Mrs. Yates lived another ten years, helping to raise her beloved great-grandchild.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and finished, “‘It’s too soon for me to go—I’ve still got things to do here at home!’ as the old song goes. My great-gran Vera Yates loved me dearly, and simply couldn’t allow herself to die just yet.” She lived another decade, helping my mother—your mother-in-law—raise me, her favourite great-granddaughter. And Father Boris smiled back at his wife.