“Who are you here to see?” asked Mary Fairweather as she and Nicholas stepped onto the porch, eyeing the visitor curiously.
“Im here for Mary Fairweather! Im her granddaughterwell, great-granddaughter, really. Im the daughter of Alexander, her eldest son.”
Mary sat on the sunlit bench, savoring the first warm days of spring. At last, the bitter chill of winter had passed. Only the Lord knew how she had endured it this year.
“I shant last another winter,” she thought, exhaling with relief. She wasnt afraid of passing anymore; in truth, she had long awaited it. She had saved every penny for her final journey, bought the dress she wished to be buried in. Nothing tied her to this world any longer.
***
Once, shed had a large familyher husband, Frederick Wilson, a tall and sturdy man, and four children: three sons and a daughter. They had lived in harmony, helping one another, seldom quarreling. But one by one, the children grew and scattered to the winds.
The two eldest sons went off to university, then settled in distant towns for work. The middle boy had never taken to schooling but later found success in trade, which carried him overseas, where he remained. The daughter, too, left their village behind, flitting off to London and soon marrying.
At first, the children visited often. They wrote letters, and when telephones became common, they rang instead. Grandchildren came in time, and Mary would pack her worn old suitcase to stay with one family or another, helping to raise them.
But gradually, the grandchildren outgrew her care. The calls grew fewer, the visits rare. Her own children had their own lives nowwork, their families, their own growing children to tend. The only time they all returned was when Frederick passed. Hed seemed so strong, as if he might live to a hundred, but death came for him all the same.
After the funeral, they drifted apart once more. At first, they calledbrief, dutiful conversationsbut soon, even that faded. Mary tried ringing them herself but quickly sensed she was an inconvenience. So she let them be.
For ten years, she lived like this. Once a year, if she was lucky, one of them remembered her, and she would smile to herself for a week after.
One afternoon, as she sat lost in thought, a voice called out.
“Good day, Aunt Mary!” A young man stood at the gate, grinning. “Dont you remember me?”
Mary squinted.
“Nicholas! Is that really you?”
“Aye, Aunt Mary!” He strode into the yard, beaming.
Nicholas had been the neighbors boyalways hungry, always underfoot. His parents were quarrelsome, given to drink, and Mary had often fed him, given him hand-me-downs from her own children, let him sleep on her couch when their shouting grew too loud.
But the drink took his parents in the end. Nicholas was sent away to an orphanage, and Mary had not seen him since.
“Where have you been all these years, lad?” she asked, eyes bright.
“First the orphanage, then the army, then I apprenticed. Now Im backtime to put this village right again!”
“Put it right?” She waved a hand. “Everyones gone.”
“Not for long!”
And so began a new chapter for Mary. Nicholas found work with old Mr. Thompson, the wealthiest farmer in the village. In his spare time, he patched up his parents tumbledown cottage and never forgot Maryhelping with chores, mending her fence. She brightened at his presence, calling him “my boy” as if he were her own.
Three years passed this way.
Then one day, Nicholas looked uneasy. “Ive got to go, Aunt Mary. Thompsons turned miserlywants the work but wont pay for it. Im off to the city to find better wages.”
“Go with my blessing, Nicholas,” she said, though her heart ached.
Once more, she was alone. Some days, the loneliness weighed so heavy she wished to weep. Mary passed her days waitingyet somehow, still, she remained.
***
“Good day, Aunt Mary!” called a familiar voice.
She turned, squinting at the gate. “Nicholas? Can it be?”
“Its me!” The tall, well-dressed young man stepped into the yard. “Im backfor good!”
“Oh, what joy!” She fussed over him. “Come in, come in! Ill put the kettle on!”
“Tea sounds grand,” he chuckled. “Let me fetch something firstdidnt know youd be home, so Ive no gifts yet!”
Half an hour later, they sat at the table, sipping from her best china, talking as if no time had passed.
“Id nearly given up, Nicholas,” she admitted, dabbing her eyes.
“Dont you dare!” He wagged a finger playfully. “With the money Ive saved, Ill start my own farm. Youll have no time to think of leaving!”
Just then, a bright voice called out. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Mary peered through the window to see a young woman in a smart coat and heels standing in the yard.
“Who are you here for?” Mary and Nicholas stepped outside.
“You must be Mary Fairweather! Im your great-granddaughterVictoria. My father is Alexander, your eldest.”
They exchanged glances.
“I tried calling, but your phone was disconnected. So I thought Id chance it!”
“Well, come in!” Mary flustered, while Nicholas hurried to take her suitcase.
Over tea, VictoriaVickyate heartily and chattered about herself.
“I dont care for London. Grandfather Alexander thought a few months in the village might cure me of the notion. He rang, my father rangno answer. So here I am! Ill stay till term startsIm studying remotelythen be off.”
“Stay as long as you like,” Mary said warmly.
A month passed. Mary watched from her bench as Vicky worked the garden with surprising skillno city girls hands these. With Nicholass help, they dug up the long-neglected plot, planted rows of vegetables, even put up a greenhouse.
Nicholas, too, was busybuilding a modern barn with his savings, hiring men to mend Marys roof and install proper heating.
Marys heart was full. Only sometimes, a shadow crossed her face when she remembered Vicky would leave soon.
But as Vicky packed to return to London, she turned.
“Youll manage the garden, Gran?”
“However shall I?” Mary sighed, wrapping pastries for her journey.
“Nicholas will water it! And Ill be back to weed!”
“Youre coming back?”
“Of course! I could never stay away. Ive grown too fond of youand Nicholas has proposed! Well marry in autumn. Whats a farm without a farmers wife?”
A year later, Mary sat in the sun, rocking a cradle where her great-great-grandson slept. Vicky and Nicholas were out tending the thriving farmtheir success spilling over into the whole village.
Mary looked at the babe, his cheeks pink with sleep, and smiled.
“Not yet, my times not come. Theres still too much to do.”
