The Inherited Cottage
“And how can you bring yourself to do it?” her daughter marvelled. “Mum, won’t you be frightened, all alone in that village?”
“People are everywhere,” Elizabeth Spencer replied calmly. “I’ll find friends there too, don’t you worry. But I’ll always be waiting for your visits. As for the city—no, I shan’t return. I’ve been waiting for my pension like a reward. And the cottage is decent, even on instalment. Isn’t that a blessing?” Elizabeth was in fine spirits. Not only had she realised her dream of a cottage in the nearest village, but there was another reason to leave. Her daughter, Margaret, was already thirty and still hadn’t found a partner. So Elizabeth decided to leave the flat to her, hoping it might help the girl settle down.
“Make yourself at home here,” she said, hugging Margaret before boarding the bus that would carry her toward her dream. “I’ll pop by when I come to market or the shops.”
The village welcomed Elizabeth quickly. She didn’t miss the city flat at all, having spent years at her suburban garden plot—now sold, as it was no longer needed. The village was a pleasant place, with a shop, a bus route, even a clinic and a little library.
“Lovely!” Elizabeth would sigh each morning, stretching on the cottage’s front step. The neighbours were kind, always offering help, but she refused, eager to manage on her own.
At first, Margaret visited often, unused to her mother’s absence and fretful for her sake. They’d lived side by side all these years, and now Margaret felt the weight of expectations—she must start a family, not disappoint her mother. That was Elizabeth’s parting instruction.
Spring was warm and damp.
“Good for sowing,” remarked her neighbour, Thomas Whitmore, a spry seventy-year-old pensioner. “Wet earth means a fine harvest.”
Elizabeth not only tended her garden but soon kept chickens and ducks—the old barn was in fine repair. She flitted about like a sparrow: up at dawn to feed the birds, open the greenhouse, weed the beds. Her tabby, Lord Paddington, trailed after her, eyeing the chickens with suspicion.
“Don’t fret, Paddington. We adapt to good things fast. Look at you—already lord of the manor.”
Soon, a stray dog named Scamp joined them—a scruffy thing that had begged scraps all winter. Pity moved Elizabeth to let her into the yard, and Scamp never left, gazing adoringly as her new mistress filled her bowl each morning with porridge and meat scraps. She slept under the porch until Thomas, at Elizabeth’s request, built her a snug kennel.
The village praised their new neighbour—a kind, capable woman—and always greeted her warmly.
Margaret, though, struggled with guilt.
“How can I ever repay you, Mum?” she’d ask during weekend visits.
But when she met her William, she understood her mother’s sacrifice. They married, and a year later, little Beatrice was born.
“You’ve repaid me,” laughed Granny Lizzie, delighted. “Our family goes on! You must visit every summer—I’ll get a goat, give our Bea healing milk.”
Years passed, and Elizabeth became a true villager. Margaret and William visited to bathe in the wooden sauna, help in the garden, and take home jars of preserves. Still, Margaret worried.
“Aren’t you tired, Mum? You’re not young anymore—past seventy now. And alone, with us only visiting. Both of us work, and Bea will start school soon.”
“I manage,” Elizabeth insisted. “If it gets hard, I’ll cut back. What would I do without them? Stare out the window? They keep me cheerful…”
Even when aches and illnesses came with age, Elizabeth clung to her ducks and goat. Only in her eighties did she keep just the chickens. Scamp and Lord Paddington were gone now, but two abandoned cats—Muffin and Tilly—found their way to her door.
“Don’t take in any more, Mum,” Margaret begged. “I’m worn out from travelling here to help. And I’m no spring chicken—soon it’ll be my turn to retire.”
Her marriage didn’t last. She and William parted when Beatrice finished school and left for university in London. He supported their daughter through her studies, while Margaret poured everything into her education. After graduating, Beatrice stayed in the capital, marrying and building her own life.
So Margaret was alone in the flat again, her daughter and son-in-law visiting rarely—too busy with their own lives.
Elizabeth could barely walk now. The garden shrank, and each visit brought fresh pleas from Margaret:
“Have you decided to come back, Mum? The hospital’s close, your old room’s waiting. I won’t have to keep rushing here and fretting over you.”
But Elizabeth refused.
“Why should I burden you, love? You might yet meet someone—you’re still young. As for me—I shan’t live two lifetimes, nor wish to. This is where I’ve been happiest.” Tears shone in her eyes.
Margaret had no choice but to accept it.
Two months before her fifty-fifth birthday, she promised: “Hold on—I’ll retire soon and come stay. We’ll tend the garden, fix up the cottage.”
But Elizabeth didn’t wait. The neighbours called—she’d gone to sleep and never woken. Peaceful, as if dreaming.
“Like an angel,” they murmured. “A gentle soul taken gently.”
After the funeral, Margaret meant to sell the cottage. The neighbours sighed and sought buyers. But to collect her mother’s things, she returned forty days later—for a week. She had to clean, find homes for the cats the neighbours had fed in her absence.
Approaching the cottage, her heart ached. Her mother had been happy here for nearly twenty-five years. She herself had poured sweat into this soil—mending fences, patching roofs, pruning trees. Too much to name.
The cats met her, mewing and twining round her ankles.
“Hush now—I’ve brought treats. Poor Muffin, poor Tilly, starving and lonely, eh?” She filled their bowls, stroking their backs. “Mum loved you dearly. And now no one wants you…”
Inside, she opened the windows and set to work. Soon, the cottage breathed again—soup simmered, potatoes sizzled, firewood crackled in the stove, the old wall clock ticked back to life.
“There,” Margaret smiled. “Just like Mum’s time. Just as she liked it…”
Her heart swelled—warm and sorrowful at once—and she wept before her mother’s portrait.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Thomas’s son, Alfred—retired five years now—appeared in the doorway.
“Welcome back, Spencer. Decided yet? Smells cosy in here…”
“Join me, Whitmore. I’m a mess—can’t eat alone. Always had Mum before.”
“Gladly.” Alfred washed his hands at the sink while Margaret set out another plate.
“You know,” he said suddenly, “our paths aren’t so different. My dad died, and here I am. Your mum’s gone—and here you are. Maybe we ought to stay where our folks found peace. What d’you reckon?”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “But it’s not easy—changing everything…”
“Easier than rotting by a telly in some flat. Here, you’ve the woods, the river, the orchard. And your beasts, too…”
They glanced at the cats, dozing blissfully by the stove.
Margaret smiled.
“I’m not leaving, Whitmore. I’ve decided—here I stay.”
A week later, she returned to the city—not to live, but to let her flat. First, she hauled her belongings to the cottage.
“Rejoice, Muffin! Rejoice, Tilly! Your mistress is home.” The cats purred like little engines.
“Welcome back, Spencer!” Alfred called from next door. “Tea at mine today—come quick, before the spuds go cold! I’ve lit your stove a bit already…”
So Margaret stayed, surprising Beatrice. But when her daughter visited—to steam in the sauna, to introduce baby Natalie—she was thrilled.
“You’re brilliant, keeping our home! I’ll visit more once Nat’s older. Let her breathe country air, like Gran said—life’s sweeter here, the sun warmer. Wasn’t that her line?”
“That’s why I’m here, love. And like Mum before me, I’ll always wait for you—my dearest, my own…”
Sunlight bathed the orchard, the apple boughs heavy with fruit. Margaret propped up the sagging branches.
“Good heavens, what a yield! What’ll we do with so many?”
“Eat them. Bake them. Dry them. Steep them.” Beatrice laughed, smoothing Natalie’s hair. And the cottage hummed with life again.
