**Diary Entry**
Granny Mary had made up her mind to die. It was Friday, lunchtime. After finishing a bowl of millet porridge and washing it down with milk, she wiped her mouth with her apron and gazed through the kitchen window into the distance. In a matter-of-fact, colourless voice, she said:
“Winnie! Ill be gone by Sunday, right before matins.”
Her daughter, Winifred, froze mid-step as she adjusted the pots on the stove. Then she turned sharply, sat on the stool with a dishcloth in hand, and stared.
“Whats got into you?”
“My times up, thats all. Ive lived enough. Help me wash, and fetch the fresh clothes from the chestthe ones set aside for this. Well talk later about wholl arrange the burying and dig the grave. Theres still time.”
“So we ought to let everyone know? So they can come and say their goodbyes?”
“Aye, thats right. Tell them, but mention my name when you do.”
“Want to have a proper farewell? Thats wiselet them know.”
The old woman nodded and, leaning on her daughters arm, shuffled to her bed.
She was tiny, wiry, her face like a baked apple, wrinkled but bright-eyed. Her thin, grey hair was swept into a bun at the nape, pinned with a comb and covered with a white cotton scarf. Though shed long stopped working, she still wore her apron out of habit, resting her rough hands on ithands broad and strong, fingers short and thick. She was eighty-nine. And now, of all things, shed decided to die.
“Mum, Ill pop to the postsend telegrams. You alright?”
“Im fine, love. Go on.”
Alone, Granny Mary let her thoughts wander to her youth. She remembered sitting by the river with Stephen, chewing a blade of grass, his tender smile. She recalled her weddingpetite and neat in a cream satin dress, dancing to the squeezebox in the middle of the gathering. Her mother-in-law had scoffed:
“What good is she? Too slightdoubt shell bear children.”
Shed been wrong. Mary had proved hardworking and toughout in the fields, the garden, keeping up with the men, earning praise as a model worker. When they built the house, she was Stephens first helper, fetching, carrying, holding. They lived in harmony, as they say. A year later, in the new cottage, she bore their daughter, little Winnie. The girl was four, and theyd begun thinking of another when war broke out. Stephen was called up straightaway.
Remembering the day she saw him off, Granny Mary let out a shuddering breath, wiping her damp eyes with her apron.
“My darling boy, how I wept for you! God rest your soul. Well meet soonwait for me, just a little while.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by Winifreds returnwith the village medic in tow, the one who tended to half the parish.
“How are you feeling, Granny Mary? Taken poorly?”
“Im alright. No complaints yet.”
He listened to her chest, took her blood pressure, even stuck a thermometer under her tongueall normal. Before leaving, he drew Winifred aside and murmured:
“Lifes run its course. No science to it, but old folk just know. Brace yourself, love. What can you expect at her age?”
On Saturday, Winifred bathed her mother, dressed her in fresh linen, and Mary lay down on the freshly made bed, staring at the ceiling as if rehearsing what was to come.
By afternoon, the children arrived.
John, a burly, balding man, barged in noisily, laden with treats. William and Michael, dark-haired twins with hooked noses, stepped inside, having driven down from the city, their eyes anxious as they searched their sisters face for answers.
Antonia, plump and cheerfulas stout folk often arehad come by coach from the next county, where she lived with her family.
Last of all, nearing dusk, arrived Margaretslim, auburn-haired, a headmistress from the cityby train and then taxi.
Tearful, clutching handkerchiefs, they filed in, kissing their mothers frail hands, peering into her eyes with quiet hope.
“Mum, whats all this? Youve years left in youyoure strong.”
“Was strong. Not anymore,” Mary replied, pressing her lips together.
“Rest now. Well talk tomorrow. Dont fretI wont go before matins.”
The children exchanged doubtful glances, murmuring about arrangements. They werent young themselves anymore, often ailing, but they were glad Winifred lived with herone less worry.
Following habit, they set to work around the housethe home of their childhood. William and Michael chopped firewood; John fetched water from the pump; Antonia fed the livestock; Winifred and Margaret cooked supper.
Later, gathered around the kitchen table, they spoke in hushed tones while Mary lay still, her life playing out on the ceiling like a film.
The war had been brutalcold, harsh, hungry. Shed scavenged frozen potatoes from the fields, grated them into fritters. Thank heaven shed found a bottle of linseed oil in the washhouseleftover from pre-war days when shed rubbed it on her cracked heels. A lucky find. Shed used it sparingly, saving the cellar potatoes for planting come spring. Shed known the war would drag on. Shed gathered wild garlic, sorrel, nettlesanything edible. Shed remade her own clothes for the children, and after the year Stephens death notice came, his too.
“Ah, well. Such is life,” Mary sighed, cutting short her memories.
Come autumn, shed dug up potatoes, boiled them, packed them in jars wrapped in old shawls, and trudged three miles to the railway station to barter with soldiers on passing trains. Hungry for home-cooked food, theyd swapped tinned meat, lard, even sugartiny luxuries for the children.
Later, shed traded Stephens unworn suit, her good crepe dress, a pair of silver earrings, and a painting of swans for a stubborn young goat. At last, the children had milk. Within months, their cheeks grew rosy.
Oh, how shed struggled alone. School troubles, illnesseslittle William catching chickenpox and infecting the lot. The house had been a circus of spotty, green-daubed children. Broken bones, split headsher heart ached for each.
When the war ended and the men returned, her lads picked up swearing and sneaked roll-ups behind the barn. Shed put her foot downlured John, William, and Michael into the washhouse under false pretences, locked the door, and forced them to smoke harsh, pungent shag. Theyd coughed, spat, but never touched tobacco again.
A mothers fear never left. John lost in the woods, searched for all day; Antonia nearly drowned in the millpond; Michaels appendix burstbarely made it to hospital.
“Such is life,” she thought again.
The years passed. The children grew. Worthy men had courted her, but how could she explain to the little ones? Once, shed broached the subject, only for them to chorus:
“Why dyou need a man? We mind you, we helpwere happy as we are!”
How could she tell them she longed to be held, to lean on someone, to share the weight? But thenwhat if hed been unkind to them? Best left alone.
As they grew older, new worries camesleepless nights waiting up, drying Margarets tears after some lad broke her heart.
“Dont weep, duck. Ill not let you marry far. A chickens best on its own street,” shed joke, hugging her. “Itll all come right.”
Then the boys enlisted one after another. Shed wept, remembering the war, but thank God, theyd returned safe, stronger.
Theyd married, moved awayall but Winifred, whod stayed.
“Such is life.”
Thered been joys, of course. Fine children, skilled handswhat more could she ask? She was proud.
Her eyelids drooped. The memories lulled her, no longer sharp or frightening, and she drifted off to the murmur of her childrens voices from the kitchen.
Next morning, after breakfast, they gathered around her. Propped up with pillows, Mary studied them, then spoke.
“Forgive me, loves, if ever Ive wronged you. Ill not have anger between you. Live kindly. Help one another. Ill be gone soon.”
They protested, waving hands, but she cut them off.
“Like it or not, its as God wills.”
Silence fell. She looked at each in turn, then began softly.
“Early in the war
