“Who are you looking for?” asked Margaret Whitmore as she stepped onto the porch with Nicholas, squinting at the visitor.
“Im here for Margaret Whitmore! Im her granddaughterwell, great-granddaughter, actually. The daughter of her eldest son, Alfred.”
Margaret sat on the sunlit bench, soaking in the first warm days of spring. At last, the season had come. Only God knew how she had endured the winter.
“One more winter like that, and I wouldnt have made it,” she thought, exhaling in relief. She wasnt afraid of passing now. In fact, she had been waiting. She had saved enough pounds, bought her burial clothes.
Nothing tied her to this world anymore.
***
Once, she had a large familya husband, Frederick Whitmore, a tall, sturdy man, and four children: three boys and a girl. They lived harmoniously, helping one another, rarely quarrelling. The children grew up one by one and scattered like leaves in the wind.
The eldest two sons went off to university, then moved to cities for work. The middle one, who had struggled in school, later built a successful business that took him abroad, where he stayed. The daughter didnt linger in their village eithershe flew off to London and soon married.
At first, the children visited often. They wrote letters, and when mobile phones became common, they called. Grandchildren came one after another. Margaret would pack her old, battered suitcase and travel to stay with one of them, helping to raise the little ones.
But gradually, even the grandchildren outgrew her care. The calls grew fewer, the visits rare. Soon, the idea of coming home slipped their mindstoo busy, too wrapped up in their own lives, their own children.
The last time they all gathered was for Fredericks funeral. Such a strong manshe had thought hed live to a hundred. But life had other plans.
After the burial, the children returned to their lives. They called at first, but the calls dwindled to nothing. Margaret tried ringing them, but she soon sensed they had no time for her and stopped. So she lived the last ten years alone. Once a year, maybe, one of them would remember her, and shed smile to herself for a week.
One afternoon, she sat on the bench, lost in thought.
“Hello, Aunt Margaret!” A young man stood by the fence, grinning. “Do you remember me?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Nicholas? Is that you?”
“It is!” he beamed, stepping into the yard.
Nicholas was the neighbours boy, raised in a home where drink ruled. As long as Margaret could recall, hed always been therea perpetually hungry child. Out of pity, she fed him, gave him her childrens old clothes, let him sleep over when his parents were too deep in their cups.
His parents didnt last long. When they were gone, Nicholas was taken away to a home, and Margaret never saw him againthough she often wondered about him.
“Where have you been all this time, lad?” she asked, delighted.
“Childrens home, then the army, then college. Now Im backgoing to rebuild the village!”
“Whats left to rebuild?” She waved a hand. “Everyones gone.”
“Doesnt matter. Ill manage.”
And so, Margarets life changed. Nicholas got work at Thompsons, the largest farm in the area. In his free time, he fixed up his parents old cottage and helped Margaret around the house. She brightened, calling him nothing but “my boy.” They lived like that for three years.
Then one day, Nicholas sighed apologetically.
“Im leaving, Aunt Margaret. Thompsons got too greedywants the work but wont pay. Im off to find better wages. Dont be cross.”
“Cross? Of course not, lad. Go with God.”
Alone again, Margaret sometimes wept from the loneliness. She passed the days waiting for her time to comeyet something still held her here.
***
“Hello, Aunt Margaret!” A familiar voice broke her thoughts. She turned to the fence and saw a face she knew.
“Nicholas! Can it be?”
“Its me!” The tall, well-dressed young man strode into the yard. “Im backfor good!”
“Oh, what joy!” She fussed. “Come in, come in! Ill put the kettle on!”
“Tea sounds perfect,” he chuckled. “Let me just pop home firstdidnt know youd be here, forgot the gifts!”
Half an hour later, a beaming Margaret and an equally delighted Nicholas sat at the table, sipping tea from fine old china, talking nonstop.
“Id made my peace with the next world, Nicholas,” she admitted, wiping a tear.
“Dont even think it!” He wagged a finger playfully. “Im here nowwell live splendidly! Ive saved enough to start my own farm. Youre not going anywhere!”
“Hello? Anyone home?” A bright voice shattered their moment. Margaret peered out to see a girl in a smart coat and high heels standing in the yard.
“Who are you looking for?” Margaret and Nicholas stepped onto the porch.
“Im here for Margaret Whitmore! Im her great-granddaughterAlfreds granddaughter. I tried calling, but your phone was off, so I thought Id chance it!”
“Well, come in!” Flustered, Margaret ushered her inside while Nicholas carried the suitcase.
Margaret and Nicholas watched as Vera, the girl, happily devoured the treats laid out, chattering about herself.
“I hate the city. Want to try village life! Dad and Grandad Alfred suggested I stay awhilesaid if I lived here, Id be cured of the idea! They called, but no one answered. I wont be a burdenIve got money! And gifts from them! Just till my examsI study remotelythen Ill go.”
“Stay as long as you like!” Margaret said at last. “Its a joy to have you.”
A month passed. Margaret sat on the bench, watching Vera skillfully tend the gardenno one would guess she was a city girl. With Nicholass help, theyd reclaimed the long-neglected plot, divided it into neat beds, bought seedlings from neighbours, and set up a greenhouse.
Nicholas, too, was busy. With his savings, he began building a modern farm, hired workers to fix Margarets roof, and installed proper heating.
Margaret was happy. She smiled often, no longer alone.
Only sometimes, a shadow crossed her face when she remembered Vera would leave. Shed grown fond of the girl. But time flew, and soon Vera packed for the city.
“How will I manage the garden alone?” Margaret sighed, wrapping pies for her journey.
“Youll just water it, Gran. Nicholas will help! And Ill be back to weed!” Vera grinned.
“Youre coming back?” Margaret brightened.
“Of course! I cant stay away! Ive grown to love youand Nicholas proposed! Weddings in autumn! Where else would I go? Hes a country boy at heart!”
A year later, Margaret basked in the sun, rocking the pram where her great-great-grandson slept. Vera and Nicholas were at the farm, thrivingand so was the village, thanks to them.
Margaret glanced at the sleeping baby and smiled.
“Not yet,” she thought. “The children still need me.”
