“Mother, its freezing in the winter up there! Youll need a woodburning stove and to haul logs!” I heard my daughter Susan say, halfjoking, halfserious.
“You’re from the countryside, Mum. That was all we ever knew. Granddad and I spent our whole lives in a village, and we never complained. In summer its lovely a garden, berries, mushrooms in the woods,” she added, as if offering a holiday resort.
I, Margaret Clarke, had just settled into retired life. Sixty years behind me, thirtyfive of those in the accounts department of a Manchester factory. Now I could sip my tea at dawn, leaf through a novel, and move at my own pace.
The first months of my pension were blissful. I rose when I liked, lingered over breakfast, and watched the morning programmes. Shopping trips were timed for when the queues were empty a true luxury after four decades of early shifts.
Then, on a Saturday morning, the phone rang. It was Susan.
” Mum, we need to talk. Properly talk.”
“Whats wrong?” I asked, worry creeping in. “Is Emily all right?”
“Everythings fine with the baby. Ill come over and explain. Dont worry!”
That was the line that made my nerves tighten. When children say dont worry, theres always something to worry about.
An hour later, Susan was in the kitchen, handresting on her rounded belly. She was thirtytwo, with another child on the way, and still hadnt married Mark, even though theyd been together for four years. Their marriage certificate seemed irrelevant.
“Mum, we have a problem with the flat,” she began, fiddling with the handle of her mug. “The landlord is raising the rent. Were barely managing the current £1,300 a month, and now she wants another £2,000 on top.”
I nodded sympathetically. I knew how hard it was for young families. Mark bounced between jobs today a warehouse loader, tomorrow a courier, the day after a security guard. Susan was on maternity leave and would soon start a second one.
“We thought of moving out to a cheaper place,” she continued, “but no one wants to take a flat with a baby.”
“What are you planning to do?” I asked, already sensing a trick.
“Thats why Im here,” she said, pulling at the edge of her sweater. “Mum, could we stay with you for a while? Just until we save enough for a mortgage.”
I sipped my tea, feeling the cramped twobedroom council flat squeeze even tighter with the thought of another couple and a toddler joining us.
“Margaret, how will we all fit? There are only two tiny rooms.”
“Well make it work,” Susan replied. “The rent were paying now adds up to about £15,600 a year. If we saved that, we could put a downpayment on a house.”
I could picture Mark wandering around in slippers, shouting into the phone, Emily wailing at night, her toys strewn everywhere, cartoons blaring at full volume, and Susan demanding constant attention because of her growing belly.
“Where will Emily sleep?” I tried to find a reasonable solution.
“Well put a cot in the bigger room with us, and you can take the smaller one. Youll only need a sofa and a TV.”
” Susan, I just retired. After forty years of hard work I need peace. Im exhausted!”
She sighed dramatically, as if Id said something absurd.
“At sixty you still want peace? Youre still spry, Margaret. Grandmothers your age are out there looking after grandchildren.”
Her tone sounded like a rebuke as if other grandmothers were useful and I was being selfish.
“Also, you have that cottage up at Brindle Heath. Its a lovely stone house, kept tidy by your late husband. You could stay there, get fresh air, grow tomatoes. Doctors say seniors benefit from being outdoors.”
“The cottage?” I echoed, startled.
“Yes. Its solid, with a garden. You could have a proper kitchen, no cramped flat.”
I felt a cold shiver. The cottage was thirty miles from Manchester, with a bus that only ran at dawn and dusk.
“Winter there is harsh. Youll need a wood stove and to fetch logs.”
“Youre from the village, Mum. Thats how we lived. In summer you can pick berries and mushrooms.”
She sounded as if she were selling me a fivestar resort, not a modest countryside home with limited amenities.
“And when I need the doctor or the shop?” she asked.
“You wont go daily. Once a month for a checkup is enough. Stock up on groceries and freeze them. The freezer in the cottage is huge.”
“Will I see my friends? The neighbours Ive known all my life?”
“Just phone them, or invite them over for a barbecue. Itll be fun!”
I listened, halfamused, halfhorrified. My daughter was seriously proposing I become a hermit on a remote cottage so her family could squatter in my flat.
“How long do you want to stay?” I asked.
“At least a year, maybe a year and a half.”
A year living in my twobedroom flat, or a year isolated in the cottage? I asked Mark what he thought.
“Hes all for it,” Susan chirped. “He says the cottage is far better than city life no stress, no noise.”
“He could read his books or watch TV there,” she added. “Mark even offered to install a satellite dish for extra channels.”
I imagined Mark, generous as ever, lounging on my favourite sofa and arranging an antenna.
“Think about it, Mum,” she urged. “What will you do with two rooms to yourself? Its useless space. Let us stay, well save money, get back on our feet.”
“When do you want to move?”
“Tomorrow, if you like. We have few belongings. The landlord is already looking for new tenants and wants us out by the end of the month. Time is short.”
My hands trembled as I poured another cup of tea. She stared at me, waiting for a decision, eyes pleading, Will you turn away your own daughter in her hour of need?
“Susan, what if you and Mark break up? Youre not married.”
“It doesnt matter if were officially wed or not. The kids are ours, weve lived together four years. Marriage changes nothing.”
“But if we split, what then?”
“We wont split,” she said firmly. “Even if something happens, the flat is still yours.”
It sounded unconvincing. Id known Mark for four years; he was never steady, hopping from job to job, friend to friend. Susan adored him like a schoolgirl, ready to do anything for him.
“Margaret, I just retired and wanted some peace,” I protested.
“Peace?” she snapped. “Thats selfish. Supporting children and grandchildren is what life is about!”
She was playing on my motherly instincts like a seasoned actress. My resistance melted.
“What if I say no? If I cant take you in?” I asked, feeling the weight of her words.
Susan fell silent, then sighed heavily, placing her hands on her belly.
“Mum, I dont know what will happen then. It would hurt me badly. It would be terrible if my own mother turned me away when I need help.”
Her words carried an unspoken threat a promise of broken ties, of missing out on my grandchildren.
I imagined her telling everyone, Can you believe my mother refused to help her own daughter!
“And then what? Where will we go?” she sobbed. “Mark says maybe we could stay with his mother, but she only has a oneroom flat and isnt keen on us.”
I knew Marks mother a sharptongued woman who didnt tolerate strangers. Susan wouldnt last there.
“Please, Mum, just a year,” she pleaded. “Well be careful, wont bother you. You can go to the cottage when you like, escape the city.”
“Will I have to travel there often?”
“Only when you feel like it. Maybe on weekends youll come into town for groceries or meet friends. Weekdays will be quiet at the cottage perfect for an older person.”
“Fine,” I finally said, feeling resigned. “But only a year, no more. You must keep saving and look for your own place.”
Susan threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Mum! Youre the best. Well keep everything tidy, I promise.”
“And Ill only go to the cottage when I want,” I added. “Thats my condition.”
“Of course, Mum. Your flat, your rules. Were guests.”
A week later we moved in. Mark arranged his belongings in the wardrobe. Lucy, the other child, ran from room to room exploring. Susan directed where everything should go.
I stood amid the chaos, packing a bag for the cottage, feeling like a stranger in my own home.
The first months were a nightmare. Mark got his own TV, cranked the volume, shouted on the phone at any hour. Energy drinks and protein shakes cluttered the fridge. Susans mood swung wildly too hot, too cold, music too loud. Lucy wailed at night, toys littered every corner, cartoons played from sunrise to sunset.
I drove into Manchester once a week for groceries and medicines, horrified at the state of my onceorderly flat. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, childrens clothes and Marks socks dried in the bathroom, the sofa stained with juice and biscuits.
“Margaret, should we tidy up?” I suggested timidly.
“Now? When Im already exhausted!” Susan snapped. “The baby needs me, Mark works all day, I need my evenings to rest.”
“I can help while Im in the city,” I offered.
“No need, Mum. Well manage. The baby will be here, then well clean.”
That later never came. I washed dishes, vacuumed, wiped dust, only for the mess to return before my next visit.
The cottage felt like exile. Thirty miles from civilization, the nearest shop three miles away, the bus only twice a day.
Neighbours raised eyebrows. “Margaret, why are you staying out there all year? Youve got a flat in town.”
“Im letting my daughter and her family live here temporarily,” I explained. “Theyre saving for a house.”
“Oh, thats sensible. Young people need a hand.”
Winter at the cottage was brutal. Firewood ran out fast, water had to be boiled on the stove. I felt stranded at the edge of the world.
Six months later Susan gave birth to a son, Dennis. I hoped the new baby would spur them to find a proper home. Yet when I visited, Susan said, “Mum, with two kids we wont find anything suitable. Maybe well stay another year.”
I realised Id been duped from the start. A year would turn into two, two into three.
“Will she really spend her pension years on that empty cottage?” I thought. “No more!”
The police eventually helped evict Susans family when they refused to leave. Insults and threats were hurled at me, but I stuck to the oneyear agreement. Was I wrong? As they say, you reap what you sow.
