I often think back to that winter in the little village of Brookfield, when my mother, Margaret Whitmore, triedperhaps a little too hardto steer my life. It was my thirtysecond birthday, and she handed me a pair of knitted baby booties, the very ones she had crocheted in her hobby class. Happy birthday, love, she said, her eyes bright, and heres a little souvenir for the future.
I stared at her, feeling the weight of every unspoken expectation. Youre thirtytwo now, dear, she went on, time to think about starting a family. Im not getting any younger, and youre not either. Id love to see my grandchildren soon; my friends are already talking about greatgrandchildren, while Im just an old lady without any grandkids.
A cold flush rose to my cheeks. The room fell silent. Two of Moms friends and three neighbours, who had come for tea, stared at Margaret with pity.
Im feeling a bit faint, I think Ill sit down, I managed, slipping away from the table before my redeyed stare could be seen. It hurt, a sharp sting, to have my mother constantly remind me that the clock was ticking.
What was the point of ticking, I thought, if the only thing waiting for a child was a pensioners nanny role? I had no suitor, not even a hopeful candidate for the father of any future child, let alone anyone willing to tie the knot.
My dears, I dont know what to do, Margaret sighed, perhaps if you all had sons, Id have someone to marry off my Emily. Instead, youre all daughters. It feels like the ladies have taken over the world.
I lived with Margaret in a modest twobedroom cottage on the edge of the village. Id never had a serious relationship; romance seemed as distant as the fairytale romances in cheap paperbacks. I worked at the Royal Mail sorting office, hauling parcels all day, entering data on a clunky computer, and handing out parcels to customers. The physical strain often left my back aching, and I would return home exhausted, longing only for a simple meal, a soft couch, and a few moments where my mind could drift away from everything.
Again, youre lounging on the sofa, Margaret chided one afternoon, why not come with me to the local poetry reading? Youre pretty, you could meet a nice fellow there.
Mother, please! I snapped, Im trying to rest.
Margaret was a whirlwind despite her seventysomething years. She sang in the community hall, traveled to the county town for activists meetings, and met other pensioners where she recited her own verses. She was always in a hurry, urging everyone to help each other and never sit idle. She claimed she still had enough energy to look after grandchildrenenergy I simply did not possess.
Undeterred, she kept waving the bright red booties before me, a constant reminder that time was slipping. Emily, dear, listen, she pleaded, youre an adult now; think about children. Id love to see my grandchildren before Im gone.
Im not sure I even want to think about that, I replied, my job is hard, my pay is tiny, my back hurts, and honestly were cramped in this cottage. How could I possibly raise children? Thank God the day is over.
Exactly, she sighed, but you could live a little differently. Dont only think about work and the sofa. I was just the other day at Mrs. Eleanors househer granddaughter is brilliant
I get it, Mother, I retorted sharply, but I cant just fall pregnant because you want grandchildren. To have a child Id need to marry, and as you can see, I have no suitors. There was one, Tom, but you sent him away.
I remembered Ivan, a decent lad with a solid family, who had once shown interest. Margaret had instantly dismissed him, saying I should stay home and not run after boys.
So I stayed. Then, months later, Ivan began seeing my best friend, a girl less picky about prospects. Six months ago she gave birth to Ivans third child. They live comfortably now, laughing, no one lounging on a sofa eating cold pies while drowning sorrows in tea with four teaspoons of sugar.
Remember Ivan? Margaret whispered, there are other men out there; you just need to step out of the house.
I should have left earlier, I muttered, recalling how, when I wanted to study in the city, she warned me of city scamps, forbade me from going, and pushed me into a technical college for a course she chose. You said engineers were always in demand. I hated physics and nearly dropped out after the second year.
You just didnt try hard enough, she replied.
Better if youd kicked me out! I snapped. Because of your meddling I was placed in the most useless programme, just to fill a class. Why learn electrical engineering when Ill end up stamping letters at the post office?
The post office is stable work, she argued, always a job, close to home, you can pop in for lunch. Isnt that good?
Mother, that may be a dream for some, but it doesnt inspire me.
She huffed, Then youll have children, I suppose.
No, Mother, I said firmly, I wont have children if I cant give them a decent life. I dont want my own daughter to end up like me, stuck in a job I hate, counting the days to retirement.
She stared at me, bewildered, as if the moment of my rebellion had suddenly cracked her world. I tried to give you a better life, free from want! And this is your thanks? You wont even give me grandchildren for my pleasure!
Maybe you should get a job yourself, I suggested, you seem bored, too much energy, nothing to do. Be a babysitter, earn a bit, and we could even afford a seaside holiday. Ive never left this little village, perhaps I could finally see the world beyond the road to the post office.
She shook her head. Where would I go?
To Ivans place! They have money, children, a life. Go and help them.
Ivan? she repeated, looking as if the thought were absurd. God forbid I go there. Theyd never take an old woman.
Try it. They dont charge for a bit of help, I teased, knowing she would never apply for a job with Ivan after Id turned him away.
Time passed. Margaret stopped shaking the booties. She turned to her own community work, attending seniors gatherings at the county centre. At one such meeting, the topic turned to young peoples family problems, and she, perhaps out of habit, began to tell strangers how her daughter drifted without ambition, never striving for anything.
Ive raised a weed, she muttered bitterly, now Im reaping the harvest.
A stranger replied, The fertilizer you used decides the fruit. What else did you give your daughter? A flat? Good schooling? A chance at a love life?
I did what I could, Margaret whispered, my husband left when I was pregnant. I bore everything alone.
The womans words cut deep. Margaret tried to argue, then fell silent and left the tea after the meeting.
That evening she was a shell of herself, memories flooding back: forbidding me to ride horses on the farm because it was dangerous, turning away Ivan with hes not serious, dictating what I could wear or where I could go, warning against city life, insisting I stay home and look after her. All those tiny tyrannies had turned my world into a cage.
She finally realised that she, not fate, had built that cage, and that something had to changequickly.
The next day she visited Mrs. Clarke, a neighbour who was a friend of Ivans wife, and learned they needed a nanny for three toddlers. Were struggling after the third was born. Are you looking for work? the neighbour asked.
Looking, Margaret replied, and Id love to help.
They hired her. The job was demanding but suited her, and the pay£350 a weekwas decent. Three small children, a bustling household, and a purpose.
When I heard Mom had found work, I was surprised and relieved. She no longer nagged me; she came home exhausted, fell asleep on the couch, and for the first time in years, we both breathed easier.
Within months she saved enough to buy a holiday voucher. She thought only of onemine. On my thirtythird birthday she presented it.
Emily, today you turn thirtythree, she said, eyes shining, life is only just beginning! Heres a ticket; go see the world, meet new people. Youve always been by my side; now its your turn.
I stared at the voucher, at her hopeful face, stood up, and embraced her tightly.
Thank you, Mother, I whispered. Ill go. My life truly is just beginning.
I took the break, returned refreshed, and decided I no longer wanted to be a wilting plant. I enrolled in a bookkeeping course. My first clients were Ivan and his wife, and soon other local traders came my way. I built a respectable practice, earned enough to travel, and discovered that a good life could be found beyond the post office and the village green.
Three years later I met Simon. Together we adopted a little boy from a childrens home, and a year after that I discovered I was pregnant. Late child, theyll say, I laughed, but I know theres still so much ahead of me, and I wont listen to anyone who tries to bind me.
Everything fell into place. Margaret, now a grandmother of two, would often tell me how proud she was. She spent her days knitting, chatting over tea, and sometimes, with a mischievous grin, shed say, Who would have thought my meddling would end up this way? And Id smile, remembering that long winter in Brookfield when a mothers relentless shaking of red booties set a whole life on a new course.
