In the deep of winter Victoria resolved to sell the cottage she had tended for years and move in with her son. Her daughterinlaw and his boy had long been urging her to join them, yet she clung stubbornly to the familiar walls of her home. Only after a stroke a jolt that left her shivering in recovery did she finally realise how perilous it was to linger alone, especially since the nearest doctor lived two villages away. She handed the keys to a new owner, left almost everything behind, and set off for her sons house.
When summer unfurled, James and his family moved from the cramped flat on the ninth floor into a newly built cottage on the edge of a Cotswold hamlet. He had drawn up the plans himself, insisting, I grew up on a plot of earth, so Ill raise a house that feels like a childhood garden.
The twostorey home boasted a bright kitchen, airy rooms, and a bathroom that shone with the blue of a calm sea.
Feels like Ive walked onto a beach, Victoria laughed, her breath fogging the window.
There was one flaw in Jamess design: Victorias bedroom and her granddaughter Daisys room were perched on the upper floor, forcing the elderly woman to tumble down a steep staircase each night just to reach the bathroom.
Lets hope I dont tumble in my sleep, she whispered to the banister, clutching it tight.
She settled quickly into her new family. Relations with Emily, her daughterinlaw, were smooth; Daisy, absorbed in the glow of her tablet, never demanded attention. Victoria vowed to keep her counsel short and her presence softer.
At dawn the household bustled away to work and school, leaving Victoria with Rex the dog and Misty the cat. A turtle named Shelley ambled to the rim of a round aquarium, craning its neck to watch Victoria as she fed the fish and the turtle, then called Rex for tea. The little chowchow stared at her with solemn brown eyes, waiting for the biscuit box she kept in the pantry. He adored the biscuits; no one else ever offered him a treat, for his breed required a careful diet. Yet Victoria felt sorry for him and bought childrens biscuits, sharing them with Rex.
After lunch, when the house was tidy, she drifted to the garden. Though the soil was foreign, her hands remembered the rhythm of planting. While weeding, she barely noticed the neighbours plot until a low fence revealed a narrow gap behind the house. James had installed a short decorative rail there, reasoning that a full fence wasnt needed. Shed never met the neighbour, only the grizzled old man in a threadbare hat who kept to his shed, his shoulders hunched, his eyes sliding shut with each cough.
One evening, as she rose to tidy Daisys room, she opened the curtains and saw the old man trudging slowly toward a raspberry bush, a battered bucket in his hand, his head bowed. He wore a faded shirt of indeterminate colour, sleeves too long for his frail frame. The September air had grown crisp; he cleared his throat and dabbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.
Coughing and out in the cold, Victoria thought, then realised the man was weeping.
A pang of alarm surged through her.
Is everything all right? Do you need help? she called, but a sharp, highpitched cry from the open window stopped her.
She isnt alone, Victoria mused, peering again. The man remained seated, his posture unmoving, his face a study in desolation. The wind tugged at his silver hair, hugging his bent shoulders. It struck her that, despite living in a family, he was utterly solitary. A sting of pity fluttered in her chest; loneliness could be as brutal as a winter storm.
She wondered what one must do to make a man cry.
The image haunted her. From then on she watched the neighbour through the sliver of fence, noting that he spent most of his day outside the house, sometimes sawing in his outbuilding, sometimes tending the garden.
One afternoon she overheard him speaking to someone unseen.
Ah, poor little birds, he murmured, you flutter free while the sun is warm. When the cold comes youll be locked in cages and forgotten. I am a bird too. Where can we go? Who needs us when were old?
His voice trembled with a melancholy that made Victorias stomach turn.
What sort of life makes you speak to chickens? she thought, returning to her own kitchen.
At dinner she asked Emily about the neighbours.
Once a family lived there. After the matriarch passed, the patriarch, Peter Howard, stayed with his son. Years later the son married and brought his wife home. While he worked, we heard no quarrels. When he retired, the shouting began. The daughterinlaw never tended the garden; Peter did everything himself, ran to the shop, visited the school, even helped with the childrens afterschool club. Now his granddaughter is sixteen and in the same class as Daisy, so the old man is considered useless.
What about his son? Victoria pressed.
Hes quiet, polite, never argues. Thats how they were raised, Emily replied.
Not ideal for todays world, Victoria muttered. I always envied those with husbands who would defend their wives fiercely.
Peters voice, low and dry, drifted from the next room.
Sure, a bully can be torn apart, but a husband would also kill his wife if needed, James retorted, having overheard.
That night sleep slipped through Victorias fingers. The earlier conversation had reopened a longburied ache. She forbade herself to dwell on the past. Whenever a memory surged, she took a sheet of paper and drew a heavy iron door standing on a lakes shore. In the depths of the water a tiny key lay among ripples.
No one will ever retrieve that key or open that door, she whispered to herself.
She recalled a cruel husband who once threatened to bury her beneath an apple tree, insisting no one would ever look for her. The fear settled in her bones like a stone. She tied a sheet to the doors handle and the foot of her bed, wedging a iron poker into the latch, promising herself she would wake if the sound of metal struck wood. It wasnt for herself she feared, but for little Daisy.
In a sudden flash, the poker clanged against the door as a knife slipped inside the keyhole. She shoved Daisy toward the window and scrambled out, heart pounding.
The door is shut, she told herself. The past is past.
The next morning was dry and bright. After tending to errands, Victoria decided to buy a loaf of bread. She ordered Rex to stay put, then stepped through the gate. In the village, fresh bread was a daily ritual. As she approached the shops porch, a boisterous baker shouted, Freshly baked! The man behind the counter defended his claim, but Victoria noted the crust was hard, the loaf clearly yesterdays.
What are you trying to pull, sir? she said. A fresh loaf should have a soft dent, not this crusty shell.
The baker swapped the loaf, took the money, and retreated to another aisle. Victoria bought a fresh loaf from a different stall and left. An elderly gentleman on the porch thanked her for her support, remarking how he never knew how to stand up to rudeness. His face was gaunt but not grim; a warm smile softened his features.
May I join you? Im your neighbour, arent I? he asked.
You live near Oliver and Kate? Victoria replied, surprised.
Exactly. I know Kates parents; they work the garden often.
Im Olivers mother. I moved out here recently.
Oliver told me youre from the North, up in Yorkshire.
Thats right, Victoria said, Living alone has taken its toll; my health is failing.
The bread smells lovely, the man said, breaking off a piece. Want a bite?
Thank you, but Im on a diet for a sore throat, so I only buy fresh bread for the children.
The autumn is coming. Is your son digging potatoes yet? he asked, chewing.
Well start on Saturday, Victoria answered, noticing the mans stomach grumble.
She invited him in. Lets get to know each other, Peter Howard, is that correct? Id like to invite you for tea.
It feels a bit odd, he replied.
Whats odd about it? I have work, the dog stays home, and Ive just brewed a fresh pot. Come through the little gate into the garden, she said, noting his wary glance at the windows.
Inside, she hurried to set the teapot. Peter settled on the edge of the sofa, eyes taking in the modest but cosy surroundings: embroidered wall hangings, potted flowers on the sill, knitted cushions on the chairsall whispering of care.
He thought, Only wealth is prized now, but it pushes people aside. You cant sit without worrying about staining something.
They sipped tea with homemade scones. Victoria kept refilling plates, longing to offer a hearty bowl of stew but hesitating to offend. Rex lay at the doorway, eyes alert. He never barked at strangers; he only growled when danger lingered, a trait that warned Victoria of any unwelcome visitors.
Their chat drifted to harvest, weather, market prices. Victoria wanted to ask why Peter seemed so melancholy, what haunted him. She hesitated, fearing to reveal the view from her upstairs window.
Peter sensed it was time to leave, yet the rooms warmth kept him seated. The housethough a summer outbuildingfelt like a home, reminding him of a wife long gone. He recalled a recent argument where his daughterinlaw flung a slice of bread at him, demanding he sign over the property. He sighed heavily.
From that day onward, Victorias life gained a new rhythm. Mornings she hurried to prepare breakfast for the children, then tended the garden. Peter was already out in his plot, waving cheerfully, approaching the low fence behind the house. She handed him a tin of jam shed made; he accepted it shyly, understanding her kindness came from a genuine heart. Their hidden corner behind the cottage remained unseen by prying eyes, allowing them to speak freely without fearing Emilys sharp tongue.
The night before a fateful day, Peter mentioned his son and his family were heading off to a seaside resort in Cornwall. Victoria smiled, Let them go. Youll have the house to yourself; its getting cold in that shed.
He blushed, surprised she had guessed his thoughts.
She awoke to the sound of a car. Dawn filtered through the curtains. A taxi pulled up at the neighbours gate; the neighbours stepped out, slamming the gate shut. The driver opened the boot, helped load bags, and the vehicle rolled away.
Did Peter skip his farewell? Victoria wondered.
She lay back down, but sleep eluded her; thoughts tangled like vines.
Why do parents cling to their children all their lives, only to be cast aside in old age? she mused. Children get education, become successful, and then neglect the ones who raised them. I recall a TV presenter whose son never visited before she died Peter Howard was once a director of a large factory, respected, now left to loneliness. May God spare anyone such a fate.
She rose early, made breakfast, saw the children off, fed Rex and Misty, and stepped into the garden. Peter was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps hes seeking peace in silence, she thought.
She began pruning onions. Hours passed, the garden remained still. A faint light flickered on the porch, heightening her unease. She knocked on the neighbours door, waited, then nudged it open. Is anyone home? Peter Howard? she called into the darkness.
Silence answered, thin as fog. She entered the hallway, then the lounge, and gasped. Peter lay on the sofa, his left arm limp, a bottle of nitromint spray overturned, white tablets scattered across the floor. Lord have mercy! she whispered, dialing her son Olivers number. He answered immediately, panic in his voice. Between sobs she begged him to call an ambulance, explaining the scene.
Within fifteen minutes the wail of sirens filled the air. A greyhaired doctor felt Peters pulse, checked his pupils, and prepared an injection. Victoria finally felt that the man she cared for was still alive.
The day unfolded like a fever dream, everything slipping through her fingers.
How could they abandon their father? she wondered. The son saw his fathers condition, yet a quarrel erupted, leading to a crisis. Did the family leave so he would die without help? Horrifying!
She recalled a tragic character from a novel who locked his mother in a summer kitchen to starve her.
May God protect me from such children, she thought again.
Peter Howard was discharged a month later. Victoria visited him daily, bringing meals, insisting, To live, one must eat, she often said.
She learned that Peter owned the house, but his daughterinlaw demanded a deed and a power of attorney for his pension.
If I give up my pension, Ill starve, he confessed. I already wrote a will naming my son, but he doesnt know. In divorce, no inheritance is split, so my son wont be left without a roof in his old age.
Victoria replied, Good. Youll be released soon. Ive spoken with my children; they have a flat where no one lives. Daisy is still with her parents. Well look after the flat together, and youll have peace. You must not stress now. In old Yorkshire they didnt say I love you; they said I feel sorry for you. So I feel sorry for you and wish you life.
The dream faded, the English countryside dissolving into mist, leaving Victoria with the lingering scent of fresh bread and the soft whine of a distant church bell.
