In winter Helen decides to sell her cottage and move in with her son. Her daughterinlaw and her son have been urging her for years, but she cant bring herself to part with the home she has built up. After a stroke, however, she recovers as best she can and finally realises that living alone is dangerous, especially since theres no doctor in the little village in Derbyshire where she lives. She sells the property, leaves almost everything to the new owner, and packs for her sons house.
In summer James and his family move from the flat on the ninth floor to a newly built cottage on the outskirts of the town. He designed the house himself.
I grew up in a house on a plot of land, he says. Ill build the kind of home I remembered from my childhood.
The cottage is twostorey, with all the modern comforts, a spacious kitchen and bright rooms. The bathroom looks out over a pale blue that reminds Helen of the sea.
Its like the beach has come inside, she jokes.
James forgets one practical detail: Helens and her granddaughter Emilys bedroom are on the upstairs landing, and the elderly woman has to trudge down the steep stairwell every night to reach the toilet.
Dont let me fall asleep and tumble down, she mutters each time, clutching the railings.
Helen adapts quickly to her new family. She gets along with Claire, her daughterinlaw, and Emily never bothers her; the internet keeps the girl occupied. Helen resolves to stay out of other peoples business.
The rule is: dont lecture anyone, keep quiet and look the other way, she tells herself.
In the mornings everyone leaves for work or school, and Helen is left with her dog Rex and cat Misty. A tortoise also lives in the house, slowly climbing to the edge of its round aquarium and craning its neck to watch Helen, as if trying to escape. After feeding the fish and the tortoise, Helen calls Rex for tea. The dog, a calm, clever chowchow, follows her to the kitchen and watches her with its long, brown eyes.
Come on, lets have some tea, she says, pulling a tin of biscuits from the cupboard. The biscuits are the only thing Rex ever gets, because a chowchow needs a special diet. Helen feels sorry for him, so she buys childrens biscuits and shares them with him.
When lunch is ready and the house is tidy, Helen steps out into the garden. Having grown up in a rural setting, she continues to tend the vegetable beds. While digging, she barely notices the neighbours plot. A tall fence hides the neighbours garden, except for a small gap behind the house where James has installed a low decorative rail. Helen never meets the neighbour, but she often sees an old man in a worn hat working the soil. He seems dour and keeps to himself, ducking into the shed as soon as she looks his way.
A few days later, while she is putting things away in Emilys room on the second floor, she opens the curtains and spots the old man walking slowly toward the raspberry bushes, his head bowed. He pauses, lifts an old bucket and sits on it. He wears a faded shirt with long sleeves, and a chill in early September makes him cough, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
Hes coughing and shivering in that thin shirt, Helen thinks, and then she sees him start to weep.
Her heart jumps.
Are you alright? Do you need help? she hurries toward the window.
A sharp female shout from inside the house stops her.
Someone must be with him, she reasons, glancing back at the window. The man does not answer when she calls his name; he remains seated, his hair fluttering in the wind, his shoulders hunched. Helen realises that even though he lives with family, he is utterly alone. A pang of pity wells up; she knows how cruel loneliness can be.
What could make a man break down like that? she wonders.
The image stays with her. She starts watching the neighbours more closely from behind her low fence. She sees the old man out of the garden now and then, sometimes hearing the sound of a saw in his shed.
Today she overhears him talking to someone.
Oh, poor birds, he says. You flutter about while its warm. When the cold comes theyll lock you in a cage and forget to feed you. Im in a cage too. Where can I go? Who needs us when were old?
His voice trembles, and Helen feels a knot in her stomach.
What kind of life makes you talk to chickens? she mutters as she returns indoors.
At dinner she asks Claire about the neighbours.
There used to be a family living there, Claire replies. The matriarch died and the patriarch, Peter Miller, stayed with his son. A few years ago the son married and brought his wife over. While the father worked, we didnt hear any arguments. When he retired, the shouting started. He never did any work in the garden; he just shopped and visited the school to drop Emily off. Now the girl is sixteen and in the same class as our Emily, so the old man isnt needed anymore.
What about his son? Helen asks.
Hes quiet, proper, cant argue. Thats how they were brought up, Claire says.
Thats not a good way to live nowadays, Helen remarks. Ive always envied men who would stand up for their wives.
The sort of bloke who would tear anyone who looked at his wife, Peters son interjects, listening from the doorway.
That night Helen cant sleep. The evening conversation stirs a deep, lingering ache. She bans herself from reminiscing. Whenever a memory surfaces, she grabs a sheet of paper and sketches a heavy iron door on the shore of a lake. In the deepest part of the lake a tiny key lies on the sand.
No one will ever retrieve it or open that door, she tells herself.
She also recalls a disturbing memory of her late husband, who used to threaten to kill her and bury her under an apple tree, saying no one would ever look for her. She imagines hes waiting for a moment to strike. A primal terror settles in her bones. She ties a blanket to the door handle and to a bedpost, and sticks an iron poker in the handle, hoping the clank will wake her if he tries to open the door. She isnt scared for herself, but for young Emily, who lives with her. One night she wakes to a rustling, sees the old man trying to lever the door knob with a large knife, and manages to shove Emily toward the window and scramble out herself.
Her heart pounds.
The door is shut, she murmurs. The past is past, and thats a good thing.
The next morning is dry and bright. After finishing her chores, Helen decides to pop to the shop for bread. She tells Rex to wait and steps through the gate. In this town its customary to buy fresh bread daily from the bakery, so she heads straight there. On the shops porch a loud voice greets her. The baker is arguing with a customer who insists the loaf is fresh, but the crust is hard.
This loaf is yesterdays, Helen says, pointing out the hard crust. Fresh bread still has that soft dent; this one is already dried out.
The baker replaces the loaf, takes the money, and moves to another counter. Helen buys a fresh roll from the other clerk and leaves. An elderly man standing nearby thanks her for standing up. His face is thin but not sour, and his smile is warm.
Lets go together, he says. Were neighbours, arent we?
Really? he asks, surprised. You live with Oliver and Kate? Are they visiting? I know Kates parents; they work the garden a lot.
Im Olivers mother. I moved here recently, Helen replies.
Oliver told me you used to live up in the north, in Yorkshire, the man says.
Yes, Helen sighs. Living alone is hard; my health isnt what it used to be.
The bread smells wonderful, he says, breaking off a piece and offering it. Would you like a bite?
No, thank you. Im on a strict diet for my ulcer, so Im saving fresh bread for the kids, she answers.
Its autumn. Is your son digging potatoes yet? he asks, chewing.
Well start on Saturday, Helen says, noticing his hungry look.
She decides to be bold.
May I call you Peter Miller? Im Helen. Would you like to come over for tea?
It feels a bit odd, he replies.
Whats odd about it? My work is done for the day. The dog stays at home and never bothers anyone. Ive just brewed a fresh pot of tea. No rush. Lets go through the gate into our garden, Helen says, noticing his wary glance at the house windows.
She invites him inside, busies herself with the tea. Peter sits on the edge of the sofa and looks around. The home is modest compared to James and Claires, but it feels cosy: embroidered pictures on the walls, flowers on the windowsills, knitted cushions on the armchairsall speak of the owners devotion to their home and each other.
Only wealth matters now, Peter thinks. Money has pushed people aside. You cant sit down without worrying about scratching something.
They sip tea and sample homemade scones. Helen keeps offering more, wanting to bring a pot of stew, but holds back for fear of offending him. Rex lies by the doorway, eyes fixed on the newcomer. The dog normally growls at strangers, but he feels no threat. Helen knows Rex will bark if she senses danger, especially when itinerant folk pass by. When she hears a low growl, she goes to close the gate.
Their conversation drifts to neutral topics: the harvest, the weather, market prices. Helen wants to ask why Peter looks so sad, what troubles him, but she remembers seeing him only from the upstairs window.
Peter eventually stands to leave, but the room feels too warm, too familiar. He lingers, as if remembering a wife who once lived here. He sighs heavily, recalling a day when Claire hurled a piece of bread at his face, demanding he sort out the deed to the house for James.
From that day onward, Helens life gains a new purpose. In the mornings she hurriedly prepares breakfast for the children, then heads out to the garden. Peter is already out there, waving cheerfully, stepping over the low fence behind the house. Helen hands him what shes made; he blushes but accepts, knowing she does it out of genuine kindness. The spot behind the house stays hidden from strangers, allowing them to chat without fearing Claires outbursts.
The night before a scheduled holiday, Peter says his son and family are leaving for a break in the south, having booked a resort in Cornwall. Helen smiles and says, Let them go. Youll get some rest. Its cold now, and the shed isnt a place to spend the night.
Peter looks embarrassed, perhaps thinking she sensed his worries.
She wakes to the sound of a car. Dawn is breaking. She walks to the window and sees a taxi parked by the gate. Neighbours step out, slam the gate loudly, and the driver opens the boot to help with the luggage. The car pulls away.
Did Peter not see them off? she wonders.
She lies back down, but sleep eludes her. Thoughts race.
Why do parents spend their whole lives pulling their children along, only to be cast aside in old age? she ponders. Children get educated because of their parents, become successful, and then the parents are left with a miserable existence. Look at that TV presenterher son never visited before she died. She raised him alone, and he forgot. Peter was once the director of a big factory; he had authority, yet his twilight years are bleak. God, dont let anyone live like that.
She gets up earlier than usual, makes breakfast, sees the children off, feeds Rex and Misty, and steps out to the garden. Peter isnt there.
Probably gone for a quiet walk, she thinks.
She starts pulling weeds. An hour passes, still no sign of him. A sense of anxiety builds. She places an empty box by the low fence, climbs over, and notices a lamp flickering on the porch. That heightens her unease. She knocks on his door, waits, then pushes it open. Is anyone home? Peter Miller! she calls.
Silence hangs heavy. She steps into the hallway, then the entrance hall, and jumps back in surprise. Peter lies on the sofa, his left arm limp. A spray can of Nitromint and scattered white tablets litter the floor. Lord have mercy! she cries, dialing her son Olivers number. He answers immediately, his voice trembling. Between sobs she begs him to call an ambulance and explain whats happened.
Fifteen minutes later the sirens wail and she meets the paramedics. A greyhaired doctor checks Peters pulse, looks at his pupils, and readies a syringe. Helen realizes that this man, once so distant, is now truly in her care.
The day passes like a blur. Everything seems to fall from her hands.
How could they leave a father like this? she thinks. The son saw his father suffering. Did another argument trigger a collapse? Did the family leave so he would die without help? Its terrifying.
She recalls a story from Sholokhov about a mother locked in a summer kitchen to starve. God, dont give anyone such children, she whispers again.
Peter is discharged a month later. Helen visits him daily, bringing food and chatting. To live, you must eat, she often says.
During one visit she learns that Peter owns the house, but Claire insists on a deed transfer and a power of attorney for the pension. If I hand over the pension Ill starve, he says. I wrote a will naming my son, but he doesnt know about it. In a divorce, inheritance isnt split, so my son wont be left without a roof in his old age.
Helen replies, Thats good. Youll be out of the hospital soon. My children have a flat; no one lives there. Emilys parents are still around. If we move there, we can look after the flat and live peacefully. You cant stress now. In old times in Yorkshire they didnt say I love you; they said I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you and wish you a good life.
