Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.

Author Walton MerrittReading 7 minViews 2

Ever since his holiday, Frank didnt return

Still nothing from your old man? Not a call, not a letter?
Nothing at all, Vera. No message after nine days, nor on the fortieth, shed quip, smoothing the apron stretched across her wide middle.
Taken off on a spree, has he, or worse, her neighbour nodded, full of sad understanding. Well, wait and see. Police not saying anything either?
All quiet, Vera love, like fish in the great North Sea.
Thats fate for you.

Lydia found these conversations a burden. Switching her broom to the other hand, she set about sweeping the fallen leaves by her cottage. It was a long, dragging autumn in 1988. Once swept, the path was soon covered yellow again, so Lydia spun round and started from the other end, sweeping leaves into increasingly pointless heaps.

It had been three years since Lydia Goldsmith retired, a time shed used well enough, but last month shed taken a job as the local cleaner for the council. The state pension just didnt stretch, and another job hadnt landed. Ordinary people, she thought, just getting by. Frank rarely drank except on special days. His boss respected him he was industrious, reliable, always present. No eye for other women. Lydia herself had spent her life as a nurse in Bedford Hospital, winning certificates and a tired back.

Frank had gone off on a seaside holiday and simply vanished. She hadnt suspected at first. Not calling meant he was fine, she thought off relaxing. But when he didnt come home that set date, she began phoning anyone official she could: local hospitals, the police, even the undertaker. The silence deepened. She sent a telegram to their son David, away with the regiment, then managed to ring through. They pieced together what little they had Frank left the hotel, but never caught the train home. Gone.

And again, shed wake early and phone the hospitals, the morgue.
Franks work colleagues just shrugged: We gave him the holiday. Familys your concern. Doesnt show up, well sack him, simple as that.

Lydia longed to travel down herself and search, but David insisted,
What would you do down there? Ill be free next week, and if I get leave Ill go. My uniform, my look people will answer me.

A little comforted, Lydia kept busy. She made a habit of visiting the police, but each time the message was the same: nothing. Shed taken to sweeping council paths, just for distraction. As long as Im out, broom in hand, she told herself, Im all right. At home, alone, shed often cry, quietly. Blamed herself, blamed fates strange cruelties and tests for her age. The worst was not knowing.

Frank reappeared as abruptly as hed vanished.

He stood just there, on the narrow garden path, in the same navy suit hed left in. No suitcase. No overnight bag. Just his hands buried deep in his pockets, shirt-collar up against the wind, watching Lydia sweep.

She didnt see him at first, didnt know how long hed been standing, until David called out,
Frank, Dad…

Lydia let the broom clatter to the stones and ran. Her arms spread wide as if, in a dream logic, she were a returning bird, flinging herself into Franks quiet chest. She hugged him, shaking.

Frank held her back, slowly, awkwardly.

Lets get inside, her son muttered, impatient. Lydia heard the sharp tone, the stamping boots.

David, let your mother hug you I havent seen you since spring!

Alright, alright. Its cold, can we go in?

You mightve called, I could have cleaned up, cooked something…

Mum, I didnt come for pie. I said Id bring him. Here he is.

She looked at her husband, then the son. The months had scalded her, mind muddled by loss. But he was alive. That was everything, for now. Dont ask, just feed the men and let them rest, she thought. Frank sat quietly.

Mum, just sit, will you?

But she fussed in the kitchen, clattering mugs and plates.

Then David said, very quietly,
Mum, I found Dad with another woman.

Lydia turned, stared at Frank. He sat hunched on the little wooden stool, hands locked on his knees, head low, like a scolded schoolboy thin and guilty, not angry but sullen.

What woman? Whats going on, Frank?

All this time shed imagined calamity robbers, a lost train ticket, battered and wandering hungry in strange towns.
He never left for home, David said, He stayed by the sea with a woman called Olivia Southwell. He didnt want to come back.

Lydia stared, fluttering lashes.

He didnt want to?

Didnt want to. Franks voice cracked, uncertain. I realised I was living all wrong. Work-factory, factory-work, a tiny garden on Sundays. I needed freedom.

Freedom! Lydia flushed with anger, voice sharper than she meant.

Whyd you drag this bit of your freedom here, then, David? Wanted to humiliate me? You could have said he was dead, that would be fairer. I sat here, crying myself out, and he was in a cottage by the coast, just…

Look, Lydia maybe I wanted to restart my life.

No, Frank, you didnt want a new life. You got sun-mad on your blasted South Coast, lost your mind, ran away, lied! An honest man would have come home, divorced me, started afresh. Been fair to me, to you, to everyone. Get out I cant bear to look at you!

Frank stood, brushing past into the hall.

No no! Go! Like you never came back at all, please! I cant, I just cant! Lydia nearly collapsed, swallowing sobs.

Dad, just leave, David said, firm, at his shoulder.

She saw Frank again two weeks later.

It had rained, and Lydia was her usual self, sweeping puddle-water off the lane, gritting her teeth. Frank waited at the corner, bundled in an old overcoat and a foolish hat.

Lydia, he called softly, then louder, Lydia.

She glanced up blankly, arms sagged on the broom as if broken by his betrayal. Perhaps shed forgive him, but couldnt reach to touch him.

Frank came closer.

Ive stayed. Got my old job at the works, not as foreman, just on the line. Will you let me back?

She stood straight, hands pressing on the broom.

Let you back? Youll get in when Ive filed for divorce, and quick about it.

You havent forgiven me then? I understand.

Then why come?

When I was leaving, Olivia said, If you go, you wont come back to me. And so I left, and here I am.

Ha! Not wanted there, not needed here, Frank. Men like you are excess to requirements. Youre only back because David forced you. Off you go, live your great freedom. Let me work, youre just trampling the path and she swatted his shoes with the broom.

Turning on her heel, Lydia swept away, putting her resentment into every stroke. Five minutes later she looked back: Frank had vanished, and she breathed out, lighter somehow. Shed been afraid hed linger and shed forgive him. In unusual dreams, those who strike your back are strangely, heartbreakingly protected, safer behind your shield than facing you as you are.

— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… You tell me I eat wrong, dress wrong, and do everything wrong!!! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything right!!!… Can’t even earn decent money!… I can never count on your help around the house!… — Marina sobbed, — …And there are no children…, — she added in a barely audible whisper. Bella — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the cupboard, silently observed the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew, could even feel, that Mum and Dad loved each other deeply… so she simply couldn’t understand why they had to speak such hurtful words that only made everyone miserable. Mum fled to the bedroom in tears, while Dad lit one cigarette after another. Sensing her family slowly falling apart, Bella pondered: “We need happiness in this house… and happiness means children… We need to find children, somehow.” Bella herself couldn’t have kittens — she’d been spayed long ago. As for Mum…, the doctors always said it was possible, but things just never worked out… The next morning, once her humans left for work, Bella, for the very first time, slipped out through the window to visit her neighbour, Lucky, for advice. — Why on earth would you want kids?! — Lucky snorted — Ours bring their kittens round and I have to hide from them… They smear my whiskers with lipstick or squeeze me so tightly I can hardly breathe! Bella sighed: — We want normal children… If only we knew where to find them… — Well… Street-cat Molly’s got a litter… there are five of them… — Lucky mused — take your pick… Taking a deep breath, Bella braved a leap from balcony to balcony, made her way down to the street, and squeezed through the bars of a cellar window. — Molly, could you come here a minute please… A chorus of desperate squeaks echoed from the dark. Cautiously creeping over, Bella began to whimper. Beneath the radiator, right on the gravel, five tiny, blind kittens snuffled at the air, mewing for their mum. Molly hadn’t been back in at least three days, and the babies were starving… Fighting back her tears, Bella gently, yet determinedly, carried each kitten to the building’s front entrance. Curling up beside them, doing her best to keep the hungry bunch from wandering off, she watched anxiously down the drive, waiting for Mum and Dad to return. That evening, Pavel silently picked Marina up from work and together they returned home. Approaching the steps, they were stopped in their tracks — there was their Bella (who’d never been outside on her own before), patiently lying with five needy, mewing kittens. — What on earth is going on?? — Pavel stammered. — It’s a miracle… — echoed Marina, and scooping up both cat and kittens, they hurried inside… As Bella purred in her box full of babies, Pavel asked: — So what do we do with them? — I’ll hand-feed them with a dropper… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — Marina replied softly. Three months later, reeling from unexpected news, Marina sat stroking her “cat clan” and whispered in disbelief: — This just doesn’t happen…, it just doesn’t happen… And then she and Pavel, spilling tears of joy, danced through the house, exclaiming over each other: — I didn’t build this home for nothing! — The baby will get the fresh air it needs! — And the kittens can roam the garden! — There’s room for all of us! — I love you!!! — I love you even more!!! And wise old Bella wiped a tear — life, at last, was coming together…

“Come on then, Ginger – let’s go,” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old bit of rope. He zipped his jacket up tight against the raw February wind – this year, it was particularly cruel: sleet, biting cold, and drizzle that seemed to cut straight through. Ginger, the mangy old stray with faded red fur and one milky, blind eye, had wandered into Val’s life a year ago. It was after a late-night shift at the factory, near the bins, battered and hungry, his left eye glazed. A harsh voice cut through the grey morning. Val recognised it at once – Steve ‘Squint’, the local hard case, barely out of his teens, surrounded by his pack of sneering lads. “Out with the mutt, are we?” Steve leered, as one of the boys cackled, “What’s it, Uncle – you pay a tax to walk that ugly brute? Scary thing, that eye!” A stone came flying, thudding into Ginger’s side. The dog yelped and pressed closer to Val’s leg. “Clear off,” Val said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “Ooh, look, Uncle Bodger’s talking back!” Steve stepped closer. “Seen your kind before. Remember whose patch this is… And only dogs I let on my patch are here with permission.” Val tensed. The Army had taught him how to solve trouble – fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a worn-out old handyman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless pushed. “Come on, Ginger,” he muttered, turning towards home. “Thought so!” Steve jeered after him. “Keep your ugly mutt safe, old man – next time, I’ll finish it for good.” That night, Val replayed the incident over and over in his mind. Next day, with heavy snow coming down, he put off walking as long as he could – but Ginger sat by the door, steadfast, until Val finally relented. “All right, all right – but just a quick one.” They kept to quieter routes; Steve’s lot was nowhere in sight, probably sheltering from the weather. Val was starting to relax when Ginger suddenly halted by the derelict boiler house, ears pricked, nose twitching. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whined, tugged the rope in the direction of the ruined building. Strange noises drifted out: was that crying? Moaning? “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Only the wind replied, howling through the skeleton of the building. Ginger pulled insistently. Val heard it then – a child’s voice: “Help!” His heart skipped. Quickly, Val unfastened the lead and followed Ginger into the ruins. Buried behind a tumble of brick, a young boy lay crumpled: face swollen, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh, God!” Val dropped to his knees. “What’s happened to you?” “Mr. White? Is that you?” The boy squinted through bruised eyes, and Val recognised him – Andy Mason, the shy lad from three floors up. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang… They wanted money from my mum. I said I’d tell the police. They… they found me.” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. It’s freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Andy. Ginger curled up beside him, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand?” “My leg hurts – think it’s broken.” Val checked gently – definitely a break. “Got a phone?” “Taken.” Val fished out his ancient Nokia and dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, lad. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy asked in terror. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val promised. Andy stared. “But yesterday… you just walked away.” “That was just me and Ginger. This is different.” The ambulance arrived quicker than forecast. Andy was whisked off to hospital. Val stood with Ginger in the snow, deep in thought. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came to thank him, in tears: “If you hadn’t found him… The doctor said you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val shook his head, petting Ginger. “He found your son.” “But what now?” the woman whispered anxiously. “Steve won’t stop. The police say there’s no proof.” “It’ll be sorted,” Val promised, though he wasn’t sure how. That night, he tossed and turned, plans churning. Someone had to protect the kids – how many others had suffered in silence? By morning, he knew what to do. He pulled out his old Army dress uniform, pinned on his medals, squared his shoulders. “Let’s go, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve and his crew lounged by the off-licence, jeering as Val, in full regalia, approached. “Blimey, Grandad’s off to a parade!” one hooted. Steve sneered, “Jog on, soldier boy. Your time’s up.” “My time’s just begun,” Val replied. “Who asked you?” “Andy Mason – ring any bells?” Steve’s smirk faded. “You threatening me, grandad?” “I’m warning you.” There was a glint of a blade. “I’ll show you who’s boss!” Val didn’t flinch. “There’s only one law here – and that’s to protect the weak.” Steve scoffed, “Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience.” And then – the unexpected: Ginger, silent all this while, bristled and let out a low, threatening growl. “My dog fought in Afghanistan,” Val said, lying smoothly. “Bomb squad. She can sniff out villains in her sleep.” Even Ginger straightened in surprise, baring her teeth. “She caught twenty insurgents. All alive. Think she can’t take on a junkie?” Steve retreated. “Listen good,” Val stepped forward. “From today, it’s safe here. I’ll be patrolling the estate every evening – with my dog. If I catch anyone bothering kids again…” He left the threat hanging. “You reckon you can scare me?” Steve blustered. “Call who you like. But remember – I know people inside. More than you ever will.” It was nonsense, but Val’s words carried real weight. “Name’s Val the Veteran – remember it. Stay away from the kids.” With that, Val strode away, Ginger close at his heels. Steve’s gang melted away. For the next few days, Steve and his lot were nowhere to be seen, while Val and Ginger kept up their patrol. When Andy came home from hospital, still limping, he shyly asked, “Mr. White, can I help you patrol, too?” “Talk to your mum first.” Mrs. Mason agreed – relieved her boy had such a grown-up example to follow. And every evening, the estate saw a peculiar trio – an old soldier in faded uniform, a boy, and a ginger mongrel. Ginger became a favourite; even the parents didn’t mind their kids petting her. There was something noble about her. Val told stories about the Army, about real friendship; the children listened, rapt. One night, Andy asked, “Were you ever scared, Mr. White?” “Plenty of times,” Val admitted. “Even now, sometimes.” “What of?” “That I won’t have enough strength. Or I’ll be too late.” “When I grow up, I’ll help you,” Andy said. “And I’ll have a clever dog just like Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. And Ginger wagged her tail. Everyone in the area knew her now: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog – she knows the difference between heroes and bullies.” And Ginger patrolled, proud and steadfast, no longer just a stray, but a true guardian.

The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching milk quietly simmer on the stove. She had already forgotten to stir it three times, each time remembering too late—the foam would rise up and spill over, leaving her to wipe the mess in irritation. In those moments, she felt it clearly: it wasn’t about the milk at all. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it felt as though her family had come off the rails. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes retreating straight to his room. Anna noticed, and thought: how can you leave a woman to manage alone? She spoke up. Softly at first, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she soon noticed a strange thing: after she spoke, the house didn’t become lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew gloomier, and Anna returned home feeling as though somehow, she had done everything wrong again. That day, she went to see Father Michael—not for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to take these feelings. “I must be a terrible person,” she said, not looking at him. “I do everything wrong.” The priest put down his pen. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I just wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angrier.” He regarded her, kindly, not sternly. “You’re not terrible. You’re just tired. And very anxious.” She sighed. That sounded about right. “I’m scared for my daughter,” she admitted. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” she waved her hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Have you noticed what he does do?” Father Michael asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one saw. How, on Sunday, he took the pram for a walk, even though he looked like he longed to just collapse and sleep. “He helps… I suppose,” she conceded. “But not in the right way.” “What’s the right way?” the priest asked calmly. Anna was ready to answer, but suddenly realised she didn’t know. In her mind, it was simply: more, better, more attentive. But what exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want it to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” Father Michael replied softly. “But don’t say it to him—say it to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean, right now, you’re fighting not for your daughter, but with her husband. And fighting means tension. It tires everyone. You, and them.” Anna was silent for a while. Then she asked: “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he said. “Just do what helps. Deeds, not words. And not against someone—but for someone.” On her way home, she thought about that. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her, but simply sat beside her when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day, she dropped in unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said, “Just came to help.” She sat with the children while her daughter napped. Quietly left, without saying a word about how hard they had it, or what they ought to do. A week later, she returned. And again the following week. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she noticed something else: the way he gently picked up the baby, the way he covered her daughter with a blanket in the evening, thinking no one noticed. One day, in the kitchen, she finally asked him: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It is,” he admitted after a pause. “Very.” He said nothing more. But after that, something sharp seemed to leave the air between them. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But she needed to start with herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” She simply listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to be angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—quieter. Without the constant tension. One day, her daughter told her: “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone decides to stop fighting first. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That never went away. But alongside it, something else lived—something more important: she wished for peace in the family. And every time the old urge—indignation, resentment, the impulse to say something sharp—rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right—or do I want to make things easier for them? The answer, almost always, told her what to do next.