There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged to the rusty garden gate, fumbled with the ancient lock, and finally stepped inside her chilly old cottage, settling wearily on a chair beside the cold hearth. The house, closed up for three months, smelled unlived-in—dusty ceilings strung with fresh cobwebs, a mournful creak from the antique stool, the wind howling down the chimney—her old home seemed to complain: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave in charge? How will we get through the winter? “Wait a bit, my dear. Let me catch my breath, I’ll light the fire and we’ll be warm again…” Just a year ago, Granny Val bustled around: touching up the paint, fetching water, bowing before her icons, tending the stove, and whirling through the garden, planting and watering. The house had come alive with her—floorboards chirping under her brisk steps, doors and windows springing open to her touch, the oven working overtime baking delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She’d buried her husband early, raised three children on her own, saw them all educated and settled. One son was now a sea captain, the other an army colonel, both living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed nearby in the village, serving as chief agronomist—always at work, popping by on Sundays for quick visits and a taste of Val’s famous pies. Her granddaughter, Svetlana—sworn by all the village as a true beauty, with striking grey eyes and long, golden, wavy hair—was her greatest comfort. Svetlana studied in the city and returned as an agricultural economist, married the local vet, and with a special social programme, moved into a sturdy new brick house—a veritable manor by village standards. But while Val’s garden flourished, Svetlana’s was bare—she wasn’t made for growing things, kept too gentle by her grandmother, and soon the arrival of a son, Vasya, left no time for gardening. Svetlana urged her grandmother to move in with them: the new house was modern, no stove to light, plenty of room. At 80, Val’s once-nimble legs finally faltered, and she agreed. But after a while, Svetlana despaired: “Granny, I love you—but you’re always sitting! I’d hoped you’d help me around the house!” “My legs aren’t what they were, dear…” “Strange, you only got ‘old’ when you came to me!” So, not living up to expectations, Val was sent back home, disheartened and sick from guilt over failing her beloved granddaughter. Now even shuffling between bed and table was a struggle; going to church was impossible. Father Boris, who’d long depended on Val’s help at the historic village church, began visiting her at home. Spotting her shivering in an old cardigan and scuffed slippers, he sighed—Granny needed looking after. He recruited Anna, a sturdy neighbour, and soon the cottage warmed up—Father Boris fetched wood, made tea, wrote her sons’ addresses on envelopes when her shaky hand couldn’t. Her letters boasted, “I’m doing very well, my dear son. Thank God, I have everything I need!” But the pages were smeared with teardrops. Life adjusted. Anna checked in, her husband old sailor Pete ferried Val to services. Svetlana, heartbroken, fell seriously ill and within months, cancer claimed her. Her husband took to her grave, leaving four-year-old Vasya neglected and hungry, until Tamara intervened. But with work and little time, Vasya was set for a local boarding school—well run, but no substitute for home. That’s when Granny Val turned up, delivered by sailor Pete. “I’ll take Vasya,” she declared. “Mum, you can barely walk! You can’t manage a child!” “While I’m alive, he’s not going to an orphanage.” The usually gentle Val’s firm words left Tamara no argument. Neighbours whispered, “She must be losing her mind—she needs looking after herself, and now she’s taken on a child!” Father Boris visited, fearing the worst, but found warmth and laughter: Vasya, clean and content, listened to tales on the old gramophone, while Grannie Val, lively and quick, whipped up curd buns just as she once did. Back at home, Father Boris relayed the miracle to his wife, Alexandra, who responded with a story of her great-grandmother Vera: on her deathbed, Vera overheard her newborn great-granddaughter cry and, against all odds, got up, cared for the baby, and lived ten more years, “because there was still work to be done at home.” As the old song goes: “It’s not our time to go—there’s still work to be done at home!” And Father Boris smiled in agreement.

There are always things yet to be done at home…

Old Mrs. Mabel wrestled with the stubborn garden gate, shuffled to the weathered front door, fumbled for ages with the rusty lock, then stepped into her chilly, unheated cottage and perched herself on the rickety chair beside the dormant hearth.

Her cottage had the smell of places left un-lived in.

Shed only been away three months, but already cobwebs draped the low beams, the antique chair whimpered beneath her, and the wind gossiped down the chimney. The house seemed to glower: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me with?! How are we supposed to survive the winter, hm?!

Hold on, my dear, give me a moment to catch my breath… Ill get the fire going, well be warm soon…

Only last year Mrs. Mabel buzzed briskly through her ancient cottage: a splash of whitewash here, a dab of paint there, water from the well sloshing. Her tiny, wiry frame curtsied before the old photos on the mantel, reigned over the hearth, darted down winding garden paths, just in time to sow, weed, or water whatever the season called for.

And the house, too, took joy in her company, squeaking sprightly under her nimble steps, doors and windows flying open at the touch of her deft, worn hands, the oven bursting into life for airy tea-cakes. Mabel and her dear old housefor years theyd made quite a pair.

Shed buried her husband early and raised three children, teaching and encouraging each along, all off to make something of themselves. One sonmerchant navy Captain, the other, Army Colonel. Both lived far away, home only on rare and fleeting visits.

Only the youngest, Emily, had stayed on in the village, chief agronomist, always lost to the fields from dawn till dusk; once a week shed pop in, enjoy a slice of pie, and then for another week or more, not a word.

There was solace, though, in her granddaughtersweet Molly. Molly had practically grown up at Grans side.

What a girl she was, too! A beauty! Great storm-grey eyes, a mane of oat-golden curls tumbling past her waist, heavier than summer rain, agleam in the sunlight. Put her hair up and tendrils would spring free over her shouldersenough to knock any village lad for six. Jaws dropped, truly. Her figure was regal, her posture somehow statelier than any local lass had a right to. Where did Molly get itfrom Gran, or from some ancient, sleeping queen in the bloodline?

Mabel herself had been pretty in her youth, but open an old photograph and compare it to Mollysshed seem the village maiden, Molly the sovereign.

She was clever, toograduated from the Agricultural College in the city, returned home to work as an accountant. Married the village vet, and thanks to a young couples scheme, they were given a sparkling new house.

And what a house it was! Sturdy red brick, solid as a bank, a proper detachedby the days standards, practically a manor!

But unlike Grannys cottage, which was smothered in blooms and fruit and old rosebushes, Mollys new place had nothing yetthree dry patches of earth at best. And Molly, truth be told, wasnt much for gardening.

Born and bred in the country, but delicate; Gran always kept every draught and heavy bucket away from her.

And now there was baby Jamie, too. No time for gardens then.

Soon Molly started inviting Gran to stay: Come live with us, Gran, shed saythe house is big and bright, no more heavy fires to light.

As her eightieth birthday came and went, Mabels health slowed with the changing seasons. Her once nimble legs ached and faltered, and eventually, she relented, letting herself be persuaded to leave the old cottage for her granddaughters embrace.

She spent two months in the new house. Then one day, Molly said:

Gran, I love you so, you know I do! But youre always sitting still these days You used to be all over the place, always up to something! I wanted a real home, and I was hoping for your help.

But, sweetheart, Gran replied, my legs wont have it anymore Im not as young as I was.

Hmph The moment you moved in, suddenly old, are you

In short, the help Molly had hoped for wasnt there, and soon Gran was sent back to her own cottage.

Mabel, disappointed and stung at her failure to help her beloved granddaughter, took to bed in sorrow, her steps now slow as mossy water. The journey from bed to table became an expedition, reaching the front path towards her cherished churchimpossible.

Father George, the village vicar and her longtime confidante, came calling on his ailing parishioner, surveying the chilly cottage with a sympathetic eye.

Mabel sat at her old table, busy with her usual letters to her sons.

There was a chill in the air; the fire smouldered low. Even bundled in a threadbare cardigan and faded headscarfthe proudest housekeeper and cleaner in the villageshe wore down-trodden slippers.

Father George sighedMabel needed help. Perhaps Annie, from just down the lane, still strong, twenty years younger?

He unpacked gifts from the vicarage: a loaf of wheaten bread, ginger biscuits, half a still-warm fish pie (with fond regards from Mrs. Alexandra).

Rolling his sleeves, Father George swept the ashes from the hearth, hauled in armfuls of logs, got the fire roaring again, filled the blackened kettle, and set it on.

My dear boyoh! That is, Father, would you help address my letters? My hen-scratch wont reach them!

He sat to write, glancing over the trembling scriptlarge, uneven, waveringI am keeping very well, dearest son. Want for nothing, praise the Lord!

But every letter, supposedly about Mabels good life, was speckled with blurry, salty stains.

Annie took to calling in on Mabel, while Father George made regular visits, bringing Holy Communion, and for the big feast days, Annies husband, Old Pete, a retired seaman, brought Mabel along to church in his ancient motorbikes sidecar. Life, by and by, pieced itself together.

Molly didnt visit, and then, a few years on, she herself fell terribly ill. Shed always had belly troubles, but dismissed them as simple digestive woes.

But it was lung cancer. Where did that come from? Who could say? In just months, Molly faded away like mist.

Her poor husband took to sleeping on her grave, bottle for company, drifting into nightly fugue and fetching another bottle by morning. Their little Jamie, only four, became a waif, filthy and hungry, no one left to care for him.

Emily, now busy as ever, took Jamie in but, wrapped in her endless agricultural duties, had no time for the boy. Soon, Jamie was headed for the county childrens home.

A decent home, so they said: a grand, energetic headmaster, proper square meals, children allowed home at weekends.

Not a family upbringing, of course, but Emily had no other waythe farm demanded all her hours, and retirement lay far off.

That was when old Pete arrived at Emilys in his rattly sidecar with Mabel in tow, both looking quite unyielding.

Ill take Jamie to live with me, announced Gran.

But Mum, you can hardly walk! How can you manage a little ladhell need all sorts of thingsmeals cooked, clothes washed!

As long as I live, Jamie will not go to the home, Gran cut in, absolute.

Startled by the determination of meek old Mabel, Emily quietly packed Jamies things.

Old Pete took the pair back to the cottage, half-carrying them inside. Neighbours shook their heads:

Kind old soul, but clearly lost her wits; she needs looking after herself, and now a child! Thats no puppyits a child, needs care. Emilys not thinking straight!

After Sunday service, Father George, dread gnawing at him, resolved to check on themwas he about to find poor Jamie starving, unwashed in a crumbling cottage?

But within the cottage, warmth glowed, the hearth flashing as it hadnt in years. Jamie, clean and rosy, was sprawled on the settee listening to an old recordthe tale of the Gingerbread Man.

And the feeble old Gran? She glided feather-light about the cottage: greasing a tray, kneading dough, cracking eggsher tired legs nimble as before her ailments.

Dear Father! Im just making some cheese scones… Wait a bit, Ill have a warm treat for your Mrs. Alexandra and little Freddie…

Father George went home, still in a daze, and told his wife what hed seen.

Mrs. Alexandra pondered, then fetched down a thick blue notebook from the shelf, turning to a particular page:

Great-gran Edith lived her long life well. All dreams, all hopesgone silent beneath a blanket of wintery white. It was time, time for somewhere free from ailment and sighs. One blizzard evening, as she prayed before the old pictures, she lay down and said, Call the vicarIm ready to go.

Her skin went snowy as the world outside.

The family called the vicar; she confessed, took communion, and then lay for a day without moving, refusing food or water, only her gentle breathing showing a soul still there.

The hallway door creakedicy blast, babys wail.

Hush, hush, Gran is dying here.

I cant silence a newborn, shes just arrived from the hospital, doesnt know not to cry yet

My cousin Alice had returned from the maternity ward, with a comical, red-faced baby. By morning, the house was empty except for the dying Gran and the new mother. Alice had little milk yet, harried and helpless, the infant wailed onfrustrating Edith in her dying.

The dying Edith lifted her head, her wandering gaze sharpened, and she struggled up from the bed, groping for her slippers.

When the family hurried back home, fearing the worst, they found Gran not only alive, but brighter than everwalking confidently about, rocking the now-placid baby, while Alice napped exhausted on the sofa.

Alexandra closed the diary, glanced at her husband, smiled, and said,

My great-gran, Edith, loved me too much to let go, and simply would not go. She sangIts far too soon for me to dieTheres always still some things to do at home!

She lived ten more years, helping my mumand your motherraise me, her beloved great-grandchild.

And Father George smiled, right back.