Margaret had just returned from the shops, and was putting away groceries in the kitchen when she heard a strange commotion coming from her son and daughter-in-laws room. Wiping her hands, she hurried over, her brow furrowing in worry.
Clare, where are you off to? Margaret asked, her voice trembling with surprise as she caught sight of her daughter-in-law shoving clothes into an old suitcase.
Im leaving, Clare muttered through quiet tears.
Leaving? Where to? Whats happened? Margaret blinked in confusion.
Silent, Clare handed her a folded letter. Margaret took it, unfolded the sheet, and as her eyes scanned the lines, she froze, the weight of the words anchoring her feet to the spot.
Many years before, John had brought his bride, Clare, home to their village in Suffolk. Margaret had been relievedher son was finally settling down after more than thirty years. Hed had his wild days, but had returned. He would be company in her later years, shed thought.
Their cottage brimmed with warmth and food, and Margaret ran the house. Her late husband had left behind a solid home and a sizable farm. All his days, hed built and worked for the family, but there had only ever been John. After Margarets many miscarriages and eventually her inability to have more childrenperhaps from the endless farm work, perhaps it was fateit was only the three of them. When her husband had fallen ill, Margaret nursed him for three years, learned to drive the tractor, and managed the crops until the day he finally slipped away.
Clare was much younger than Johnby at least a decade, Margaret surmised. She was fragile and slight, reminding Margaret of herself as a young woman, arriving at this very house with nothing but a small bag, scarcely any belongings. But John had chosen her, and that was what mattered. Besides, she was an orphanperhaps that was for the better.
In the village, the other women envied Clare: shed managed to win not only the most eligible bachelor but the most prosperous. Every girl in Suffolk had entertained dreams of John, even after he married. Yet he never returned their advances, always hurrying home after work to his wife and children. Clare bore him two sons and a daughter.
Years passed. When their youngest was five and the eldest ten, John decidedwith a friendto find better paid work in London.
Is money tight for you? Margaret asked him, sighing deeply. We have everything hereyour wages, Clares, my pension. And wholl look after the farm, John? I cant keep up much longer.
Im sick to death of this farm, Mum! John retorted. Ill get settled, then Ill bring the family to London. The children need better schools and prospects. Its time to sell the house. Youll come with us.
Theres a perfectly good school just down the lane, Clare protested gently.
Youre a city girl at heart, Clare. Were moving.
City girl? If the local orphanage counts as city, perhaps, Clare said, forcing a weak smile. I can barely remember my parents. But John, what about your mum? She needs help now. And how will we manage with three kids in London? Clare quickly dabbed away a tear.
Thats enough. Ive decided. And sort yourself out, Clareyou look a state. Exhausted. Worn to a shadow of yourself.
In the months that followed, Clare and Margaret grew close. Margaret, seeing herself mirrored in the younger woman, felt only kindness and protectiveness. When the grandchildren arrived, it was as if Clare had become Margarets own daughter, and Clare soon started calling her Mum. Their bond helped them survive the long absence of John.
Eventually, John left for London. He wrote lettersthere were no mobiles then. He came home once in six months, brought gifts, left some cash, and hurried back to the capital. His friend gave up and returned, but John never did. Word began seeping through the village grapevine from his friends wife: John had moved in with a wealthy woman where hed once been working on renovationsand he wasnt working anymore.
Margaret kept her counsel. Perhaps it was just village gossip, she reasoned. But Clare one day appeared visibly shaken, wordless, packing her bags.
Where are you going? Margaret asked, alarmed.
Clare silently handed her the letter. It was more a note than a letter.
Clare. Im sorry, but theres someone else now. Ill inherit the house after my mum. Dont waste your lifemove on. Theres £200 for you to get started. After that, youre on your own. John.
Hes gone. Let him stay gone. Youre not taking those children to some strange flat in a strange place, Margaret declared, gently but firmly. I cant do without you and the little ones. Hell not throw you out. Not while I have breath in me.
Years later, John surprised them all by rolling up the drive in a new car, new wife in tow. He hadnt expected to find his children still living there. His daughter, twelve by then, launched herself at him, sobbing. The eldest boy approached, silent. John stretched out for an embrace, but the boy gathered his sister and led her away. The middle boy followed.
Hes no father. Traitor, thats all, the eldest said. Come onweve work to do.
John watched, hollow-eyed, as his son climbed onto the old Massey Ferguson and began ploughing the potatoes behind the cottage. The other two were off feeding the rabbitsa new addition to the farm. The farm, Margaret noted with pride, hadnt shrunk but grown in Johns absence.
And the childrens motherdid she run off, leave you with them? John asked stiffly.
Dont presume, John. Her name is Clare. You remember? Shell be home from work soon. And what brings you both here together?
Wed like a word, Johns new wife interjected.
Say what youve come to say, then off you pop before Clare returns, Margaret replied, her voice like iron.
Were here for you, Mum, John said.
I thought you were here for the children.
The children have their mother. You belong with your son. Sell the house, buy a flat nearbywell cover it. Youll get a fair price for the farm.
And what about the children? Wont answer that? Let Clare uproot them for London, rent a place. Better chances for them there.
Theyd have more chances if they wanted them. Theyd be gone already if thats what they wished.
Were just letting you know. Weve got a buyer lined up, but youll need to decide quickly.
Theres nothing to decideIm not in charge here, Margaret said quietly.
How can you say that, Mum? John began, but Clare entered at that moment.
Well, fancy that, Clare said, her voice cool but self-assured.
She had blossomed over the years: neatly dressed, stylish bob, her earringsMargarets old onesglinting. She was radiant; the old, faded Clare was gone. Even Johns new wife looked deflated beside her. John stared until his wife nudged him sharply.
So, Mum, arent you going to lay out some tea? Weve got company, after all, Clare said lightly.
Our guest is just leaving, Margaret replied without missing a beat, Hes said his piece. Best be off now. Thanks for popping in, John. Good day to you, madam. I hope we dont meet again.
With stiff hands, John set a slip of paper with a phone number on the table. Here, Mum. Call when youve made up your mind. With that, the couple disappeared through the door.
He returned only once more, after Margarets death. Clare called himit was the proper thing to do. The children were long grown, the eldest with kids of his own, but their words were clipped and formal, as if to a stranger. His daughter refused even to speak to him.
Clare. The children are grown. The house belongs to me. I have the right to live here. Im divorced now. Im moving back in. If you want to stay, you can. If not, youre free to go, John told her, his voice empty.
Without a word, Clare fetched the documents from the sideboard. Margaret had left the cottage to Clare at the very time John had sent her that heartless letter. John left, quietly. Clare did not stop him. She had the children, and now, grandchildren. She owed him nothing; her life was her own.
