Nothing More Familiar
It seems like only yesterdaythough many years have passedwhen Barbara and her daughter stepped off the bus at the edge of the village. The wintry sun glimmered through the heavy grey clouds, frost nipped their cheeks, and the snow was so blindingly bright that little Abigail squeezed her eyes shut.
Mum, why doesnt anyone live in that house? Abigail asked, pointing to a lonely, crumbling cottage, nearly the only abandoned dwelling at the outskirts of the village.
An old woman used to live there, Barbara replied. I never saw family come for her. She was a hundred and two when she died.
She would stoke her own fire, but the neighbours fetched her shopping and water. Theyd leave supplies or a pail at her door, and the next day, either the money or the empty pail would be gone. We used to help, too.
But someone couldve stolen the food or money! Abigail exclaimed.
No one ever did. Folk believed she was a witch and kept their distance. One day no one collected what was left on her step, and thats how we realised shed passed away. Still, people were afraid to go in, but eventually, they did, laid her to rest, and the place has been empty ever since.
A real witch? Abigail pressed, wide-eyed.
Just stories, said her mother. She was just an old woman. No one truly knew her agesome said she was two hundred, some threebut then the records at the parish council showed a hundred and two.
Abigail fell silent, glancing once more at the abandoned house. The other homes stood neat and tidy, their gardens cleared of snow.
Do you think people stay away because of that story? she finally asked.
Barbara spotted a familiar shape among the cottages. Theres Gran come out to greet us! Go on, love, run ahead! she urged, quickening her own pace alongside.
Gran! Abigail cried and sprinted to her grandmother, who already had her arms flung wide ready to sweep up her granddaughter in a warm embrace.
Barbara had grown up in that very village and always loved coming back. The air was fresher there; life seemed to move more gently.
Mum! Barbara hugged her mother tightly, and her mother pulled them both closedaughter and granddaughter.
I had a feeling youd call by, so I’ve made pies, her mother said. Ive been out waiting every Saturday, hoping. But lets not stand here freezing. Lets get inside.
Inside, the cottage was warm and spotless, filled with the aroma of the hearth, fresh-baked pastry, and something else indefinablethe scent of home, soaked into the beams and wallpaper through the years. Everything was just as it always had been. Barbara smiled with simple contentment. There was nowhere like home.
How long can you stay? her mother asked, a wistful note in her voice. And wheres Leonard?
Hes working, Barbara replied. We just couldnt wait any longer. We meant to come for Christmas, but Abigail caught a cold, and Leonard was ill, too. Well head back Sunday nightwork on Monday, you know.
Barbara noticed her mothers greying hair and stooped shouldersshe had aged so much since Dad had passed two years prior, despite having been younger than her mother. Life in the village wasnt easy these days.
Come on, let me feed you both. You must be famished after the journey. Barbaras motherher given name Margaretdisappeared to the little scullery behind the stove with Abigail in tow.
Margaret set the table, unhurried. Barbara and Abigail eyed the food hungrily but were soon lulled by the warmth and good food; Abigail leaned her head against her grandmothers side, yawning.
Tired, my sweet? Youre growing up so quicklyyoull soon be as tall as me. Come, let me tuck you in.
Margaret led Abigail to the alcoveonce Barbaras own. The old cottage had just one main room, partitioned when needed by a mahogany wardrobe or a thick curtain.
Let her nap, Margaret said, returning. How are you all doing? Is everything all right?
Were fine, Mum. You know, we saw Rachel from the next village at the station. She called me Susan the whole time. Told her Im Barbara, Margarets daughterbut she kept at it. Am I really that like your sister? Do you have a picture?
Oh, youve seen it countless times, Margaret replied, looking away.
I know, but Id like to see it again.
Margaret sighed. All right, let me clear the table and Ill show you.
She brought out an old shoe box heavy with photographsmost yellowed black and whites, corners curled, some newer and in colour.
Here you are as a child. Thats you in Year FiveAbigails the image of you. And this one, she hesitated, recognise her?
Barbara smiled. Me! But Ive never seen that one.
Thats your aunt Susan, my younger sister, Margaret corrected gently.
She looks just like me. We could be twins.
And heres her last photograph from school leavers day. Margaret handed her a vibrant picture of a fair-haired young womanso full of life it was hard to look away.
Barbara studied it for a long time. Funny, I dont look at all like you, she admitted, gazing up at her mother.
Margaret drew a breath. Perhaps its time you knew. I cant leave this truth behind. Susan… Susan was your birth mother. I only kept it quiet for you.
She dabbed at her eyes, then went on. Mum was older already when she had Susandidnt want another so late in life. Carried heavy buckets and sacks, sat for hours in the sweltering wash househoping perhaps the baby wouldnt come. But Susan arrived regardless, a pretty thing even as a child. I was fifteen and took over as nursemaidSusan was more mine than Mums, really.
Children always left after school, no one wanted to stay in the village. I couldnt leave Mum alone with Susan; there were no young lads left to marryany left were either widowers or fond of their drink, and I didnt want that kind of life. Couldnt move on.
Susan always longed for city life. Left for London after school, but two years later, came backwith you. Such a tiny thing, hardly bigger than a jug. As though shed given you all of her beautyyou took everything with you. Susan herself became gaunt, nervous, laughing one day, silent the next.
And two days after, she left againleft you for us and went back to the city. She needed something. Drugs, Barbara. Shed started them, though we only learned later. She died there not long afteran overdose. I went for her funeral; Mum was too ill.
Mum wanted to send you off to an orphanage, but I wouldnt have it. I was alone anywaymight as well have a child, and you werent truly a stranger to me. No one in the village ever guessed, or if they did, they kept quiet. Susan had only been home a couple of days.
I arranged with the hospital to put you down as mine, since Id never married. Not for nothing, of course. And so you became my daughter. Gave you a new name, tooyou were Susans Barbara, nicknamed Barbie. What sort of name is that! I made it Barbara. A proper name, to match our Englishness.
About a year later, your father turned up. He was a soldier, away on service. Susan never told him she was expecting. He came back, started searching, and found out from her friends what happened. He was invalided out after an injury and settled here. Mum accepted him, even though he and Susan never married. Tough life for a woman here alone. We made a good go of things, he and I. He never knew about Susans troubles.
And so I kept silent. Maybe it was best not to know ones real mother was an addict. But better you hear it from me than whispers elsewhere. Truth always comes out in the end. You are mineI raised you as my own. You know the saying: Mother is not she who gives birth but she who raises the child.
Barbara sat, stunned by the revelation.
Where are you off to? Margaret asked anxiously, as Barbara went towards the door.
I need a little time alone, murmured Barbara, pulling on her coat and stepping into the cold.
Margaret shook her head, sighing as the door closed. Shouldnt have said a word, she murmured.
My mothera junkie! Died of overdose! Impossible, Barbaras thoughts whirled. At least my fathers real… or is he? Who knows who she was with? But what am I thinking? She was my mother, wasnt she? Left me for a fixhow could a mother abandon her child like that? Yet, did I ever lack for love? Margaret was everythinga real mother, who could have sent me away but didnt. It would be wrong to call her anything else.
Right now, I have no answers, but were I younger, this mightve broken me. Her mind worn out, Barbara went back inside. Margaret still sat at the table, lost in her thoughts.
Im sorry. You are my mother. I love you, Barbara whispered, embracing her.
And Im sorry for all the years I kept it from you.
Why are we sitting in the dark? Abigail piped up from her nook. Oh, mummyyour old photo! You were beautiful!
Margaret swept the photograph from Abigails grasp, packed them gently away in the shoe box.
But I didnt see them all, Abigail protested, crestfallen.
No need, love. Just look at us while were here.
That night, Barbara couldnt sleep, nor could her mother. The old iron bed creaked whenever Margaret turned.
Barbara slipped out of bed and padded over.
Are you awake?
Margaret lifted the blankets edge. The floors freezing, hop in beside me.
Barbara crawled under the covers, curling against her mothers warmth like shed done as a girl.
Still thinking about it? Margaret murmured.
No, whispered Barbara. Youre the only mother I need. Susan might have borne me, but you raised me.
They talked for a long while in murmurs. At last, Barbara tucked the blanket round her mother the way shed once been tucked in, returned to her own bed, and soon fell into an easy sleep.
Next morning, her mother saw them off at the bus stop.
Dont be lonely, Gran, well be back soon! chirped Abigail.
Barbara held her mother close, breathing in the scent of home.
Go on, youll freeze
The bus moved off, but Margaret watched the snowy road, eyes prickling with tears.
And so, at thirty-three, Barbara discovered her real mother had died when she was a baby, and it was her mothers elder sister who had raised her.
The shock hurt at firstthe years of silence, the hidden truthbut with a little time, she understood: blood made both Susan and Margaret family, and long ago, Margaret had become the only mother shed ever needed.
Nothing could ever feel more truly hers.
