The daughter faded, the mother flourished.
That autumn was cruel, damp, and biting in Ashfield. Rain tapped the windows of the clinic from dawn, as though begging to slip inside for a bit of warmth. I sat sorting patient files, my heart clawed by unease. Everything seemed quietno one gravely illbut worry whirled about me, persistent as gnats before a storm.
Then the door groaned open, heavy and strained. Vera Stapleton appeared on the threshold.
Ah, Vera Fifty, with a few years more, yet she looked fit for a coffins silk lining. Her grey scarf had slipped sidewise, the coat hanging loose on her narrow shoulders like it was a scarecrows garment. Deep shadows beneath her eyes, as if smeared with soot. And her handsthose handsswollen red from icy water, trembling, picking nervously at her coat buttons.
Susan, she rasped, barely a whisper left, got any drops? My hearts thumping so hard its beating in my throat. And for Mum Mum could use some Valium, another attack last night, neither of us slept.
I glanced at her over my glasses, an icy pang clutching my chest. She wont last, I thought. Stood there in front of me was a woman drained, life in her as shallow as water in a parched well.
Sit down, I said, pulling out the blood pressure monitor. Why do you torment yourself so, dear? You look like a ghost.
No time, Susan, she didnt even sit, just leaned weakly against the doorpost. Mums alone. What if she wants water? Or if her pressure spikes? I need to run. Just give me the medicine.
I handed her the bottles, she snatched them up with stiff, shaking fingers and slipped out. Only the cold waft of wind brushed my ankles. I watched from the window as she hunched through the mud toward her house and thought, Lord, why did you portion her such a fate? Not a mother waiting there, but a millstone hung around her neck.
Ethel Stapleton was once a formidable woman, booming and bold. Spent her life as the town clerk, loved to command, could shout down a room. But the day she retired, she took to bed instead.
My legs wont hold me, shed bellow. My heartstopping, cant you hear?
Ten years now shed lain there. Ten years Vera wound herself about her, as a vine wraps a post.
The next day, unable to bear it, I dressed and went to visit. Pretending just to check in. I stepped insidea spotless cottage, mats crisp underfoot, and the air Not sickness, no. It smelled of pies and stewed cabbage.
Ethel dominated the bed, perched like a queen on her throne, pillows stacked high behind her. Her face was pink and smooth, not a wrinkle out of place, her eyes sharp as nails.
Oh, Susan, she boomed. So youve finally come? You wont get any help from that useless thing she jerked her head toward the kitchen never enough. I tell her, Vera, my chest is burning, but she says, Mum, let me finish with the cow first. Cares more for that cow than her own mother!
Vera shuffled past, lugging a heavy enamel bucket of water. Her legs wobbled, her back bent like a bow. She set down the bucket, knelt, and began to scrub the floors. Silently. Only the wheeze of her breath filled the room.
Ethel, I admonished, You could show some mercy. Your daughters turned see-through.
Mercy? Ethel raised up on her pillows. And who has mercy for me? I raised her, sleepless nights, now what? Cant even beg a cup of water! Its my cursed burden, Susan, this wretched illness. Shes the daughterits her duty.
I looked at Ethel and saw she had enough health for three men. The disease she suffered was immeasurable self-love. She drained Veras life, like a spider winding up a fly. And she believed herself truly illso truly that others believed it too.
But Vera never lifted her head, only scrubbed the boards. Swish, swish. Swish, swish. That sound rings in my ears to this day. The sound of hopelessness.
A month passed. Winter knocked, the first sharp snow fell.
One evening, I sipped tea and dunked biscuits, whenbang! A knock at the window shook the glass.
I opened ityoung Pete, the neighbours boy, stood there wide-eyed.
Susan! Quick! Aunt Veras collapsed! By the well! Shes not getting up!
I dont know how I ran. My old legs carried me faster than thought. Vera lay on the frozen ground, buckets spilled, the water already icing over. Her face was as pale as the snow, lips blue.
We managed to carry her into the house.
Ethel shouted from her room, Whats all the racket?! Vera! Where are you wandering? My hot water bottles cold!
I knelt to Vera, felt her pulsebarely a thread. Ambulance called, rushed her to the county hospital. Heart attack. It was massive.
Ethel was left alone.
I entered her room; she blinked at me.
Wheres Vera? Wholl take out my bedpan? Wholl cook my porridge?
Veras in hospital, I said, unable to keep the harshness from my voice. You drove her there, Ethel. Shes dying.
Lies! she screeched. Shes doing this on purpose! Trying to run away from me, to abandon her helpless mother! Selfish little brat!
I felt sick, honestly. I might have spat, but Hippocratic oath held me back. I gave her water, a pill, and left. Wondered to myselfhow will she live now?
But fates a quirky mistress. Next day, a bus arrived from London. Off stepped Nadia. Ethels granddaughter, Veras daughter.
Nadia, never liked in Ashfield. Gone a decade since finishing school, never visited. Folks said she was proud, turning up her nose at village folk. Vera cried quietly for her, wrote letters, never received replies.
Now here she was. Leather jacket, hair cropped fashionably short, gaze direct and steely. Not like her mum, or grandma.
She visited me first.
Hows Mum? she asked, brisk, business-like.
Not good, I replied. Intensive care. Complete exhaustion. Shes spent.
Nadias lips tightened, jaw clenched.
Understood. Ill go see Gran.
The village whisperedall sorts of speculation about what went on in that house. Next day, I passed and heard bellowing. Ethel howled so loud I thought she was being murdered. I barged in.
The scenea painting. Ethel perched on the bed, red as beetroot, flailing her arms. Nadia stood before her, cool as stone, holding a plate of soup.
I wont eat this! screamed the grandmother. Its unsalted! And cold! Vera always gave me piping hot! Wheres my daughter?!
Your daughter is in hospital because you pushed her there, Nadia replied, even-voiced. Im not Vera. I wont salt it. Dont want to eat? Dont. Youll eat when youre hungry.
She set the plate on the nightstand and turned to leave.
Water! Ethel cried behind her. Fetch me water, you fiend! Im dying!
Nadia paused in the doorway, turned back.
Theres the jug. Theres the glass. Hands working? Off you go.
I thought Ethel might have a stroke. Ten years, shed never lifted a glass herself!
Susan! she spotted me. Be a witness! Shes starving me! Torturing me!
But Nadia looked at me with her grey eyes, and I saw so much pain there it nearly broke me. It wasnt cruelty, my dears. It was surgery. She was cutting, to let the rot out.
Two weeks, Nadia trained her gran. Hard.
Bedpan? Theres the commode. If you can sit, you can shift.
Changing the sheets? Yourself. Youve got hands.
Shriek too much? Ill shut the door and go to the garden.
The village gossiped. Shell finish the old woman, whispered neighbours by the well. But I kept silent. Because I saw Ethel coming alive.
At first, rage nearly burst her. Then, hunger made her reach for the spoon herself. When Nadia never brought water, I saw with my own eyesEthel stood up! Groaning, holding the bed post, she shuffled to the table.
A month or so later, Vera was discharged.
Nadia brought her home by taxi. Vera was still frail, pale, but not transparent. She walked, leaned on her daughter, scared to step inside. Afraid shed hear the old refrains: Where were you, lazybones? My heel itches.
They enteredsilence.
Mothers room, empty. The bed neatly made.
Vera grabbed her chest.
Shes dead?
No, said Nadia, with a hint of a smile. Shes in the kitchen.
They moved to the kitchen. There, Ethel Stapleton, sat at the table, glasses perched, peeling potatoes. Herself!
She saw Vera, put the knife down.
A pause so sharp, you could hear the clock tick. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Vera pressed against the doorframe, tears streaming.
Mum you got up
Ethel looked at her, then at her granddaughter. Her gaze was oddnot angry, but uncertain, as if waking from a long sleep.
Youd get up, too, she muttered, less venomous than before. With this sergeant in a skirt.
Then, after a moment, quietly added,
Sit down, Vera. The potatoes are getting cold.
I looked at themyoung and oldand thought: how much energy people waste on manipulation, on playing sick and suffering. Lifes not a draftcant rewrite it. And sometimes, to save a person, youve got to yank the pillow out from under their head, not fluff it up.
Winter melted away, noisy, muddy, dragging all the stale life with it.
Then May arrived in Ashfield. Do you know what May is here? The air sweet with hawthorn, thick enough to eat with a spoon. Blue evenings, nightingales singing in the hollow, wrenching your soul.
I walked past the Stapleton house one evening.
A new gate, freshly painted. Scarlet tulips blazing in the gardenVeras pride.
A table stands in the yard. The kettle shines, fat and golden in the sunset.
Three sit there.
Ethel in her wheelchair (still not strong enough for distance), holding her own cup, dipping a ginger biscuit. A cheerful headscarf sparkling.
Nadia beside her, laughing at something, laptop openshe works remotely now, from here.
And Vera Vera strolls in the garden. Not hunched, not rushing, just walking. Gently touching a branch, breathing in the blossom. Her face calm, bright. The wrinkles never vanishedbut the eyes the eyes are alive.
Vera spotted me, waved:
Susan! Come in for tea! Weve just opened the gooseberry jam, your favourite!
I entered, the gate creaking with familiar warmth. Settled beside them. The tea hot, strong, smoky.
You know, Susan, Ethel suddenly said, gazing toward the glowing horizon,
I used to think love was being waited on, having everything brought to me. Turns out loves really when they refuse to let you give up. Force you to live, even when youre spent.
Vera came over, hugged her shoulders. Quietly. Nadia slipped her hand over her grandmothers.
We sat like that, blessed silence. Only the cricket behind the stove tuning his violin, distant cow lows as the herd comes home. Peace, thank God. Calm. And you believethings will be all right.
I look now at my little clinic, at our dusty lanes, at cottages with carved windowsills, and think: nowheres better than your village, when theres harmony at home. Air here heals, earth gives strength, so long as bitterness is weeded from the heart like a nettle.
