A Stranger, Yet Closest of All
“Eleanor Whitman, you can’t be serious! This is absurd!” Thomas Whitmore’s voice trembled with indignation. “I’m not even family!”
“And who is?” The woman straightened sharply, clutching a crumpled hospital form. “My son who rings twice a year from his London flat? Or my granddaughter who barely remembers her grandmother exists? You’ve been asking after me every day for three years—buying my medicine when my pension doesn’t stretch far enough!”
Thomas shifted awkwardly in the hallway, his worn flat cap twisting in his hands. A tall, stooped man of sixty-five with silver stubble and kind, tired eyes, he’d only come to ask if she needed anything from the shops.
“But leaving me your house—it isn’t proper! What will the neighbours say?”
“I couldn’t care less what they think,” Eleanor retorted, settling into her armchair by the window. “Sit down, you’re looming like a lamppost.”
Thomas perched on the edge of the sofa. Outside, an October drizzle streaked the glass, making the room feel all the cosier. On the sill, violets bloomed—Thomas had brought them last spring, claiming they never thrived in his own home but might cheer her.
“Listen to me,” Eleanor said, folding her hands. “I saw the doctor yesterday. My heart’s failing, the pressure’s erratic. He said… well, you know.”
“Don’t talk like that! You’ve years left—I’ll help, same as always. There are new medicines—”
“Tom,” she said softly, and he startled. She rarely used his Christian name. “You understand, don’t you? I’m afraid to die alone. But with you here… it’s not so terrible.”
They’d met three years ago in the GP’s queue. Eleanor had been clutching a cardiology referral, breathing shallowly, while Thomas waited for his own appointment. When he noticed her distress, he’d offered water from his flask.
“Thank you, love,” she’d whispered. “You’re a good soul.”
Later, they discovered they lived on the same street. Thomas began checking in—first weekly, then daily. She cooked him Sunday roasts; he fixed her leaky taps. Quietly, they grew accustomed to each other.
Thomas had his own sorrows. His wife had died five years prior—cancer—leaving him alone in a house full of ghosts. A retired machinist with a modest pension, he’d lived unseen until Eleanor.
Her son, Geoffrey, had left for London after university, married a solicitor’s daughter, and rarely visited. At first, it was holidays; later, just birthday calls. He’d ask perfunctorily after her health, promise to visit, then never come.
“He’s dreadfully busy,” she’d tell the neighbours. “High-pressure job, young children…”
In truth, Geoffrey had simply forgotten her. Not maliciously—life had carried him away, and his mother became an afterthought.
Her granddaughter, Lily, sometimes sent photos—a bright-eyed girl who barely knew her.
“Tom,” Eleanor asked once over tea, “did you never want children?”
“Aye. But it wasn’t to be. My Martha… she couldn’t.” His spoon circled the cup. “Told me to marry again, have a family. But how could I? She was my one.”
Eleanor covered his hand with hers. “You’re a good man. Rare as hens’ teeth nowadays.”
Thomas flushed. “Just an ordinary bloke.”
“No. Ordinary men look the other way. You… you care too much for strangers.”
It was true. If a neighbour’s boiler failed or a young mother’s pram broke, Thomas mended it. They respected him but whispered he was too soft—a bit of a saint. Eleanor knew better: such men were to be cherished.
She’d been a librarian, sharp-witted and well-read. Widowed young, she’d poured everything into Geoffrey—only to watch him fly the nest and never glance back.
“You know what hurts most?” she admitted one evening. “Not that he left. Children must. But that he became a stranger. Calls me like I’m some distant aunt.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how else to be,” Thomas ventured.
“No. He knows. I don’t fit his life now—a provincial librarian with a Yorkshire accent. His in-laws are Oxford dons.”
“He’s a fool, then,” Thomas said sharply—uncharacteristically. “To be ashamed of you.”
Now, in her parlour, she pressed on about the will. Thomas twisted his cap.
“Geoffrey doesn’t need this house. He’d sell it. But you—you’d tend my roses, maybe take in another lost soul. You’ve that way about you.”
“Eleanor, people will say I came for the house.”
“Did you?”
“Never! Only… I was lonely. You made it less so.”
“And you’ve done the same for me. I’m afraid to die unmourned.”
The telephone rang. Geoffrey’s call was brief—polite inquiries, excuses about ticket prices. When she hung up, her shoulders trembled.
“He might come at Christmas,” she said tonelessly.
“He will,” Thomas lied.
She shook her head. “We both know he won’t.” Calm, but her eyes were bleak.
“You know what I think?” she continued. “Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes you find it in a GP’s queue.”
Thomas said nothing. His chest ached strangely.
“You’re more a son to me than Geoffrey,” she admitted. “Not because he’s cruel—just gone. But you… you’re here.”
“I can’t replace him.”
“Replace? No. But you’re no stranger. You’re the closest thing I have.”
Thomas went to the window. Rain sheeted down. Somewhere in London, Geoffrey sat in some sleek office, oblivious.
“Shall I ring him? Tell him how things stand?”
“No. I won’t have him visit out of duty. That’s worse than silence.”
“But he’s your son.”
“And what are you?” she asked, joining him. “Why do you come? Why bring me violets? Why sit up when my heart races?”
Thomas had no answer. He only knew he couldn’t do otherwise.
“Because you’re kind,” she said. “Because we’re the same—lonely but not bitter. Tired but still caring.”
They watched the rain in silence, the old mantel clock ticking.
“Promise me, Tom,” she whispered. “Let me die knowing someone will remember.”
He closed his eyes. Three years flickered past—her roast dinners, their evenings with the telly, her fussing over his cough. A family not by blood, but by choice.
“All right,” he said at last. “But promise me too—don’t hurry off. Stay awhile. For me.”
She smiled—the first that day. “I’ll try, Tom. For you, I’ll try.”
Outside, the rain eased. Sunlight glinted on the violets’ petals, like tears of quiet joy.
