A thankless son is worse than a stranger
Mary Seymour Reid, eightyfour, perched on a bus shelter by the lane that led to the cottage she had called home for decades. A battered canvas bag and a grocery sack lay on the cracked bench, holding almost everything she owned.
Got the nerve to kick out Primrose, didnt you? She snarled, Get out of my sight, old woman, scram, dont eat the bread we share with Iain.
Just three years earlier the threebedroom flat in the town of Ashford had throbbed with life: Mary, her daughter Blythe, her grandson Ian with his wife Natalie, and their son, little Arthur.
The cracks appeared when a new accounts clerk, Primrose, arrived from the city to work for Ian. She was given a room in a hostel, a job, and a fresh startyet she could not settle. She began to eye the men around her and set her sights on Ian. Married? she whispered. A wife isnt a wall, you know.
One April evening Ian packed a single suitcase, his face hollow. It took me till fortyfive to realise what real life and love look like, he muttered as he walked out, leaving only his shadow behind.
Natalie said nothing, waiting for Arthurs school exams, then whispered her own plan: Well move to London, Arthur needs university. Well live in my parents old cottage its been boarded up for three years, but well fix it. If we cant, my brother George will help. Ill find a job at the school quickly.
In two days the van was loaded, Georges truck rattling down the lane, and the family vanished. Arthur clutched his greatgrandmothers hands, Dont miss me, Grandma. Ill be back. He kept his promise twice while Blythe lived; after she passed, Ian and Primrose moved back into the flat, and Arthur never returned.
Marys world collapsed. Primrose imposed new rules, first inviting Mary to sit at the table and feeding her the same bland porridge she cooked for herself and Ian. Then she ordered Mary to stay in her room: Your crumbs are all over the kitchen. Its easier for me to clean your room once a week than to mop the floors three times a day.
From then on Mary ate oat, barley or wheat porridge for breakfast, lunch and dinner, washing it down with lukewarm tea.
One day Primrose announced her son would arrive in a week. She and Ian debated where to place the boy after his stint in a youth detention centre.
The next morning Ian left for work, and Primrose thrust a slip of paper into Marys trembling hand. Heres the address of a care home. Go there and thank me for not throwing you out onto the street, she snarled, slamming the flat door shut.
Mary shuffled to the bus stop, her eyesight blurred, the address a blur of ink. A young man in a coat stood nearby. Sir, can you read the address and tell me which bus goes there?
He looked at her, eyes softening. Where are you off to, Mrs. Mary? Arthurs just arrived, hes looking for you. Let me call him.
Within five minutes Arthur burst in, breathless. A former neighbour, Mrs. Clarke, who had once worked as a nurse in a care home, had told him Primrose intended to send Mary to an institution. She got the address from her old job, Arthur explained. His mother urged him to hurry back to the village and bring his greatgrandmother.
Arthur scooped Marys belongings, his voice firm: Ill whisk you away, Grandma, like royalty, by taxi to London. Mums already set up a room, and the apple orchard in the garden is in full bloom its gorgeous.
When Primrose and Ian learned Arthur was taking Mary to the city, a brief flicker of triumph crossed their faces, but it vanished as the paperwork unfolded. The title deeds showed Mary had been the sole legal owner of the flat from the start; her late husband had only a lifetenancy. With that proof, Primrose and Ian were forced back into the hostel.
Mary sold the flat and handed the proceeds to her greatgrandson. In the pricey London market, Arthur could afford only a modest onebedroom flat, but it was new, spacious, and his first roof of his own. He whispered plans of marriage, a fresh start for a young family, and the weight of the old world finally lifted.
