Youre retired now. Its time for you to look after the grandchildren, declared her daughter. Her mothers reply surprised her.
Margaret Edwards retired on a Friday. By Monday, she realised: it was a trap.
Friday had been festive her colleagues brought out a Victoria sponge, the accounts department handed her a bouquet of carnations and a card signed by everyone, even Jimmy the security guard, who after fifteen years still never remembered her name. Margaret had smiled, eaten cake. Everything was as it should be.
But on Sunday evening, her daughter Charlotte rang.
Mum, Arthur and I were talking. Youre retired now, arent you? Loads of free time, right?
Well, I suppose so, Margaret replied carefully, feeling something give way inside her.
Brilliant! You can pick the kids up from nursery early and watch them till were back.
Every day? Margaret asked.
Why not? Its not like you have anything else on.
Its not like you have anything else on. Said in that certain tone, the one reserved for well, its not as though youre busy. Margaret said:
All right, Charlotte.
At that moment, something began to simmer inside her a slow seething in her chest.
Because that very Monday at ten, Margaret was meant to attend her first ever dance class. Dance for Grown-Ups, Monday mornings at the Community Hall on Rose Lane. Shed already paid in advance. Shed promised herself two years ago, after seeing a stranger a woman in her sixties with straight posture and a lively stride. Thered been something magnetic about her. Margaret had thought, yes, thats how I want to be.
But on Monday, she walked to the nursery and fetched her grandchildren.
Sophie instantly demanded her hair in a plait like Elsas. Oliver spilled his squash over the cream carpet. By evening, Margaret felt as worn as an old library book in September scuffed, with the corners folded over.
Charlotte collected the children at half seven, pecked her mother on the cheek.
Thanks, Mum! Youre an absolute star!
Of course, a star, thought Margaret, staring at the closed door.
This went on for three weeks. Not long, for some things a renovation, a new diet. For realising youre being quietly, thoughtlessly used? Three weeks is plenty.
It was practised to perfection. Charlotte would call in the morning, voice brisk, upbeat, as if everything was sorted.
Mum, youll pick up the kids today, yeah?
There wasnt a question in it. It was an announcement. Like a text from the bank: ‘Youve been debited.’
Margaret found herself answering yes out of habit. It was a habit that had taken sixty-three years to learn: dont make a fuss. A habit very convenient. For everyone but Margaret herself.
She cancelled her dance class. Called the studio, explained she might move to later in the term. The girl assured her, Of course, your payment will hold until the end of the month. End of the month came and went. The class never got rescheduled.
Then she cancelled meeting her friend, Pamela, once her colleague, now retired for six months and filling her time with Nordic walks and making gooseberry jam. Theyd planned on seeing a French film together. Margaret had been looking forward to it. Never happened.
Never mind, Pamela said gently. Next time.
Next time. Such a comforting phrase. In reality it means who knows when if ever.
Her days blurred into one. After lunch, off to the nursery. Sophie craved constant, unwavering attention. Oliver was more independent, but far more hazardous always dropping, spilling, knocking things over, and each time looked as baffled as though gravity itself were a personal affront.
By six oclock, Margarets back and head would pound. By half seven, every inch of her ached.
Thank you, Mum! Youre a treasure! Charlotte would say, whisking away her children. Margaret would collapse on the sofa in silence, thinking: somethings not right.
But she couldnt quite put her finger on what.
It was, oddly enough, the television that pointed the way. On a talk show, a woman of a certain age looked down the camera and said, I spent my entire life living for other people. Only at sixty did I realise I have a right to my own life.
Margaret stared at the screen.
How interesting, she said aloud.
That night, she dug out her slip of paper the schedule for the dance studio. Classes ran until the end of April. She still had a month and a half. Enough time, if she really wanted it.
And she did.
Next day, she rang the studio, signed herself up again, and pinned the schedule prominently on the fridge beneath her Venice magnet. She phoned Pamela: Next Saturday, lets do that film.
Pamela was surprised, but delighted. Deal, she said.
That was it. Two phone calls and suddenly Margaret had things of her own again.
On Sunday, she took a walk by herself. No grandchildren, no bags, just herself. She strolled along the Thames, sipped coffee in a riverside café. A couple her own age sat nearby, laughing quietly at some private joke. Watching them, Margaret thought: retirement isnt an ending. Its just a different beginning. You file your last report, and then you simply live.
Monday, she collected her grandchildren as usual.
That evening, as Charlotte picked up the children, she gave her mother a searching look.
Mum, you look awfully cheerful.
Just in a good mood, Margaret replied.
Oh, Charlotte said, not thinking any more of it.
She should have.
Because on Friday evening, Charlotte called again. Her voice was serene, careless as of someone whos never had to worry about anything.
Mum, Arthur and I are going away next Wednesday for three days utterly exhausted. Can you take the kids?
Those same three days, Margaret had a trip already booked and paid for. Bath, with Pamela and two friends hotel with breakfast, a guide, the abbey, honey mead. Everything included.
Margaret looked at her phone.
Then at the schedule on the fridge.
Then at the printed trip itinerary beside it. They sat together like a quiet little conspiracy. Like the hush before an uprising.
And what had started simmering three weeks ago now reached boiling point.
Margaret didnt reply straightaway.
Usually, shed say yes. Or all right. Or of course, what else can I do? Pick one, shut the conversation down. But this time she left a pause. A little pause. Three small seconds which, on the telephone, is a lifetime.
Charlotte, she said, I cant.
A pause now on the other end.
What? Charlotte sounded surprised, rather than angry.
Ive bought a holiday. Those exact days. Bath. Im going with Pamela.
Silence.
Seriously?
Seriously.
Mum. But youre retired. You should be looking after the grandchildren, Charlotte replied, speaking as if saying something perfectly self-evident. Grandmothers retire to look after grandkids. Thats just the way the world works.
Margaret paused a second longer.
Charlotte, Im a grandmother. Not a free nanny.
What did you just say? Charlottes voice grew sharp and brittle.
I said what I said.
Mum, you do realise were working? Were depending on you.
I do, Margaret said calmly. And I have helped. Three weeks, every single day you call that nothing?
But youre at home anyway!
There it was again.
At home anyway.
Charlotte, she said, I gave thirty-five years to you. Alone no help, hardly ever had a decent holiday. Im not complaining; it was my choice. But now, Id just like to live a little for myself.
Charlotte was caught off guard.
Mum, thats selfish!
Call it what you want, Margaret replied.
And hung up.
She couldnt quite believe it herself.
Margaret set her phone down. Poured herself a cup of tea. Sat by the window.
After twenty minutes, her phone rang again.
Mum. You do realise we have no idea what to do now?
Yes. At your age, neither did I. But I managed.
Thats different!
How?
Charlotte was silent. Because there was no answer. Or perhaps because the answer was one she was too embarrassed to say.
Well, youre retired now, she said, more quietly. What else have you got to do with your time?
Whatever I want, Margaret replied. Dancing. Travelling. Coffee in a café by the river. Foreign films. Even just sitting at the window thats my right, too. You never justify how you spend your weekends to me.
Im working!
I worked for thirty years.
A long pause.
Mum, Charlotte said, youve changed.
Yes, Margaret agreed. Bit late, maybe. But better late than never.
I dont understand you.
You will, one day.
They said their goodbyes rather stiffly. No bye Mum, no love you. Just goodbye on both sides, like strangers in a lift.
Margaret put down the phone and gazed out of the window for a long time.
Just watching, not thinking of anything.
Not her grandchildren, nor Charlotte, nor whether shed done the right thing.
Then she picked up the phone and texted Pamela simply: Were on. Book it.
Pamela replied within a minute. Short and sweet, but with three exclamation marks.
Hooray!!!
Margaret smiled. Outside, April was hastily unfurling new green leaves eager, bright, not looking back.
As though life itself had decided: enough waiting. Its time.
Charlotte didnt call for four days.
During that time Margaret wandered Bath, sipped honey mead in small careful sips, snapped photos of the abbeys towers, and laughed with Pamela about all sorts of nonsense the kind only funny when youre finally exhaling, not racing anywhere.
She got home on Sunday evening.
Charlotte called the next day. It was her, this time. She spoke more slowly than usual, with little pauses as if rehearsed but still tripping up.
Mum, maybe I was wrong. You do deserve your own life.
Im glad you see that.
Its just were used to you always
I know. Thats partly my fault, too.
They were quiet.
Mum, could you help sometimes? Not every day just when you can.
When I can, Ill be glad to, Margaret said. The grandchildren are precious. But sometimes isnt the same as every day, since youre just at home anyway.
No, Charlotte agreed softly. Its different.
Now, Margaret has the children on Fridays. Of her own choosing. Happily. They make dumplings, watch cartoons, and sometimes she tells them about Bath about golden spires and how mead can be very sweet, if you pick the right kind.
And on Tuesdays, its dance class.
Now at nursery, Sophie and Oliver proudly tell everyone their grandma dances. Theres a certain pride in their voices.
A grandma who dances lets be honest is far better than one who just sits at home.
