Outside her cottage, Evelyn Hawthorne stood sifting mail as Margaret Palmer brandished her phone. “Oh, Evelyn, just look at this beauty! Our new holiday place in Cornwall! Here’s my son’s car – Bentley, incredibly dear! And my granddaughter at her piano recital, studying at the Royal Academy!”
“Lovely, truly,” Evelyn murmured, not meeting her gaze. “Pardon me, Margaret, I’m quite rushed…”
“Rushed? Neighbours for thirty years, no time for a chat?” Margaret persisted. “Look, Turkey last month! Five-star resort, all-inclusive! When did you last get away?”
Evelyn turned, grey eyes weary. “I don’t get away, Margaret. No time.”
“No time? But your children are grown, you’re retired…”
“Grown, yes,” Evelyn whispered. “They live far away.”
“So? My lad’s in London, but we talk constantly. He’s down every weekend! His salary – heavens!” Margaret fumbled with her phone again. “Look! He bought me this mink coat from Harrods!”
Evelyn climbed the stairs, leaving Margaret buzzing below.
Silence met her inside the semi-detached. The two-bedroom terrace, cramped once for a family of four, echoed now. Only African violets on the sill offered life. “My darlings,” Evelyn breathed, touching a leaf. “At least you’ve stayed.”
She switched on the telly for noise. News spoke of state pension increases, new benefits. Evelyn gave a wry smile. Hers covered necessities, nothing more.
The phone jolted her. Colin? Or Victoria?
“Evelyn Hawthorne?” An unfamiliar voice. “Housing Association. Your utilities payment is overdue…”
“Overdue? I always pay promptly!”
“Our system shows last month’s payment missing…”
Evelyn protested, promised receipts to an empty line.
That evening, dusk thick at the window, she sat at the kitchen table with tea. Yellowed photos lay spread. Colin serious, clutching flowers on his first day at St. Mary’s Primary. Victoria radiant at her sixth-form prom. All of them together at her mother-in-law’s cottage in Devon, back when Arthur was alive…
“Where are you all now?” she murmured to the images. “How did it become just me?”
Next morning brought Margaret again, arms straining with Waitrose bags.
“Oh, Evelyn! Just the person! Granddaughter phoned – got into Oxford! Reading Classics! First-class honours! Son’s buying her the latest iPhone!”
“Congratulations,” Evelyn managed.
“And yours? Grandchildren?” Margaret asked, politeness thinly veiled.
“I have none,” Evelyn said softly.
“None? But your children…”
“Grown. Simon and Victoria. Busy, terribly busy. Simon’s a software architect in Australia now. Victoria married, lives in Canada…”
“Marvellous!” Margaret beamed. “Then everything’s splendid! Children settled abroad! You should be bursting with pride!”
“I am,” Evelyn lied. “Bursting.”
“There you are! Cheer up. They must send money? Help out?”
“They send money,” Evelyn lied again. “Of course they help.”
The truth was Colin sent fifty pounds six months ago, for her birthday. Victoria sent nothing – Canadian mortgages crushing, she’d said on the rare call.
Home again, Evelyn sat at Simon’s old computer. Opened Skype. He was online: Status – Busy. Victoria hadn’t logged on for weeks.
*Simon, dear, how are you? How’s your health? Miss you.*
The reply came hours later: *Hey Mum. All good. Mad busy. Text me WhatsApp. Stopped using Skype.*
Evelyn didn’t know WhatsApp well. She tried installing it, got lost in settings, gave up.
She rang Victoria. No answer. Finally, a weary voice.
“Mum? What’s wrong? It’s half one here!”
“Sorry, darling, forgot the time. Just wanted to see how…”
“Mum, I can’t chat. Big presentation first thing. Call you weekend?”
“Alright,” Evelyn said, the line already dead.
The weekend passed. Victoria didn’t ring.
At the NHS clinic queue, she met a face from years past. “Evelyn? Goodness! How long? What brings you?”
“Blood pressure,” Evelyn sighed. “Heart’s playing up. You?”
“Blooming!” Florence beamed. “Daughter just had a baby! Granddaughter! Amelia. Mind her every day while daughter works. Such joy, Evelyn, you can’t imagine!”
“I can imagine,” Evelyn breathed. “Pure joy.”
“And yours? Simon? Victoria? Remember them toddlers? Sweet little things!”
“Sweet,” Evelyn echoed. “Very. Simon’s in Australia, software. Victoria married in Canada.”
“Goodness!” Florence exclaimed. “So you’re a Gran then?”
“No,” Evelyn said, barely audible. “Not yet.”
“Planning?”
“Don’t know. We speak seldom. Careers keep them occupied…”
“Understandable,” Florence nodded. “Still, parents should know. I ring my girl daily. Takes five minutes.”
Afterwards, Evelyn shopped at Tesco. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Veg. Essentials. At the till, a woman heaved overflowing bags onto the belt. Meat. Salmon. Strawberries. Sweets. Toy dinosaurs.
“Grandkids visiting,” she told the cashier. “From Edinburgh. Half-term. Must spoil them!”
Home. Evelyn filled the sparse fridge. Put the kettle on. Crossed off another day on the calendar. One month until her birthday.
Last year, alone all day, she’d waited for calls. Simon rang late, sent apologies – a client meeting. Victoria messaged on WhatsApp: *Happy birthday Mum! Health and happiness!* And a cake emoji.
Evelyn baked a small sponge, lit one candle, wished. Just one homecoming. Just one of them.
No one came.
The phone rang. Evelyn snatched it.
“Yes?”
“Evelyn Hawthorne?” A new voice. “Olive, from the Community Befriending Network. We connect with seniors needing conversation…”
“I’m fine,” Evelyn cut in.
“Perhaps you’d like to chat with one of our volunteers? Many feel isolated…”
“I said I’m fine!” Evelyn declared, hanging up.
She sat, the silence heavy. *Should I? Is there someone who’d understand?*
Nonsense! Her children were simply distant. Busy. That’s life. Youth build futures. Live their lives.
She opened a battered shoebox, lifted a photo. All together at Edinburgh Zoo. Simon about ten, Victoria seven. Grinning, pointing at the elephants. She and Arthur beside them, contented.
“Where did time go?” she asked the frozen smiles. “When did you stop needing me?”
Darkness outside. Dinner: scrambled egg on toast. Tea. Silent chewing. Piano scales drifted down from upstairs. A game show blared beneath the floorboards.
Here, only quietness.
Later, at the old computer, she typed: *How to reconnect with children living abroad*. Articles advised: *Don’t crowd them. Let them live. Call weekly at most.*
She called less. Still, she felt a bother.
In bed, sleep eluded her. Tomorrow would mirror today. And next week. And next month.
Morning brought the phone. Evelyn jolted. Simon? Victoria?
“Evelyn!” Margaret chirruped. “Can you imagine? Granddaughter not only got Oxford, but Head Girl too! And son’s promised her a Mini Cooper for graduation!”
“Fabulous,” Evelyn murmured, replacing the receiver.
She rose, crossed to the window. A new dawn broke. Sunlight. Children playing tag in the close. Life continued its relentless rhythm.
Only hers remained suspended. Waiting. Waiting for the call that never came.
“I have everything,” she told the African violets. “Health, touch wood. A roof. Food enough. Everything close at hand…” Her voice cracked. “…except the thing that matters. Except
Margaret turned from the window, the untasted tea cooling on the table beside the sun-warmed windowsill where her African violets quietly grew. The stillness settled deep in the flat, a heavy quiet broken only by the distant chime of the hour; her heart continued its quiet, persistent reaching across the miles, a message forever sent, never received.
