Oh, you know that neighbour, Margaret Davies? Poor dear. She was just retrieving her post, shuffling through envelopes, when Barbara Finch cornered her by the mailboxes downstairs. Barbara was practically waving her phone in Margaret’s face – all excited, wasn’t she? “Eleanor! Eleanor Thompson, look at this! Our new holiday cottage? Stunning. And my son’s car! A proper luxury one, mind you. And here’s my granddaughter playing piano! Lessons every week!”
“Yes, yes, lovely,” Margaret murmured, shuffling her letters. “Forgive me, Barbara, I really am in a rush…”
“Rush where? We’ve been neighbours years, and never a moment to chat!” Barbara breezed right on past. “Look here, this is me and my husband in Greece! Went last month. Five stars, all-inclusive! When did you last have a holiday?”
Margaret sighed, turning properly to face her. You could see the tiredness right there in her grey eyes.
“I don’t holiday, Barbara Finch. Haven’t the time.”
“How can that be?” Barbara seemed genuinely puzzled. “Your children are grown, you have grandchildren, you’re retired…”
“Grown? Yes,” Margaret agreed quietly. “They just… live rather far away.”
“So what? My son works in London, but we talk constantly! Comes every weekend! And his salary? God help us!” Barbara was diving back into her phone gallery. “Look, see? He bought me this gorgeous mink coat! Brand new!”
Margaret just climbed the stairs to the second floor then, leaving Barbara and her photos buzzing below.
That familiar quiet greeted her inside. Her modest two-bed flat, once cramped for a family of four, felt hollow now. Only the African violets on the windowsill offered any sense of life.
“My girls,” Margaret whispered, gently touching a leaf. “At least you haven’t left me.”
She switched the telly on, more for the company of voices than to watch. The news droned on about pension increases, new support payments. A faint, wry smile touched Margaret’s lips – her pension covered the basics, little more.
And then the phone rang. Her heart gave a hopeful little jump – Oliver? Or maybe Amelia?
“Eleanor Thompson?” A voice she didn’t recognise. “Calling about your council tax. Your account shows an overdue payment for last month…”
“Overdue?” She was stunned. “I always pay on time!”
“Our system flags a missing payment…”
Margaret spent ages explaining down the line, mentioning her receipts, finally realising she was talking to dead air.
Later, with dusk settling outside, she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Old, printed photos lay spread out. Oliver on his first day of school, looking terribly serious with a massive bunch of flowers. Amelia, radiant at her prom. All of them together years ago at her mother-in-law’s seaside place when her husband was still here…
“Where are you now?” she asked the silent faces. “How did it happen that I’m alone?”
Next morning, Barbara Finch was back in the courtyard, laden with bulging shopping bags.
“Eleanor! Eleanor Thompson!” Barbara beamed. “I meant to tell you! Granddaughter phoned yesterday – got into university! On a full scholarship! Clever girl! And her dad promised her the latest iPhone to celebrate!”
“Congratulations,” Margaret managed.
“And how are *you*?” Barbara asked, though her eyes weren’t really asking. “Grandchildren keeping busy?”
“I don’t have grandchildren,” Margaret said softly.
“How’s that?” Barbara seemed genuinely surprised. “But your children?”
“I have children. Oliver and Amelia. They’re just… terribly busy. Oliver works in Germany, computers. Amelia lives in America now, married there…”
“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Barbara exclaimed. “So you’re set! Children thriving, living abroad! You should be proud!”
“I should be,” Margaret agreed. “I am proud.”
“There you go! And here I thought you looked a bit down. They send money though? Help out?”
“They send it,” Margaret lied. “Of course they help.”
The truth was, Oliver sent twenty pounds for her birthday six months ago. Amelia never sent any – in America, she’said on the phone once, the mortgage was huge, credit cards maxed.
At home, Margaret sat at the old computer Oliver left behind when he moved out. She logged into Skype, scanned the contacts. Oliver was online… ‘Busy’. Amelia hadn’t logged in for three weeks.
She typed a message to her son: *Ollie, darling, how are you? How’s work? I miss you.*
The reply came hours later: *Hi Mum. All fine. Working loads. Better to message me on WhatsApp. Never use Skype anymore.*
Margaret didn’t know WhatsApp. She tried to find it, got lost in settings, gave up.
She called Amelia. Ringing… ringing… then finally a sleepy, irritated voice.
“Mum? What is it? It’s one in the morning here!”
“Oh, sweetheart, I forgot the time difference! Just wanted to hear your voice, see how you were…”
“Mum, I can’t chat. Major presentation at work tomorrow. Let’s catch up at the weekend, alright?”
“Alright,” Margaret said, but the dial tone was already humming.
The weekend came and went. Amelia didn’t call.
Margaret went to the doctor’s surgery – her blood pressure was playing up again. Sitting in the queue was an old neighbour, Val Watson. Same street years back.
“Margie!” Val brightened. “Fancy seeing you! How are things?”
“Oh, you know,” Margaret sighed, “Just the usual. Heart acting up. And you?”
“Oh, wonderful!” Val beamed. “My daughter just had a baby! Granddaughter! Little Rosie. Beautiful! I mind her every day while my daughter’s at work. Pure joy, Margie, you wouldn’t believe!”
“I can imagine,” Margaret said softly. “That must be lovely.”
“And yours? Oliver, Amelia? Remember them little! Lovely children!”
“Lovely,” Margaret echoed. “Very lovely. Oliver’s in Germany, computers. Amelia’s in America, married there.”
“Goodness!” Val clapped her hands. “So you’re a grandma now?”
“No,” Margaret’s voice was barely there. “Not yet.”
“Any plans?”
“I don’t know. We don’t talk often. They’re so busy, work so much…”
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s life,” Val nodded. “Still, parents should know these things. I call my daughter daily, even when she’s working. You can always find five minutes.”
After the surgery, Margaret stopped at the supermarket for basics. Bread, milk, eggs, a few veg. Essentials. At the checkout, a woman had a trolley overflowing – meat, fish, fancy fruit, sweets, children’s toys.
“Grandkids visiting,” she explained cheerfully to the cashier. “Coming from London for half term. Got to spoil them!”
Back home, Margaret packed the meagre shop into her half-empty fridge. Put the kettle on, lit the hob. She crossed off the day on the kitchen calendar. One month until her birthday.
Last year, she’d sat alone, waiting for calls. Oliver rang late, wished her happy birthday, apologised – had a meeting. Amelia sent a WhatsApp message: *Happy Birthday Mum! Health and happiness!* With a little cake emoji.
Margaret had baked herself a small cake then. Lit one candle. Wished. Just wished one of them would come.
It didn’t happen.
The phone rang again. Margaret snatched it up
Audrey stood watching the school children run and laugh below, the ache for Tom and Emily a familiar knot in her chest, the only sound the faint rustle of the violets on her windowsill – her constant companions whose leaves always seemed to wilt slightly, as if understanding the depth of her isolation.
