Saturday began with the same ritual, well-practised over ten years.
Andrew stood at the open boot of his Range Rover, neatly packing empty canvas bags on top of his toolbox. His hunched back, covered in a faded Barbour jacket, suggested both the weight of the world and his unwavering willingness to toil for dear old Mum.
All right, Helen, Ill be off now. Dont get too bored without me. He didnt look back, fiddling with the bags zip. Mums fence is practically falling over, need to replace the posts, and its time to start digging before the autumn rain sets in.
I lingered by the kitchen window, gripping a mug of tea so tightly my knuckles ached.
Of course, go on then. Heroic work, that. My voice was steady, about as warm as a live-in fridge. Give your mum my love. Tell her to keep well.
He nodded briskly, slammed the boot shut, and before Id blinked, his car disappeared down the lane out of the village. For five years now, hed religiously spent every weekend digging potatoes at his mothers old place in Little Hawthorn, whatever the season, whatever the weather, the image of a dutiful son.
Id barely set my mug on the table when my mobile shrieked in the hall. The screen flashed the name of my old school friend, Natalie whod worked at the council office since forever.
Helen, you asked me to check your mother-in-laws details for that council tax rebate, remember? Natalies voice was wild, as if shed jogged up the stairs. Look, I ran it three times through every database. It cant be wrong.
What, back taxes come back to bite us? I muttered, flicking through a pile of water bills, expecting nothing.
No, Helen Your mother-in-law, Beatrice, she died five years ago. The certificates from May 2019.
The floor dropped out from under me like the waves under a boat in a storm. I gripped the chairback for balance.
How can she be dead? Andrews driving over there right now, with supplies and medicine for her.
I dont know what, and I dont know who for, but according to the records theres a Polly Grant living there now. Twenty-five, with three young kids.
My ears hummed, blood rushed to my face, but I forced myself to breathe. A young woman twenty-five with three children?
Five years hed hidden his mothers death to support a second family?
I stared at my car keys lying on the console by the front door. There was no anger, only the sharp chill of someone plunged into icy water.
The journey to Little Hawthorn took two hours. I drove in silence, radio off, a single picture on a loop: a perfect country cottage, garden hammock, and some leggy girl handing my husband an iced drink. I expected to find a lovers nest built on my nerves and our joint savings.
Reality hit like a slap as I parked by the familiar green gate. This wasnt a country retreat it looked more like a madhouse.
The fence was shiny and new, tall and expensive. Behind it, no birds, no rustling leaves. Instead, a shrill, endless shrieking so fierce it made my teeth ache.
I tried the gate but it was locked from inside.
I skirted the garden through the old orchard, nettles and thistles up to my waist. No potatoes, no beds, no greenhouse. Just a dirt-tramped lawn, mountains of coloured plastic: shattered toys, broken construction kits, a dented baby bath.
I crept to the veranda window. The glass vibrated with sound.
Inside, a bright, merciless light revealed every battered corner of the sitting room. Amidst the wreckage, a young woman stood. She wasnt some sultry homewrecker but a ghost of exhaustion: hair matted, circles under her eyes, an old dressing gown covered in stains.
Crawling around her, like a school of wild-eyed piranhas, three identical-looking toddlers howled and thrashed.
The noise made my ears throb, even through double glazing.
She held a phone to her ear and hollered, desperate to be heard over the howling, Dad! Where are you? You promised youd be here an hour ago! All three of them filled their nappies at once, I cant cope! Bring formula and wipes, were out! Dad, hurry up!
Dad?
The pieces in my head shifted into a new, unexpected picture. So, not a lover. Not a seducer-hero after all.
A father, by accident or by guilt. Hiding sins of his past with secret charity.
The growl of tyres on gravel Andrews knackered old Range Rover. I ducked behind a massive jasmine bush, careful to stay unseen.
My hand found the shaft of an ancient shovel propped against the shed, paint flaking off in my palm.
Andrew staggered from the car, looking nothing like a man on romantic retreat. Both hands grasped giant packs of nappies, a canvas tote full of jars slung across his shoulder.
He looked a work mule, broken but trudging on. The gate rattled, he tripped over a toy tricycle, and shuffled into the yard.
Polly, Im here! His voice had the weary resignation of a prisoner.
I stepped from the shadows, gripping the shovel.
Hello, Farmer Giles.
Andrew jerked, as if electrocuted, the nappy pack thudding wetly into the autumn muck.
Helen?! His eyes, wide as dinner plates.
Thats right. Thought Id come help you with your hard labour. Looks like youve done a bumper harvest this year by threefold. I nodded at the window, shrieks still vibrating the glass. And your mums looking much younger these daysand with a change of face.
Helen, its not what you think, let me explain! Andrew backed away, a hand raised defensively. Justplease, put the shovel down.
Five years, Andrew. You looked me in the face and lied. Five years you pretended your mother was alive, just to pop round here?
Polly flew out onto the porch, baby under one arm, dirty nappy in the other.
Dad! Whos that? Is that your wife? The evil stepmother you said never lets you live?
Evil stepmother?
I took a leisurely step forward, relishing his panic. Andrew pressed himself against the metal fence, eyes darting for an escape he didnt have.
Well now, my darlings, I smiled coldly, youre in for a proper spot of weeding this afternoon.
Helen, stop! Dont go for her! Andrew yelled, shielding Polly with his arm. Shes my daughter!
I froze, the shovel digging into my palm.
Your daughter, Andrew? We have one child: Ben hes twenty.
Thisthis was before you, before the wedding. I made mistakes in my youth. Andrew spluttered, sweat beading on his brow. I had no idea. My mother confessed before she died, left an address
He wiped his forehead, winded, as if hed run a marathon.
I came here that winter, after Mum died. Polly was all alone her own mother gone, living in a dump. I felt sorry for her, started helpingre-built the house, sorted the fence, paid the bills while she studied
Pollys screams cracked into sobbing, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
Then last year, herboyfriend scarpered the minute he found out about the triplets. Andrew gestured at the house. Helen, I couldnt leave them. Theyd have starved! Tripletsits chaos. I come so she can get even a couple hours of sleep.
Id be dead without him! Polly choked, clutching the child. He doesnt relax he cleans the floors, changes nappies, spends the night rocking them! Hes never off his feet!
I looked at Andrew his face grey, hands trembling, exhaustion in every line.
Sowhile I thought you were lounging with your mistress, youve been changing nappies for three infants?
Yes! His voice cracked. Helen, its hell I dream of Mondays when I can just sit still. But theyre my blood. My grandchildren.
He fell silent, head bowed, awaiting judgement.
I glanced at the shrieking toddlers, at Polly, bone-pale and swaying on her feet with fatigue. The sense of betrayal faded, replaced by a cold, logical clarity.
Not a liar, not in the sordid way Id imagined a coward and a fool, buckling under a burden hed hidden.
So Im the villain, am I? I asked, icy. The she-devil who cant be told the truth?
I strode to Polly, who shrank against the wall. I plucked the screaming baby from her arms a red-faced, heavy boy and pressed him against my shoulder. A few practiced pats, and he quietened, startled by the change.
Well then, Grandpa Andrew. Congratulations, youre in deep.
Whatwhat do you mean? he stammered, gathering fallen nappies.
Divorce? Dont be silly. I adjusted the babys sleepsuit. Divorce is way too easy on you, and far too expensive for me.
I turned to Polly, still stunned.
Right. Pop the children in the playpen. Straight to the shower for you, then sleep four hours, no ones waking you.
She blinked, not believing her luck. And you?
Im assuming the role of Grandma acting, for now.
I shot Andrew a look he still stood dazed in the yard.
To the kitchen, Andrew. Heat up the formula, and make sure its exactly thirty-seven degrees.
And you? he asked, clinging to the last hope, scooping up the remaining nappies.
Im calling Ben. Hes just asked for an advance on a new gaming console. He can come and dig potatoes with you itll improve his dexterity.
Andrew paled at the prospect.
Helendo we have to drag Ben into this?
Yes, Andrew. We do. My voice brooked no dissent. And by the way listen carefully.
What?
Now youre officially a granddad-of-many, your entire pay goes straight to me.
Why? he squeaked.
These children need proper beds and a triple buggy, not second-hand tat. And I need compensation for my nerves, and my peace of mind. Ive always fancied a mink coat and a week at the spa. In silence.
I gently rocked the drowsy baby.
You lot dig away, as long as the sun shines. By the time I get back from holiday, that garden best be properly turned over, or Ill tell your mates at the pub youre not a tycoon youre the districts top nanny.
Andrew trudged into the house, bent under his double life.
I drew in the autumn air. It smelled not of bonfires and leaves, but of baby powder and sour milk.
This chaos now had a command centre, and I held the controls.
A month later, I sat on my own veranda, wrapped in a new mink coat despite the mild weather. My phone buzzed a bank deposit from Andrews wages. Then a photo: Andrew and Ben, both filthy but grinning, pushing a massive triple pram.
I smiled and sipped my hot coffee. Everyone carries their own cross in life and it seemed, at last, Andrew had come to love his.
