Old Mabel had made up her mind to die. It was Friday noon, and after finishing a bowl of millet porridge with a glass of milk, she wiped her mouth with her apron and gazed absently through the kitchen window. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.
“Winnie, loveIll be gone by Sunday, just before morning service.”
Her daughter, Wendy, froze mid-step as she shifted pots on the stove. She turned sharply, clutching a dishcloth, and sank onto a stool.
“Whatre you on about?”
“My times up, thats all. Lived long enough. Help me wash up, will you? Fetch the fresh clothes from my chestthe ones Id set aside. Well sort the rest laterwholl dig the grave, wholl arrange the burial. Still got a bit of time.”
“So we ought to let everyone know? Give em a chance to come say goodbye?”
“Thats right, tell em. Ill have a word with each.”
“Fancy saying your piece at the end? Aye, let em hear it.”
The old woman nodded and, leaning on her daughters arm, shuffled toward her bed.
She was tiny, wiry, her face like a baked apple, all wrinkles, but her eyes sparkled. Her thin, silver hair was swept into a bun beneath a white cotton scarf. Though shed not kept house in years, she still wore her apron out of habit, resting her work-worn hands on itbroad palms, fingers short and thick as if rolled out with a rolling pin. She was eighty-nine. And now, of all things, shed decided to die.
“Mum, Ill pop to the postsend telegrams. You alright here?”
“Fine, love. Off you go.”
Alone, Mabel let her thoughts drift. Memories carried her back to her youthsitting by the river with Stanley, chewing a blade of grass, him smiling at her so tenderly. Her wedding day came to mind: small and neat in her cream satin dress, shed stepped into the circle and danced to the accordion, feet tapping. Her mother-in-law had eyed her and muttered,
“What use is she? Too slight. Doubt shell bear proper.”
Shed been wrong. Mabel turned out tough as nails. In the fields, the garden, she worked as hard as any man, earning praise, even awards. When they built their house, she was Stanleys right handfetching, holding, steadying. They lived happily, soul to soul, as they say. A year later, in their new home, shed had little Wendy. The girl was four, and theyd just begun thinking of another when the war broke out. Stanley was called up straightaway.
Remembering the day shed sent him off, Mabel shuddered, dabbing her wet eyes with her apron.
“My darling lad how I wept for you. God rest your soul. Wont be long nowjust you wait.”
Her thoughts scattered as Wendy returnednot alone, but with the village nurse who tended half the parish.
“Howre you feeling, Mrs. Mabel? Taken poorly?”
“Cant complain, not yet.”
The nurse checked her overpulse, blood pressure, even took her temperature. All normal. On his way out, he drew Wendy aside and murmured,
“Her bodys just worn out. Science cant prove it, but the old ones know when its time. Brace yourself, love. At her age well.”
On Saturday, Wendy bathed her mother, dressed her in fresh clothes, and Mabel lay on the freshly made bed, staring at the ceiling as if rehearsing what came next.
By afternoon, the children arrived.
First came John, a burly, bald man who barged in noisily, laden with gifts. Then Vincent and Michael, dark-haired twins with hooked noses, stepping anxiously over the threshold, their eyes asking Wendyhow bad was it?
Next was Anthea, round-faced and cheerful, whod taken the bus from the next county where she lived with her family.
Last came Hope, slender and ginger, a headmistress from the city, whod caught the train and a taxi from the station.
Tearful, clutching handkerchiefs, they filed in, kissing their mothers frail hands, searching her face for hope.
“Mum, whats all this? Youve years left in youyoure strong as an ox.”
“Was strong. Not anymore,” Mabel said, lips pressed tight.
“Rest now. Well talk tomorrowI wont go before service, promise.”
The children withdrew, murmuring doubts amongst themselves. None were young anymoreaches and pains of their ownbut they were glad Wendy had stayed with her, kept her safe.
Old habits returned. The house, their childhood home, knew their hands. Vincent and Michael chopped wood, John hauled water from the pump, Anthea fed the chickens, while Wendy and Hope cooked supper.
Later, gathered round the kitchen table, they spoke in hushed tones. Upstairs, Mabel lay still, her life playing out on the white ceiling like a film.
The war years had been cruelcold, hard, hungry. Come spring, shed scavenged frostbitten potatoes from the fields, grated them into fritters. Thank heaven shed found a bottle of linseed oil in the shedpre-war, shed used it on her cracked heels. A few drops made all the difference. The proper potatoes in the cellar she saved, planting just the eyes come May. Something told her the war would drag on. She foraged wild garlic, sorrel, nettlesanything to fill bellies. She patched clothes for the kids, then, a year in, the telegram came. Stanley was gone. His things, too, were cut down to size.
“Lifes a bugger,” Mabel muttered, shaking off the memory.
By autumn, shed trade potatoes at the railway station five miles offboiled, tucked in pots with pickles and scallions. Soldiers, starved for home cooking, swapped tinned meat, lard, even sugar. Once, near wars end, shed bartered Stanleys best suit, her good dress, silver earrings, even a painting of swans for a stubborn nanny goat. At last, the children had milk. Within weeks, their cheeks pinked up.
Lord, shed struggled. School troubles, sicknessVincent brought chickenpox home, and soon the house was a plague ward of spotted, green-daubed urchins. Broken bones, split headsher heart ached for them all. After the war, the boys came home swearing, sneaking smokes behind the shed. So shed locked them in the washhouse with a pouch of rough tobacco. Theyd howled, spatbut never smoked again.
No husband to lean on. The fear never left herJohn lost in the woods, Anthea nearly drowned in the river, Michaels appendix nearly bursting.
“Lifes a bugger,” she sighed again.
The years rolled on. Men courted hergood menbut how to explain to the children? Once, shed tried.
“Why dwe need a man?” theyd chorused. “We mind you, help outwere happy as is!”
How could she say she ached to be held, to let someone else shoulder the load? But thenwhat if he mistreated them? Better alone.
Then theyd grown, flown the nestall but Wendy, whod stayed.
“Lifes a bugger.”
Yet thered been joy, too. Fine children, clever handspride enough.
Her eyelids drooped. The murmur from the kitchen lulled herno more dread, no ghosts. She slept.
Come morning, after breakfast, they gathered round her bed, propping her up with pillows. She studied each face, then spoke.
“Forgive me, loves, if Ive ever failed you. Bear no grudges. Stick together, help each other. Ill be gone soon.”
They protested, but she cut them off.
“Like it or not, its Gods will.”
Silence fell. One by one, she met their eyes, then began.
“Winter 40, Wendy and I were by the hearth when she said, Mum, someones at the door. I lookedLord above. A babe on the step, screaming, no soul in sight. Freezing out, so I took him in. Starving, blue with cold. Fed him bread soaked in warm water. His mother never came. We called him Johnny. Bright lad.”
She paused. “Then 42bitter winter. At the station, I saw a girl, about five, same as our Wendy. Sat by the trains, no mother. Waited hours. No one claimed her. Cheeks frostbit. Asked her namejust cried. Later we learnt: Anthea. Sweet girl.”
Another breath. “Then 43a lorry brought children to the village. Germans bombed a convoy, they said. Wholl take em? the mayor shouted. Two dozen leftother villages took some. Whod
