Granny Mary had made up her mind to die. It was Friday, midday, and after sipping a bowl of millet porridge washed down with milk, she wiped her mouth with her apron and gazed through the kitchen window into the distance, her voice flat and matter-of-fact:
“Wally! Ill be gone by Sunday, just before morning service.”
Her daughter, Evelyn, froze mid-step as she adjusted the pots on the stove. Then, with a sharp turn, she faced her mother and sank onto a stool, a dishcloth clutched in her hands.
“Whats got into you?”
“Times up, love. Lived my lot. Help me wash up, fetch the fresh clothes from the coffin box. Well sort the rest laterwholl dig the grave, wholl lay me out. Plenty of time yet.”
“Shall I send word? So folks can come say goodbye?”
“Aye, do that. Ill have a word with each.”
“Want to leave nothing unsaid? Thats wiselet them know.”
The old woman nodded and, leaning on her daughters arm, shuffled to her bed.
She was tiny, wizened, her face like a baked apple, all wrinkles, but her eyes sparkled. Her thin, silver hair was scraped into a bun, pinned with a comb, and tucked under a white cotton scarf. Though she hadnt kept house in years, she still wore her apron out of habit, resting her work-worn hands on ithands broad and rough, fingers stubby as if rolled flat by 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?”
“Aye, aye, off you go.”
Alone, Granny Mary drifted into thought. Memories carried her back to her youthsitting by the river with Stanley, chewing a blade of grass, his tender smile. She recalled her wedding daypetite, neat, in a cream satin dress, dancing in a circle to the squeeze-box. Her mother-in-law had sniffed, “What use is she? Too slight. Will she even bear children?”
Shed been wrong. Mary had proved tirelessin the fields, the garden, working as hard as any. When they built the house, she was Stanleys right hand. They lived in harmony, as they say. A year later, in their new cottage, she bore a daughter, little Evie. When the girl was four, and theyd begun thinking of another, war broke out. Stanley was called up at once.
Remembering his departure, Granny Mary shuddered, dabbing her damp eyes with her apron.
“My darling lark, how I wept for you! Heaven keep you. Wont be long nowwait for me.”
Her thoughts snapped when Evelyn returnednot alone, but with the village medic, who tended half the parish.
“Granny Mary, feeling poorly?”
“Cant complain, not yet.”
He listened to her chest, checked her blood pressure, even took her temperature. All normal.
Before leaving, he drew Evelyn aside and murmured, “Lifes worn thin. No science to it, but the old ones know when their times up. Brace yourself. Age, lovewhat can you do?”
On Saturday, Evelyn bathed her mother, dressed her in fresh linen, and Mary lay on the newly made bed, staring at the ceiling as if rehearsing what was to come.
By afternoon, the children arrived.
John, a burly, balding man, barged in, hefting bags of treats. William and Michael, dark-haired twins with hooked noses, stepped inside, having driven from the city, their eyes anxious as they searched Evelyns face.
Anthea, plump and rosy-cheeked, had come by coach from the next county. Last was Hope, a slender redhead, headmistress from the regional capital, whod taken the train and a taxi from the station.
Sniffling into handkerchiefs, they filed to the bed, kissing their mothers frail hand, pleading, “Mum, youll pull throughyoure strong.”
“Was strong. Not anymore,” Mary replied, pressing her lips tight.
“Rest now. Well talk tomorrow. Ill hold on till service.”
The children withdrew, murmuring practicalities. They werent young themselvesaches and pains naggedbut they were glad Evelyn lived with her, kept her safe.
By habit, they set to chores. The house was childhood itself. William and Michael chopped firewood; John hauled water from the pump; Anthea fed the livestock; Evelyn and Hope cooked supper.
Later, gathered at the kitchen table, they spoke in hushed tones while Mary, eyes fixed on the ceiling, watched her life play out like a film.
War had been cruelcold, hungry. Shed scavenged frostbitten potatoes from the fields, grated them into fritters. Found a forgotten bottle of linseed oil in the shedjust enough to fry them. The cellar potatoes she saved, planting only eyes come spring, sensing the war would drag on. She foraged wild garlic, sorrel, nettlesanything to eat. She patched clothes for the children, then, after Stanleys death notice, from his own wardrobe.
“Ah, wellsuch is life,” Mary sighed, cutting off the memory.
Come autumn, shed trade potatoes at the rail depot, swapping with soldiers for tinned meat, lard, even sugarluxuries for the children. Once, near wars end, she bartered Stanleys best suit, her good dress, silver earrings, and a painting of swans for a skittish goat. At last, the children had milk.
Aye, shed struggled alone. School troubles, illnesses. Little Will got chickenpox, and soon the house was a spotted green frog-pond. Broken bones, scraped kneesher heart ached for them all. When the war ended and the lads picked up rough habitsswearing, sneaking smokesshed tricked them into the shed, locked them in, and made them chew vile homegrown tobacco. Theyd retched, howledbut never smoked again.
No husband meant no one to share the fear. Will lost in the woods, Anthea nearly drowned in the river, Michaels appendixeach a fresh terror.
“Such is life,” she whispered.
The years rolled. Men courted herdecent sortsbut how to tell the children? When she tried, theyd cried, “Why? We mind you, helpwere happy as is!”
How to explain she longed to lean on someone, to rest? But thenwhat if a new man mistreated them? Better alone.
As they grew, heartbreaks came. Nights by the window, waiting. Comforting Hope after some cad broke her heart: “Dont weep, love. Ill not let you wed far offstick to our lane.”
Then the lads left for service. Shed wept, remembering war, but theyd returned, safe and sound.
They married, scatteredall but Evelyn, who stayed.
“Such is life.”
Thered been joys, of course. Fine children, skilled hands. Pride enough.
Her eyelids drooped. The murmurs from the kitchen lulled her, and she slept.
Next morning, after breakfast, they gathered round. Propped on pillows, Mary studied them, then spoke.
“Forgive me, loves, if Ive failed you. Stay close, help each other. Ill be gone soon.”
They protested, but she silenced them. “Like it or not, its Gods will.”
A hush fell.
Her voice softened. “Early in the war, winter, Evie and I sat by the fire. She said, ‘Mum, someones knocking.’ I lookedoh, Lord! A babe on the step, blue with cold. I brought him in. Fed him bread soaked in warm water. His mother never came. We called him Johnny. Clever lad.”
She paused. “Then, in 42, bitter winter, at the station, I found a girlfive, like our Evie. Waited hours. No mother. Turned outAnthea. Sweet lass.”
“In 43, a lorry brought orphansGermans had bombed a convoy. The chairman begged, ‘Take them!’ Who could? Food was scarce. But I saw twins, tiny, clingingeyes huge with tears. ‘Ill take them,’ I said. Will and Mike. Good boys.”
Another pause. “HopeI took her from her drunken mum. Poor soul drank herself to death after her man died. Took time for the lass to thaw.”
Silence rang. The children exchanged glances, stunned.
“Off you go. Im tired,” Mary said.
“Mum, how could we not know?” they clamored.
“Go on,” she insisted, flushing, as if embarrassed by their gratitude.
They retreated to the kitchen, murmuring, piecing together half-remembered clues. Yet theyd never felt less than familythis house, their childhood, had been warm. Any questions over the years, Mary had cut
