Have you really thought this through, Mrs. Greenwood? the voice of the old bus driver echoed dully inside the creaking ancient Bedford coach, as if muffled by a barrel.
He watched her through the rearview mirror there was a blend of pity and confusion in his gaze. Shrugging, he decided not to pester his odd passenger further.
That stairs a proper deathtrap, you know, and the steps groan soon as look at em, youll break your neck. And the roof? If it leaks, youll feel like youre in a U-boat, just without a periscope. The bus only comes once a week, and thats if the roads arent under water. And autumns round the corner even a tractorll struggle when the roads turn to soup.
Mrs. Greenwood stood on the verge, gripping the battered handle of her old-fashioned suitcase. The wind tugged at the hem of her mackintosh, hunting for a way beneath.
Im hardly a lady of leisure, Paul. And a bit of rain never frightened me, she replied calmly, tucking away a rebellious silver lock beneath her thick woollen headscarf.
Paul, the village postman, who doubled as an errand runner on his old Raleigh bicycle with a makeshift basket, coasted up beside her. He eyed the listing eaves of the house, visible beyond the tangled lilac, then glanced down the empty, silent road. Only the dry whisper of poplars and the distant, wheezy bark of a dog broke the dusty, ringing stillness.
Youre a city woman, Mrs. Greenwood, Paul persisted, bracing a foot flat on the ground. You lived in comfort, in the heart of things. But here even the electricitys temperamental, flitting about like a squirrel through the pines.
I spent forty years teaching, Paul, Mrs. Greenwood gave the barest suggestion of a smile, though her eyes the colour of November ponds stayed serious. I lived in noise that could be sliced with a knife. Chalk air, dry, flavoured by childrens shouts, bells, and a never-ending, wearying hurry. But here theres memory. Listen: such a hush. You can hear your own thoughts. Theres peace here, Paul. Thats all I need now.
He sighed, shifting the heavy canvas satchel whose strap bit into his shoulder.
Just as you wish none of my business, he said, with a wave. Hang a red scarf on the gate if you need anything, or something bright. I come by Tuesdays and Fridays Ill keep an eye out. Ill tell old Mrs. Norton next door to check in. Shes strict, but her hearts in the right place.
Thank you. Off you go, before that leaden sky breaks looks like a storms coming.
She watched him cycle away: the chains scrape fading into the tickling, electric air before the rain. Paul and his bike her last thread to the outside world were soon just memory, surrendered to the syrupy silence around her old house.
She nudged open the gate: it groaned, long-suffering, protesting with the whine of tired, rusty hinges. The garden was waist-deep in grass; burdock leaves bigger than dinner plates, and nettles crowded the porch.
She climbed the steps, took out her big, iron key cold and heavy. The lock resisted, but finally gave with a shove. The door exhaled the musty breath of a place untended for years: damp, mice, and times stale perfume.
Inside, the parlour was crowded with furniture beneath white sheets like banks of winter snow. Mrs. Greenwood was sixty-five, long-limbed and upright, her bearing unsapped even by grief, her eyes trained to spot every scribble in a pupils book. She looked fragile, yet unbending a willow twig bracing against the wind. But within, it was still dark and cold.
That chill moved in a year ago, when she lost her husband Henry a stroke, quietly, almost too simply, in his sleep. Their city flat, every chair echoing his warmth, every book recalling the shape of his hands, and even the scent of his pipe seeped into the drapes, became a cage. She wandered those rooms like a ghost, talking to silence, fading away. Her grown sons called, begged her to come live with them, but she knew she would be like an old lamp in a chic sitting room nothing but a relic.
So she left the flat for them, packed up a few things, and returned to her parents house in a nearly deserted hamlet. Once a bustling farming community, now only five families remained; the fields a grey-green sea of weeds threatening to erase the past.
The house had stood empty for a decade. A fine English five-bay cottage, its beams weathered to the soft grey of antique silver, the frame still solid time respecting the labours of true craftsmen. But the roof was tired: sagging, mossed-over, calling for care.
She lit a paraffin lamp the power, as Paul predicted, was off and climbed to the loft. The stairs were perilous indeed, steep and shifting. Cobwebs, apple scent, old paper and stored warmth blanketed the air. She set her lamp on a rafter, the glow revealing the complicated crisscrosses above. By the chimney, a crack in the roof let stormlight stab through a single blue beam that revealed a swirling galaxy of dust.
Right, old friend, she whispered, resting her palm on the ribbed, gentle timber. Lets patch you up. Both of us. Well creak along together yet.
Thunder grumbled in the distance. The house seemed to tremble hopefully in response.
The next weeks were a punishing battle against decay. A career spent among chalk and books, Mrs. Greenwood was no carpenter, but stubborn as an ant, she cleaned and mended till her limbs ached. That effort drowned out her grief; the pain in her hands smothered the pain within.
She scrubbed the floors till they glowed with amber warmth, bleached the old stove back to glory, and hacked away the nettles so sunlight could reach the stones. But the loft was still the great trouble: leaking, draughty, crowded with the rubbish of three generations broken stools, old wellies, bundles of yellowed copies of The Times.
Mrs. Norton a tiny, twinkly old woman from across the garden who called in for salt or a natter clucked disapprovingly at her efforts.
You ought to give up, Mabel, she said, standing at the threshold, chin lifted. Everything heres rotten. Fixing a roof! Thats more money than anyones got. If the rain sets in and it will, the berries said as much the dampll eat you alive. This isnt the city, love: no radiators here, just logs and grit.
Dont fret, Auntie Nora, Mrs. Greenwood would answer, mopping her brow. The eyes are frightened, but the hands get on. My father built this house for living, not for tumbling down.
So she determined to be stubborn. She wasnt a joiner, but remembered how her father showed her to hold a hammer. She found tar-paper in the shed, a pot of pitch, and some nails. Up she went, clearing the way to the trouble by the chimney.
It happened on the fourth day of cleaning the loft. The drizzle outside drummed a steady gloom. Mrs. Greenwood, sneezing through dust, shifted an ancient, iron-bound chest from under the eaves. Doing so, she saw something strange: one short, uneven floorboard sticking up awkwardly.
She prised it up. Instead of a rusty squeak, there was a muffled click. A secret cache.
Her heart stalled, then pounded. Brushing away a centurys dust, she uncovered a small old biscuit tin British Shortbread, its paint flaking. These had hidden precious things in the war.
Inside, wrapped in shredded velvet, she found silver jewellery. Heavy fish-shaped pendants, chunky rings, a pair of ancient earrings with blood-red stones, thick bracelets etched with runes. Generational dowry. In old England, enough to buy a house in Norwick, maybe two. But here, in the dusty loft, it was just cold, dull metal.
She smiled sadly, running her fingers over the tarnished coins stitched onto ribbons. Her grandmother had hidden them for a rainy day and feared want or another war. Theyd starved, theyd survived, and the silver had lain here all along. Now, it was just a tale.
She rifled through the coins absently and felt something softer under the weight: a linen bundle, tied with string. The fabric yellowed, but still sturdy.
She undid it: inside, several pouches of seeds and a thick, cracked-leather notebook. The pages were brittle, but the purple ink had barely faded. The handwriting soared and looped unmistakably her great-grandmother Ediths, a famed herbalist and weaver in these parts.
She set the silver aside strangely, its glitter meant little now and reverently cracked open the notebook. The title was penned with special care:
Longstem flax and dyeing herbs: How to awaken the earth and weave cloth to cure both body and spirit.
She read, forgetting the leaking roof, the rain, the weight of time. This was more than a manual it was the lost alchemy of a trade, a philosophy for a life erased half a century ago by quotas and synthetics.
Plant moon flax at the full moon, when the dew is heavy the yarn will be stronger than steel, soft as a childs cheek, and will breathe.
A decoction of madder root for dye gives a colour not merely red but alive, warming the blood. Whoever wears it wont feel the cold nor notice ill wishes.
The field sown pattern will calm a baby, ease a fever, and bring restful sleep to the elderly.
She read till nightfall. Her pension was meagre, her garden a battleground of weeds, and the roof still gaped. Common sense urged: sell the silver, live comfortably.
Well then, she whispered, stroking the notebooks battered cover. Silver doesnt warm the soul. Its cold. This… this is alive. Lets see.
Mrs. Greenwood did not touch the jewellery. It felt wrong to dash to a buyer with what her ancestors protected, just for some sausages or a TV. I was rich when Henry was alive, she thought, a familiar ache throbbing; Now its just enduring quiet, but enduring.
She put the jewellery away and took the notebook and seed pouches down into the kitchen, as her true treasures.
By weeks end, the roof was patched. Her hands were so battered she struggled to hold her spoon, her back moaned. But at night, by lamplight, she pored over the old writing as if sitting an exam for life itself.
The pouches contained the rare flax seeds. Not many, just a handful. The instructions said to soak them in melted snow or rainwater steeped in silver. Mrs. Greenwood smirked, but she dropped an old shilling from the hoard into the jar.
At dawn, she dug the garden, picking a patch on the sunny southern slope, tilled with her own hands. For the first time in a year, she stopped weeping at night, no longer talked to Henrys portrait; she had something to hope for. She waited on the soil, expecting shoots.
Two weeks later, green spears broke through. Thick and bright hurtful to look at. Meanwhile, she set about restoring the old loom from the shed. She washed, greased, and fitted the pieces, recalling her grans movements, the sound of the shuttle, the pedals song.
When the flax was ripe, she retted, broke, scutched and hackled it by hand. Her fingers were raw and pricked, but the smell! That bitter, grassy surge unforgettable.
She wove her first towel using her stores of old thread prepared afresh with herb decoction. The cloth came out cool and radiant, as if lit from within.
Next day she crossed to Mrs. Nortons.
Here you are, neighbour. For the salt, for your advice, for kindness.
Mrs. Norton took the towel, eyes wide.
Whered you get cloth like that, love? she fingered the fabric, unbelieving, even sniffed it. The shops havent such a thing; its all synthetic, grates on your hands! But this… Soft as eiderdown, tough as anything. Feels like warmth to the touch.
Grandmothers secret, Mrs. Greenwood replied, feeling forgotten warmth blooming deep in her chest. The land remembers, Nora. We just forgot.
By autumn, shed mastered complex patterns; she wove healing belts with thyme, yarrow, and marjoram spun in. Word of her skill spread Paul the postie, given a pair of woven insoles, broadcast her fame faster than email. A woman biked over from the next village, twenty miles away, to order a wedding cloth for her daughter.
They say youve got the knack, Mrs. Greenwood. Good fortune to the family who breaks bread on your weave.
She felt life flowing back into her days. Her fingers grew nimble, her back straightened, the weary shuffle left her step. But her heart still worried, for her son.
A phone call came late one evening as she sorted the looms awkward threads. Even with the wind howling outside, the regular click of the loom drowned all. The mobile, always left on the sill, chose then to buzz sharply.
Mum? It’s James.
Her sons tone was flat, cracked, and all wrong.
Hello, son, she put the shuttle aside, a cold knot forming. A mother can always tell. Somethings wrong. Tell me the truth.
Its everything at once, he sighed, flicked a lighter. Smoking again. The business is bust. Suppliers stitched me up got stuck with merchandise, lawsuits, penalties… Im drowning. Well lose the flat. And Harry his eczemas terrible. Doctors say psychosomatic, probably pollution, prescribe steroids, but nothing works. He doesnt sleep, skins raw. Emmas frantic, were at each others throats. She wants to come to you for a bit says the citys suffocating. Will you take us?
Of course, Jamie! She was already mentally checking food stores. The sooner the better come at once.
James arrived on Friday. His hulking black Range Rover was entirely out of place, wallowing through rutted tracks, flinging mud at tawny roadside grass, growling but finally rolling up to the gate.
She came to meet them, shawl thrown about her shoulders. James stepped out pale, gaunt, haunted by defeat. Emma, once always picture-perfect, wore no make-up, eyes puffy in a creased tracksuit. Little Harry huddled behind her five, but frail as a toddler, arms swaddled in bandages, red scaly patches across his face. He whined, scratching at his neck.
Hello, Gran, he squeaked.
Well, Harry, youre a big man now. She squatted, hiding her alarm.
Hello, Mum, James hugged her briefly, hollowly, perfumed with expensive tobacco and desperation. What a backwater youve found. How on earth do you live here? Its enough to drive anyone barmy.
The house holds me, son. And the earth. Dont stand at the gate come in out of the wind.
The cottage was warm, scented with dried herbs, mint, beeswax, and the sourdough loaf shed baked that morning. In the old corner, under darkened oil portraits, were neat stacks of her home-woven linen, tied with blue ribbons.
Emma eyed the rag rugs and curtains warily.
Mum, are you sure it isnt dusty here? she asked, anxious. Everything sets Harry off. He needs sterility, hypoallergenic everything. These old carpets, all this timber…
This dust isnt city dust. No chemicals or fumes. Just earth. Try it Ive laid on fresh bedding in the best room.
They ate mostly in silence. James poked at his food, glued to his mobile. Emma tried to feed Harry some special, shop-bought porridge from a jar.
Night brought misery. Harry was fractious, scratching until he bled; Emma darted about with ointments; James smoked on the porch.
Mrs. Greenwood couldnt stand it. She entered the room with a bundle in her arms.
Wait, Emma, she said firmly, cutting through the childs cries. Put that away.
In the bundle was a tiny, handsewn shirt made from her special moon cloth plain, soft-grey, unassuming.
Dress him in this. That flax is magic spun with chamomile and celandine, steeped in dew.
Emma looked as though shed object, but exhaustion won.
Fine. It cant get worse.
They dressed Harry. The fabric settled on his inflamed skin without chafing. He quieted, considering the feeling, then closed his eyes.
The next morning, Mrs. Greenwood woke to a strange, ringing quiet. Emma always said Harry was up by six, howling for cream and comfort. But now it was nearly eight.
She entered the kitchen. James sat with a mug of cooling tea, watching sunlight play across the tangled orchard. He turned, disbelief painted on his features.
Mum, hes still asleep, he whispered. First night in months he didnt wake. And his skin I checked. Its better. The redness is gone, scabs are healing.
Flax heals, Jamie. It breathes, draws out the heat. The best natural remedy.
Is this witchcraft? he snorted, nervously.
Its skill. Old, forgotten, but true. Your great-gran knew what she was about.
Those three days changed everything. Harry, cheered up, dashed about the garden in his shirt, chased the chickens, and forgot all about scratching. Emma, now convinced, thawed towards her mother-in-law, asking questions about techniques and patterns.
Mrs. Greenwood, do you have any idea what this is? Emma was awestruck, stroking an embroidered napkin. This is fashion! Eco, handmade, rustic The city pays a mint for things like this! Its art, couture! People are crazy for natural materials these days this is gold!
Things came to a head on Sunday the fair in the nearby market town was on, and Mrs. Norton, having learned the city lot with the 4×4 had arrived, insisted they all go.
Dont be a recluse! Show them what youve made! Talent isnt for hoarding.
So off they went, Emma eager she arranged their stall with a tablecloth, shirts, belts, and some bunches of dried herbs.
The stand drew a crowd. Passersby marvelled, smoothing fingers over the linens silken finish.
Whats this made of? inquired a tall, stylish woman in posh sunglasses.
English flax, Harry piped up proudly from his stool. Its magic, it doesnt itch!
The woman removed her glasses.
Listen, Im Eleanor Partridge, I own a boutique in London. I know textiles this weave, that living colour I havent seen it in years. Its unique. Ill have everything youve got here, and lets talk a collection. Price is up to you I dont haggle.
They went home elated, the takings small by James past standards, but to Mrs. Greenwood it was validation that her nights, her knowledge, mattered.
James, driving, glanced at his mother in the mirror. There was pride, not pity, in his eyes.
You know, Mum I thought you were losing your mind here, getting mossy. Instead, youve found the real thing. Meanwhile, Im shifting imaginary numbers.
Im alive, she nodded, watching golden birches slide by. Really alive.
That night, she lay awake, hearing James stir restlessly. She thought about his debts, the courts, the tremor in his hands as he poured tea.
Still in her dressing gown, she tiptoed to the kitchen, brought out the old biscuit tin. Under moonlight, the silver glowed dully.
She had Eleanors order now, skilled hands, land. She needed little herself. But her son needed hope.
At breakfast, she called James and Emma in.
Sit down, both of you.
She upended the tin onto the oilcloth table. The heavy silver sent a ringing shiver across the kitchen.
James stared Emma gasped, hand to mouth.
Whats all this? Mum? Treasure? Whered it come from? he picked up a chunky bracelet.
In the loft. Great-gran Ediths. Ive looked online on Pauls phone: its true antique, James. Nineteenth century, maybe older worth a fortune.
And you never said? James turned to her, appalled. Living in threadbare dressing gowns, scrimping on bread, all the while sitting on this?
Whats the fuss? she said, pouring tea. It was kept for a rainy day. Only A real rainy day isnt when youre broke its when youre not needed, when youre empty inside. When your familys safe and whole, every days a bright day.
She swept the silver towards him.
Take it. Pay off your debts, get the flat back. Live in peace.
They sat in silence, the clock ticking on the wall.
I cant, Mum, Jamess voice shook. I cant take this. You found it, its yours, your home. I cant just take the last youve got.
My riches are here: this home, the loom, and this notebook she rested her hand on the battered ledger. But you need a life. Raise your son. Take it its not a gift, its an investment in us.
James fiddled with a silver coin, rolling it in his fingers. Glancing at Emma and Harry, who was spinning another coin, he pushed the hoard back.
Thank you, Mum. His voice, for the first time in ages, had strength. But I wont fritter this away. Ill sort the debts myself sell the car, figure it out. But Lets do this instead: sell just enough to plug the gaps, to quiet the creditors. And the rest well build something with it. Emmas right, what you do is gold. Were not going. Well open a workshop here. Get Mrs. Norton and the village women in you can teach them. Well sow flax on the fields the lands idle, rents next to nothing. Well make a brand: Greenwood Linen. Emmas great at the marketing, shell sort a website. Ill manage the operations, supplies, logistics.
Mrs. Greenwood saw the new determination in his face the fire shed not seen in years.
Thats settled then, son, she put her hand on his.
A year passed.
The fields around the village once bleak, choked with weeds now rippled blue with flax. The wind played living waves across them. New power poles lined the road; the track was gravelled.
The house was transformed: new, bright red tiles, a wide porch festooned with wild roses. In the rebuilt barn, five looms clattered now: Mrs. Norton and other local women worked there, old songs blending with the rhythm of the shuttles.
A now-familiar work truck rumbled to the gate. Harry leapt out sun-browned, clear-skinned, a proper country lad. He ran to Mrs. Greenwood on the porch.
Gran! Weve got the new catalogues look!
Next came Emma, round with another baby, glowing in a loose, self-designed linen dress stitched with bluebells. James, unloading fat boxes of imported thread, beamed.
Mum! he called. Weve had an enquiry from Provence, a boutique wants samples! Says English linen is the latest thing!
Mrs. Greenwood took the glossy catalogue from her grandson. On the cover, a photograph of her hands at the loom every wrinkle, every vein and gilded letters: Threads of Destiny. Tradition reborn.
She remembered that dusty, rainy afternoon in the loft, sat on an old blanket, feeling like all she had left was to endure quietly. Shed sought shelter, an end and instead, found new life, new purpose. Shed thought the treasure was in the tin; the real treasure was the notebook, and a handful of seeds that woke a whole village.
The silver helped them buy machines, seeds, a tractor. But it wasnt silver that brought the village alive. It was the clatter of looms, the laughter of children chasing through the flax, and the rediscovered feeling that they were a family, making something together.
What are you all waiting for? Mrs. Greenwood grumbled, dabbing away tears with her hanky. The kettles gone cold, and the pies wont eat themselves.
They filled the house with voices and laughter. Above the village, the sky soared a brilliant English blue. The very air hummed the wind singing through the flax, promising that dark days were over for good.
Mrs. Greenwoods story became local legend. No one outside the family ever heard about the silver. Everyone thought the revival grew from the persistence of one city schoolmistress and her marvellous linen. And perhaps, that was the greater truth.
Ive learned, in my own old age, that real treasure isnt buried under floorboards, nor measured in money. Its in the skills handed down, the work done together, and the love that, even in the quietest corner of England, can piece torn lives back together.
