The Inherited Cottage
“And how can you bring yourself to do this?” her daughter marvelled. “Mum, you’ll be all alone in that village—aren’t you afraid?”
“People are everywhere,” Elizabeth Effingham replied calmly. “I’ll make friends there, don’t fret. But you must promise to visit. I shan’t return to the city—not ever. I’ve waited for my pension like a prize. And the cottage is lovely, even affordable in instalments. Isn’t that a blessing?”
Elizabeth’s spirits were high. Not only had she realised her dream of a cottage near the countryside, but there was another reason for leaving. Her daughter, Helen, was nearing thirty and still unattached. So Elizabeth resolved to leave her the flat, hoping it might help the girl settle down.
“Make yourself at home here,” she said, hugging Helen before boarding the bus that would carry her toward her new life. “I’ll pop by when I come to market.”
The village suited Elizabeth splendidly. She missed nothing of city life, having long preferred the quiet of her former garden plot, now sold. The place had all she needed—a shop, a bus route, even a surgery and a library.
“How lovely!” she’d often exclaim, stretching on the porch each morning. The neighbours were kind, offering help, but she refused, eager to do things herself.
For a time, Helen visited often, unused to her mother’s absence and fretting for her. They’d lived side by side all these years, and now Helen felt the weight of expectation—to wed, to not disappoint. Elizabeth had made that clear.
The spring was mild and damp.
“Good for sowing,” remarked her neighbour, Albert Whitcombe, a retired man of seventy. “The earth takes seed well when wet. There’ll be a fine harvest.”
Elizabeth not only tended her garden but also took in chickens and ducks, the old barn being in decent repair. She flitted about from dawn, her city-born tomcat, Baron, trailing her, eyeing the poultry with suspicion.
“You’ll grow accustomed, Baron,” she’d say. “You’re already strutting like the master here. Well done.”
Soon, a stray dog named Scamp—once a beggar shivering through winters—attached herself to Elizabeth. Pity turned to habit, and Scamp stayed, gazing with grateful eyes as her bowl filled each morning with porridge and scraps. She slept beneath the porch until Albert, at Elizabeth’s request, built her a snug kennel.
The village spoke warmly of their new neighbour, this capable, kind-hearted woman, and smiled when they passed her.
Helen, meanwhile, wrestled with guilt.
“How can I ever repay you, Mum?” she’d ask on weekend visits.
But when Helen met her Victor, she understood her mother’s sacrifice. They married, and within a year, a daughter, Alice, was born.
“You’ve repaid me already,” laughed Elizabeth, now a grandmother. “Our family lives on! You must bring her summers—I’ll keep a goat for the child’s milk.”
Years passed, and Elizabeth became truly of the village. Helen and Victor visited to bathe in the sauna, tend the garden, or carry home preserves.
“Don’t you grow weary of all this?” Helen would ask. “You’re not young anymore—past sixty. And we’re only here in snatches. Both of us work, and Alice will soon start school.”
“I manage,” Elizabeth would say. “If it grows too much, I’ll pare back. But what would I do without them? Stare out the window? They keep me cheerful.”
When age brought aches and stiff legs, Elizabeth still clung to her ducks and goat. Only in her eighties did she keep just the hens. Scamp and Baron were gone by then, replaced by two stray cats, as often happens in villages.
“Don’t take in any more, Mum,” Helen begged. “I’m weary from the trips. And I’m no spring chicken—retirement looms for me too.”
Helen’s marriage didn’t last. She and Victor parted when Alice left for university in London. He helped with Alice’s studies, and Helen scrimped to see her through. After graduation, Alice stayed in the capital, marrying there.
So Helen was alone again in the flat, her daughter and son-in-law rare visitors.
Elizabeth now walked with difficulty. The garden shrank, and each visit brought Helen’s plea:
“Won’t you come back with me, Mum? The hospital’s near, your old room’s waiting. I won’t have to fret over you here.”
But Elizabeth refused. “Why burden you with my aches and complaints? You might yet remarry. I’ve had my time—and the best of it was here.”
Helen could only yield, though her heart ached.
At fifty-five, she vowed, “Hold on—I’ll retire soon and join you. We’ll tend the garden, mend the house.”
But Elizabeth didn’t wait. Helen arrived one day to learn her mother had slipped away in her sleep. “Like an angel,” the neighbours said. “The Lord took her gently.”
After the funeral, Helen meant to sell the cottage. The neighbours sighed and sought buyers. But first, she returned after forty days to fetch some things, air the house, and find homes for the cats—fed meantime by kind hands.
Approaching the cottage, her heart clenched. Here her mother had lived happily for twenty-five years. Here Helen herself had poured sweat into the soil, the orchard, the sauna, the roof.
The cats met her plaintively. “There now, Mitzy, Pansy—I’ve brought treats. How you’ve missed me! Mum loved you dearly. Now you’ve no one…”
Inside, she aired the rooms, set soup to simmer, fried potatoes, lit the stove. The old clock ticked back to life.
“Just like when she was here,” Helen murmured, smiling through tears at her mother’s photograph.
Footsteps sounded—Albert’s son, Alec, now retired and living alone in his father’s house.
“Welcome back, Helen. Decided yet? Ah, it’s warm here—smells of dinner.”
“Dine with me,” she said. “It’s lonely without her.”
“Gladly,” he said, washing at the sink.
As they ate, he mused, “Our paths aren’t so different. My dad gone, yours too. Oughtn’t we stay where our parents found peace?”
Helen nodded. “But it’s not so simple—to upend one’s life.”
“Simpler than rotting by a telly. Here, there’s the woods, the river, your garden. And your beasts…”
They glanced at the cats, dozing by the stove.
Helen smiled. “I shan’t leave, Alec. I’ve decided.”
A week later, she returned to the city—not to stay, but to lease her flat. She fetched her things to the cottage.
“Rejoice, Mitzy, Pansy!” she called. The cats purred like little engines.
“Tea’s at mine today!” Alec shouted from his gate. “Come while the potatoes are hot! I’ve warmed your stove a bit…”
So Helen stayed, to Alice’s surprise. But when Alice visited with her own daughter, Natalie, she understood.
“You did right, not selling this place we all love. I’ll bring her often—let her breathe this air, as Gran said: ‘Life’s sweeter in the garden, the sun brighter.’ Wasn’t she right?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Helen said. “And like her, I’ll always wait for you—my dearest ones.”
The sun warmed the orchard, the apple boughs heavy. Helen propped them, lest they break.
“What a harvest!” she said, gathering windfalls. “What shall we do with so many?”
“Eat, stew, dry, pickle!” laughed Alice, stroking Natalie’s hair.
