For thirty years I worked in the factory so my children could have an easier life. On my seventieth birthday, they all chipped in for a basket of flowers to be delivered. I stood in my empty flat with the couriers bouquet in my hands, and I wept. If someone had told me forty years ago that on my seventieth birthday I would find myself like this, Id have taken it as a bad joke. But lifes sense of humour is a grim one, and it never asks if youre ready for its punchline.
That Thursday, I woke at six in the morning, though I didnt need to be anywhere. Old habitsId gotten up before sunrise for thirty years to make it in for my shift on time.
I spent my life at a textiles factory in Birmingham, hemming school blazers, tailoring aprons, stitching industrial overalls. There were a few places like that in the city then, all filled with women hunched over their machines, hands pricked with needles, their hopes threaded through every seam they made. And who was it all for, if not for our children?
My George, God rest him, worked on the railways. Side by side, we kept our home together. Im not complainingit was ours. First a small flat in Edgbaston, then swapping up for a two-bedroom with a kitchen off Hagley Road.
Central heating, a balcony with a view of the car park. The children always wore clean shirts, came home to warm meals, and had new books for school. My son Michael had private English tuition, my daughter Grace went to computer classes after school. George worked overtime and I took in sewingcurtains and wedding dressesfor the neighbours.
And in the end, it was worth it. Michael finished law at Oxford and now he has his own practice in London. Grace runs some sort of marketing business in ManchesterI never quite got what exactly, but people pay her, and thats all right. Im proud of them. Really, I am. But lately, this pride tastes much like tea without sugar. Feels the same, but something important isnt quite there.
George passed eight years ago. Heart attack. Sudden, without warningwent to bed and never woke up. That first year, the children rang every day. The second, once a week. Now Michael calls on Sundays after lunchif he remembers.
Grace sends texts, short as telegrams: Mum, hope you’re well. Love you x. I reply: All good, darling. What else can I say? That most nights I talk to the television? That the only person who spoke to me last Saturday was the girl on the checkout at Tesco?
I spent a week getting ready for my birthday. Silly old foolI baked a cheesecake, the one with the shortcrust base my mother taught me to make. Bought a new tablecloth. Dug out the fine china set George and I received as a wedding present, the one wed never used. Four place settingsbecause Michael said he’d try to swing by, and Grace said shed see how her diary looked.
Michael rang in the morning. He sounded exhausted, as if hed been up all night. Mum, I can’t make it. Got a hearing in courta last-minute switch. I can’t say no. But I’ll pop in on Saturday, all right?
An hour later, a text from Grace. She didnt even ring. Mum, conference in Leeds, wont make it, love you, will make it up at the weekend! Three exclamation marks. As if they made up for her not being there at the table.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at four plates. At the cheesecake. At the daft new tablecloth patterned with sunflowersI bought it because it looked cheerful. And then I began to put everything away. Plates back in the cupboard. Tablecloth folded. Cheesecake covered with a tea towel.
At three, the buzzer rang. It was the couriera young lad, maybe twenty-two, dressed in a navy jacket, holding a great big basket of flowersroses, lilies, things I couldnt name. And a card. Dearest Mum, wishing you good health and all the best! Michael and Grace.
The courier smiled. Happy birthday, Miss. Someone must love you an awful lot.
I took the basketit was heavyset it down in the hall, and locked the door. Then I sat on the stool by the coat rack and just stayed there, five minutes, twenty perhaps. The scent of the flowers was thick, sickly almost, trapped in the boxy hallway.
In the evening, Helen calledthe only neighbour I still talk to. Seventy-six, she lives just below, on her own like me. Catherine, its your birthday, come round for a cuppa, Ive baked an apple pie. So I did. We sat in her warmth until nearly ten. Helen didnt ask about my children. She knew.
Saturday, Michael turned up. Aloneno wife, no grandkids. Three hours, an hour of which he spent out on the balcony with his phone pressed to his ear. Left an envelope with cash on the hall table. Grace cancelled for the weekendsomethings come up, Mum, but Ill be there at Christmas, honest.
Thats when something dawned on me. Its not that my children dont care. They do, in their own way, shoehorned between court hearings and conferences in Leeds. They love me as I loved my sewinghonestly, but always with half a mind on the clock, their hands on their own work. For thirty years I toiled to make their lives easier, and I was so proud theyd never know what I did. But no one ever warned me that the cost of their better life would be an empty flat.
Helen and I finished off the cheesecake. The flowers lasted a week, then wilted. I tucked the envelope from Michael into the drawer where George used to keep his railway papers.
Yesterday, I bought a ticket for a coach trip to the Lake District. Two days, seniors group. Helens coming too. When I told Grace on the phone, she sounded surprised. Mum, since when do you go gallivanting off places?
Since my seventieth birthday, sweetheart, I told her.
There was silence for three heartbeats on the line. Then, Nice one, Mum, she replied, and changed the subject. But those three seconds of silencethey meant more than all the exclamation marks in her messages. And I know one day shell understand. Maybe, when shes sixty herself, facing an empty chair at her own table. But I wont wait for that day.
Im seventy years old. My legs still work, I have a coach ticket, and a neighbour who brings homemade apple pie. George would have said, Catherine, stop moaning and get going. So I am.
