Ive made up my mind. Ill sign over the flat to William. You dont mind, do you, love?
Margaret set her teaspoon aside. The silver met the saucer with a dull clink.
To William? Hes three years old, Mother.
Just to guarantee his comfort when he grows up. And Ill come live with you youve so much space, and you live alone these days.
Her mother, Mrs. Anne Harrington, stood in the hallway, rain-mottled coat still buttoned, handbag clutched with official-looking papers poking out. A heavy scent of Midnight Fields bought from the same shop on Kings Road every Christmas for two decades filled Margarets little flat on Primrose Lane. That smell always set her nerves on edge, as though a storm threatened.
Margaret rose quietly from the table, walked through to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. Her hands moved by rote: cups, spoons, sugar. Only one word hammered through her mind: sign over.
Will you have some tea? she asked, voice even.
Oh, Id love one, thanks, love. Her mother peeled off her coat at last and draped it over a chair, then made her way to the sofa, glancing about fretfully. Bit chilly in here, isnt it? Radiators on the blink?
Theyre fine.
Feels cold to me, sweetheart. Its ever so warm at the Brixton placeyour brother keeps on at the letting agent until they fix things.
Margaret put the tea in front of her mother and sat opposite, studying her mothers familiar face: lines fanning from pale blue eyes, lips pressed thin. Sixty-eight. Ash-grey hair set perfectly, new powder-blue blouse, no doubt bought by her brother Charles last week hed sent photos, beaming, Got Mum a present; she was over the moon.
The solicitor awaits tomorrow, Mrs. Harrington went on, stirring her tea, Ten sharp. Charlies organised everything, the documents are in order. Hes a marvel.
Did you ask about my share, Mother?
Her mother looked up, faint bewilderment in her gaze. What share? Youre my daughter; its all in the family. The flat stays in the family, only in Williams name. Hell have something solid when hes grown.
I own half of that flat, Mum. Legally. Half.
So what? Youre not planning on living there. Charlies got a family to housebesides, youve got plenty of room here, so it wont trouble you.
Margarets eyes slid to the old photo on the wall: the whole clan, framed since the 90s. Father, Mother, herself and Charles. Margaret, eleven, stands off at the edge, nearly cropped out. Charles, eight, centre, big for his age and beaming in his mothers arms. Father looking away. Margaret herself is on the side, hands by her sides, unsmiling.
You didnt ask me, Margaret repeated softly.
What is there to ask you? Im your mother I know best.
You always have, Margaret said.
Quite right, too! Charlie said I was sensiblebeing a proper mother, looking out for my children.
Margaret stood, carried her cup to the sink and poured the dregs away. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Evening light filtered through Novembers grey. Wet leaves clung to the footpath, drifts lit by lamps. The caretaker in orange flicked his broom along the kerb.
Ill think about it, she said, not turning.
Nothing to think about, love. Ten oclock sharp jot down the address for the solicitor.
I said Ill think about it.
Silence. Margaret heard her mother collect her things, coat swishing, slow steps to the door.
You always were stubborn, Maggie. Never easy, like Charles.
The door closed. Margaret stood at the window until the lift gave its metallic whir. She wandered back, lay down on the sofa without undressing, staring up. There was that long, hairline crack in the ceiling, snaking from corner to light fitting she knew every twist. How many nights had she counted those, instead of sheep?
Her phone hummed. It was Mary: How are things, love? Come by the Coffee Corner. Ive been baking ginger biscuits.
Margaret glanced at the screen. Her fingers typed back: Thanks. Ill pop by tomorrow.
She set her phone on her chest and closed her eyes.
A memory drifted up she was eight, Charless birthday. The guests had all gone. One big hunk of cake left, with a piped rose. Margaret eyed it, licking her lips. Her mother put the piece on a plate and handed it to Charles.
Here you go, love. Youre the birthday boy.
What about Margaret? Charles asked through a mouthful.
Oh, shes the grown-up one. Shell have another time, wont you, Mags?
Margaret nodded, got up and slipped to her room. She lay staring at the beige ceiling. Later, her father came and sat at the end of her bed, stroking her hair.
Dont take it to heart, pet, he said softly. Your mother loves Charleshes the youngest.
I know, said Margaret.
Her father sighed and left. She lay quite still, counting cracks that werent yet there but counting all the same. Maybe counting her own heartbeats.
*
Next morning Margaret woke early, head aching. She showered, dressed. Her shift started at half-past seven, a brisk twenty-minute walk to Warmstead Heating. She always walked, especially in autumnthe air sharp, the leaves crunching underfoot. People hurried, scarves around faces, avoiding eye contact. She liked that; it meant she could think.
At the office, the smell of coffee and paper mingled. Nina, senior accounts clerk, was already at her desk, thumbing through invoices.
Morning, Mags. You look pale today.
Im fine. Didnt sleep, thats all.
You need vitamins, love. Im taking multivitamins, every day. It does wonders.
Margaret nodded, logged on. Numbers flickered on the screen calm, repetitive, soothing. No need to think, just tap, fill in boxes.
At lunch she didnt go to the canteen but set off across two blocks to the park. The fountain bone-dry now, leaves banked in its basin. She sat on the empty bench, sandwich in hand but not hungry, gazing at the trees.
Her phone rang. Charles.
She put it back in her bag. A text arrived, short and sharp: Mums upset. Call her.
Margaret deleted it. She took a slow bite of her sandwich bread dry, ham flavourless. She chewed, not minding. Her mind drifted twelve years old, sent to the shop for bread in pouring rain because Charles had a fever and needed tending. Shed run the length of the High Street, coat over the loaf, returned shivering. Her mother barely glanced at her, fixated on Charles with tea and honey.
Get changed, Mags. Quiet, your brothers sleeping, she called over her shoulder.
Margaret put her wet clothes in a heap and curled under the covers, teeth chattering. By evening, she had a temperature. Her mother poked her head in, thermometer in hand.
Just thirty eight. Thats nothing, love. Bit of raspberry jam in your tea and youll be fine.
Margaret went to school the next day anyway, hunched and cold, wrapping her cardigan around her shoulders. The teacher asked, and Margaret nodded. At home, her mother was cooking soup for Charles.
Margaret poured herself some from the pot. Her mother whisked the bowl away.
Thats for Charles, he needs his strength up! You can have bread and butter.
Margaret ate bread. She sipped cold water. Back to her room, to homework.
She was late back from lunch. Nina looked up, concerned.
Youre sure youre not ill?
Quite sure.
That evening, at home, the phone rang again. This time Margaret answered.
Hello.
Mags Mum says youre being difficult about the papers, Charles said straight off.
I didnt say no. I said Id think it through.
Nothing to think through! We dont need that flat, not really; you never use it. William does. Hes your nephew, you know!
Hes my nephew as well.
Exactly youll sign, right? The solicitors expecting you.
Margaret listened to Charless heavy, irritated breathing.
Mags? You there?
Im here.
Well? Will you come?
I wont be coming by tomorrow.
What?
Im not going to the solicitors.
You must be joking! Mum spent ages gathering those forms; I arranged this! You…
Charles half that flat is legally mine. I wont give it up without my agreement.
What agreement?! Were family! Or have you forgotten what that means?
His voice rose to a shout. She moved the phone from her ear, listening absently as he ranted selfish, heartless, always like this, jealous, because Mum loved me more.
Charles, calm down.
I will not! You always resented me! Since we were kids!
She put the phone on the table, listening to the distant muffled shouting. She went to the kitchen for water, gulped it back, hands trembling. She looked at her unadorned fingers forty-three years old, not a ring ever graced them.
When she returned, the call had ended. Charles had sent a message: Talk to me when you come to your senses. Still, come tomorrow anyway.
Margaret flung the phone aside, lay on the sofa without undressing, curling up under a rug. Rain rattled the window, merging into rivulets. She watched them until her eyelids drooped, but sleep didnt come just memories flickering past, scenes from a film only she remembered.
*
Sixteen years old a letter from Cambridge. Shed been accepted, with a scholarship and lodgings provided. Shed raced to the kitchen, waving the letter.
Mum, I got in! They want me in Cambridge!
Anne Harrington, stirring porridge, turned, took the letter, read it slowly, lips moving, then handed it back.
No.
What do you mean, no?
Youre not going. Wholl help with Charles and the house? Your fathers always out, Charles has his O-Levels coming he needs your help. Youll just leave and Ill be alone?
Mum, its Cambridge. Ive dreamed of this.
Dreams, my foot. Youre a girl. Girls do very well here. Youll marry, have children. Why dyou want Cambridge?
But, Mum…
I said no. Not a word to your father, you hear. Hell side with me, I know.
Margaret stood there, clutching the letter. Her mother turned back to the stove. Margaret retreated to her room, lay down, unweeping. That evening, she burnt the letter above the bathroom sink.
At supper, her mother said briskly, Margarets decided to stay shell do accountancy at the college here. Quite right for a girl, I say.
Her father looked at her. She nodded. He said nothing, finished his soup in silence.
Later, Charles asked, Help with my maths? Ive got an exam.
Ill help.
She rose at midnight for water, bumped her shin on a stool in the dark, and bit down a cry, leaning against the wall as the ache pulsed upwards. By morning, her leg was swollen; her mother dabbed on iodine and shrugged it off.
*
In the mirror next dawn pale face, shadows beneath the eyes, hair sticking up at all angles. She smoothed it, made herself up, left for work.
The day dragged by at work; Nina, detailing her grandchildren, thrust phone photos under Margarets nose. She nodded. At lunch she walked again to the park, browsed old photos on her phone family shots: the one in the frame on her wall, Charless first day of school in his blazer, Charles and their father fishing. Margaret, if present at all, was always on the edge, or just listed as Margaret behind the camera.
Her phone buzzed. Her mother.
Margaret watched it ring out. Then a text: Solicitor was waiting. Charlie upset. Weve rescheduled for two days time. Will you come?
She deleted the message and went back to the office, shoulders tight with anger she scarcely felt.
That evening, unlocking her flat, she heard voices on the stairwell. Charles and Olivia, waiting. Charles red-faced, gruff; Olivia quiet and hangdog.
At last, Mags, weve been waiting an hour! Charles blurted.
What for?
To talk! Let us in, will you?
Margaret held the door wide in silence. Charles sauntered through to the sitting room, legs spread on the sofa; Olivia slipped her coat off, folding it over the rack.
Tea? Margaret asked.
Charles waved her off. Lets just get to the point, shall we? He motioned for her to sit. Olivia perched on the edge of the armchair, staring at the rug.
Look, Maggie, Charles leaned forward, Mums getting on, she deserves peace. Youve enough room for her spacious place, on your own she wont get in your hair.
I never said she would.
All right then, so youll agree? Just sign the flat to William and everybody wins.
Its not his flat, Charles.
Whose is it, then? Yours? But youre never there!
Half is mine. Legally.
Legalities! Its family! You dont portion out family!
Margaret eyed him the florid faced, gesticulating hands, stomach spilling over his waistband. Forty, casual site work at Brixton Sites when he fancied it, living at their mothers, dinner made, laundry done, cash always at hand.
Charles, do you have a job right now? she asked suddenly.
He blinked.
Whats that got to do with
Im curious. Are you working?
I worked yesterday. Labouring. Enough, thats not your concern.
You pay the bills?
Mum does its her flat, isnt it?
I pay half have done for fifteen years.
A silence fell. Olivia flashed Margaret a quick look and glanced away.
And? Charles managed, sullen. All as it ought to be. Youre well-off, living solo. Weve got a family, you know.
Is that why you want the flat in Williams name?
Why not? Hes the grandson! Its what grandmothers do!
She can sign her half over. My halfs up to me.
You really are heartless, Charles snapped, leaping up. Greedy, always jealous. Mum knew it. Youre cold. Thats why youre alone now who could love you?
The words hung between them like stones. Olivia flinched. Margaret sat unmoving, staring into her brothers livid face, fists balled by his sides.
Get out, she said softly.
You what?
Out of my home.
Youre tossing out your brother?
Leave. Now.
Charles gaped, looked at Olivia. She grabbed her coat.
Come on, Charles, she whispered.
To hell with you! he barked at her, before turning to Margaret. Youll regret this, Maggie Mum will hear how you treat your brother. Shell finally see you for what you are.
He slammed out. Olivia scurried after. Margaret sat, waiting till their steps dwindled, then moved to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. Her hands were steady. Inside, a hollow chill.
She remembered Charles bringing his first wife, Angela, home. She was bold and brash, but Mum welcomed her, saying, Move in with us, you cant expect Charles to fend alone.
Angela did, moved in a week later and took over Margarets little room; she was shifted to a folding bed in the lounge.
Just for now, her mother said. Till the young ones settle.
She slept three months in the lounge before renting a room in a shared house, paying her own rent and half mums flat bills, as was expected: Do help, dear, my pensions tight, and Charles and Angela need a start.
Angela left after a year; Charles cried to Margaret over the phone: She never understood me, wanted to live anywhere but with Mum! Who needs that?
Margaret made him tea with three sugars. Her mother cradled his head, cooing, Never mind, dear boy. Well find you a real one.
Two years later, he brought Olivia shy, silent. Mum approved: She doesnt make a fuss. Loves Charles, thats what counts. Olivia moved in, took the smallest room, helped with chores, had William, and turned ghostly quiet.
Margaret visited rarely birthdays, holidays always bringing gifts. At the table, Mum told tales of Williams cleverness, Charles bragged about his odd jobs; Olivia set dishes out and gathered them up. Margaret slipped away early, pleading exhaustion.
Not to worry, love, her mother would say. Youre bored by us, youve your own life.
Her own life: the little flat on Primrose Lane, a nine-to-five at Warmstead, TV in the evenings, the odd coffee with Mary at Drakes Cafe. That was it.
That night Margaret turned in late, tossing about, unable to sleep for Charless words: Heartless. Greedy. Jealous.
Jealous? Perhaps she was, after a fashion jealous of being loved, jealous of being forgiven, jealous of the right to be frail and feckless if it suited.
The next morning she was up early. The bell rang her mother, arms full of carrier bags, the warm aroma of apple tart wafting.
Morning, love, baked your favourite.
Margaret stepped aside. Her mother settled in the kitchen, unwrapped the tart and sliced it, apples twinkling in syrup.
Charles asked for it yesterday. But I thought youd like a piece.
Margaret took a slice sweet and crumbly, as always, only in years past shed get the leftovers, a day old.
Nice? her mother asked.
Its lovely.
Anne Harrington poured tea and sat opposite.
Why all the unpleasantness with Charles last night, love? Olivia said you sent him away.
I asked him to leave.
But why? Hes all heart.
He was rude.
Nonsense! He just cares so much. This flat for William… its important. Dont you see that?
Margaret dabbed up her last crumbs and placed her cup down, looking at her mother the untroubled face, the calm hands folded on the table. Her mother never doubted her own wisdom.
No, Mum.
No?
I wont sign.
Her mother stared, her teacup frozen halfway to her mouth.
Youre not joking?
Im not.
But why? Im your mother. Ive nowhere else to turn!
Youre not helpless, Mum youre sixty-eight, youre healthy, youve your pension. You can live on your own still.
On my own? With Charles and Olivia and William?
You chose them, not me. I didnt choose for you.
But were family!
Family shouldnt be rationed out, Charles said. Then why is your affection always distributed? Why must the flat half of it mine always belong to him too?
Her mothers cheeks drained of colour; she put her cup down so hard it sloshed tea onto the cloth.
Are you abandoning me?
Im simply not letting you give away whats mine without my say.
Its not property, its our home!
A home I was never allowed to really live in. Always the odd one out.
Where do you get these ideas?
Mum. Margaret looked straight at her. Do you know how many times youve told me you love me really said it, I mean?
Silence.
Not once, Margaret answered her own question. But you say it to Charles every day. Ive heard you.
But of course you know, Margaret, of course you know I love you!
No, I dont.
Her mother got up abruptly. Her face was pinched, trembling.
Youre ungrateful. I fed you, clothed you, loved you, and this is what I get
You raised Charles. You put up with me.
How dare you?
Because its the truth. Even if you dont admit it.
Her mother snatched up her bag, left the tart on the table, and swept past to the hall.
Youll regret this, Margaret, when youre all alone. Only then will you understand the value of family and how youve lost it.
The door shut. Margaret sat, staring at the half-eaten tart and the brown tea-ring on the cloth. She cleared the table, washed up, spending a long time on one plate as the water ran cold. Then she wiped her hands and went to lie down, watching the old familiar crack on the ceiling, following its path as she had for years.
The phone remained silent all day. She waited. That evening, a text from Mary: How are you? Havent seen you in ages. Come to the Coffee Corner for a catch-up.
Margaret typed back: Will do tomorrow. She set the phone aside, went to the window. Streetlights winked on; folk hurried home, scarves against the drizzle. Some had waiting families, warm kitchen lights. In her flat, just silence.
She recalled, age twenty-five, bringing home a boyfriend from work a reserved programmer named Andrew. She invited him in to meet her family. Her mother set the table, summoned Charles; he came out, phone in hand, barely looking up. Throughout supper, her mother addressed Charles, inquiring after his job and future plans; at twenty-two, he worked odd courier shifts and received nothing but praise.
Andrew, ignored, ate his salad quietly. Margaret tried to draw him into conversation, but her mother interrupted, always back to Charles. When they left, her mother called after them:
Well see how long he lasts.
Andrew escorted Margaret to her block, and as he left, said quietly, Is your mother always like that?
Margaret nodded.
He frowned. She doesnt like me.
She doesnt like anyone but Charles.
He puckered his brow.
Does she at least like you?
She shrugged. He didnt push it. After another couple of months, Andrew drifted away. She shrugged again, texted him once: All understood. Best of luck. He never replied.
After that she brought no more men home. Brief relationships fizzled soon enough, with men saying she kept her heart closed. She never explained. Just let them go.
*
In the morning, Margaret visited the Coffee Corner. Mary was behind the counter, arranging custard tarts.
Mags! Thought youd vanished, love.
Just busy, thats all.
Mary leaned in, concern etched on her face.
Trouble at home?
Margaret nodded.
Mary sighed. She knew about the Harrington family Margaret had confided bits here and there, but never complaints.
Let me ask do you actually owe her anything? Mary asked, arms folded.
Im not sure. I always feel I do but maybe thats just my upbringing?
No, its her, making you feel guilty. Some mothers do that, so they get all the care and you get all the blame.
Margaret pondered.
My mother was the same, Mary went on. A daughters duty for being born, brought up, the lot. But its a two-way street: you give, she takes and gives nothing back. Thats not how it should work, is it?
Margaret shook her head.
So stop feeling guilty. You dont owe her your life. Youre allowed to say no. Try living for yourself for once.
I did say no.
And?
Shes hurt. Charles called me selfish.
Mary snorted. Of course. Easier to call you the bad one than admit hes been coddled all his life.
Margaret smiled weakly. Mary squeezed her shoulder.
You did right. Finally looking out for yourself.
Margaret hugged her, quietly grateful. They stood that way awhile, then Mary said, Go on, then. Ill see you again soon?
You will.
Margaret left, walked slowly home, turned up the path to her block and climbed the stairs. She shed her coat, put the kettle on, cut a slice of leftover tart, and ate it at the window, chilled by more than the weather.
That evening, Charles called again milder now:
Mags look, lets not quarrel, all right? I was hasty last time; sorry about that.
All right.
Good. Look, Mum says you wont sign anything. Fair enough but would you do a little donation, you know, pass it straight to William both of you? You care for him, right?
Im not signing anything, Charles.
What do you mean?
I wont agree to give away my share.
Dont you realise what youre doing? Poor William will have nothing!
Hes living there, isnt he? Nothing changes.
But he doesnt own it!
Its partly Mums and partly mine.
But why does it matter whose? Were family!
Family treats everyone fairly. Youve always been the favourite and Im worn out with it.
What about me? I support a whole family!
You live with Mum; she feeds and funds you, not the other way round.
Oh, youre impossible! he barked and hung up.
Margaret lay on the sofa, cradling the phone, not sure whether to cry or laugh. Instead she simply lay staring into the dusk, the citys hush pressing in.
*
In the night, she dreamt she was small five, maybe. A room packed with people, all enthralled with Charles who laughed and leapt in the centre. Mother smoothing his hair, Father taking photos. She herself was trapped in the corner, legs frozen, mute mouth wide. No one saw her, no one heard.
She woke stone cold, arms around her knees, breath trembling. Outside, dawn struggled through the clouds. She made coffee, gazed out: workday routines, cars inching along, pigeons pecking old crusts.
Her phone. Mary: You all right, love? If you ever want to chat, Im here.
Ill think about it, Margaret typed.
She passed the day at work as always bills, spreadsheets, stories from Nina about grandchildren. She went to the park, sat, took out her sandwich but didnt feel like eating.
A text, unknown number: Its Olivia. May I talk to you? About Charles and your mother. I need help.
Margaret thought a moment. Texted back: About what? Olivia: Charles… the papers… Can I see you this evening, around 7? Margaret: All right. Alone, please.
At seven sharp, the bell. Olivia, alone, thin and pale in her worn jacket.
Hello, she said faintly.
Come in.
They sat, Olivia clutching her cup, silent.
I dont know how to start its all such a muddle.
Tell me plainly.
She nodded, sipped her tea.
Charles wants your mum to sign the flat over. All for William. But now she doubts it, with you saying you wont sign either. Charles well, hes angry. Very. He shouts at her. Calls her daft and useless. Says well be on the street if she doesnt do it, and tells her to leave.
Margaret was silent. Olivia went on:
Im so lost. William cant sleep, he cries every night. I Im scared.
Of what?
That Charles will throw me out too. If we lose the flat. He says Im useless I dont work, dont bring in money, he only keeps me because of William.
Her hands shook. Margaret handed over a tissue.
Why dont you work, Olivia?
He wont let me. Says its the wifes role to keep house for the child that his mother never worked and look how it turned out.
His mother worked. Until her pension.
Olivia met her gaze, eyes widening. Really?
Really.
Olivia paused. Will you sign the papers?
No.
Why not?
Margaret reflected. Because I have the right to say no. And I will.
I understand. I think Id do the same, if I could. But I cant. Im weak.
Not weak, Olivia. Just frightened. Thats not the same thing.
It seemed to reach her. She finished her tea, got up. At the door, she said, Thank you for listening.
Margaret nodded. Olivia was a casualty, just as shed been once. The only difference: Margaret had chosen not to be any longer.
*
Night lingered. Margaret lay awake, turning over her mother in her mind anger, resentment, confusion.
Her phone buzzed, a message from her mother: Margaret, Im unwell. Charles is shouting at me. Come round.
Margaret read and hesitated. What to reply? She typed: Mum, I cant fix things between you and Charles. Thats something for you both.
Her mother: Youre heartless. Im your mother.
Margaret shut her phone off, left it on the bedside.
In the morning: three more messages. The latest: Charles says if I wont sign, I must leave. Where shall I go?
Margaret didnt answer, busying herself for work, mind spinning throughout the day.
That evening, Mary called.
Hows your mum?
She says Charles is kicking her out.
And?
I havent replied.
Well done. Its time she sorted herself out. Shes not helpless, you know.
I feel guilty, Mary.
Why? For not being a doormat? For once in your life, Margaret, you put yourself first.
Margaret was silent. She needed to hear it, but it was hard.
You did right. Keep strong. Call me anytime, love.
Margaret poured herself a tea, watched the rain trickle down the glass. The phone vibrated again: Charles You happy? Mums in tears. Thanks to you.
She deleted it, set the phone face down.
A week passed. No word from mother nor Charles. Margaret walked to work, came back, spent her evenings absently flicking through books or TV, never at peace with herself.
*
Saturday dawned to a knock at the door. Her mother: hair unkempt, rainwater running down her face, clutching a bag bursting with documents.
May I come in? she asked, subdued.
Margaret simply stepped back. Her mother shed her sodden coat and sat, trembling, at the kitchen table. Margaret handed her a towel.
Dry off.
Mrs. Harrington mopped her face and hands, eyes never lifting.
I wont sign, she said at last.
Margaret waited.
Charles well, he pushed me yesterday, when I said I wouldnt. Said I was a useless old woman and told me to go.
She wept now, shoulders shaking. Margaret sat silently, watching, her chest tight with old wounds and something like pity.
And so now youve come to me.
Her mother nodded. May I stay? Just for a bit. Until I find a place of my own.
Margaret considered her jagged feelings old hurt, cold anger, and some sympathy too.
You can for a while.
Mrs. Harrington nodded. Thank you, love.
Margaret put the kettle on, going through the motions. Her mind drifted. Was it joy she felt? Bitterness? Or just the old fatigue?
She set the tea in front of her mother and sat down.
Im sorry, Mrs. Harrington whispered.
For what?
For everything. For not loving you the way I did Charles. For not seeing you. For using you.
Margaret listened, watching this face grown strange and vulnerable.
Its all right.
No, I must say it. I was a poor mother to you. I only now realise it. When Charles pushed me out I saw he didnt love me, only what I gave. When I stopped being useful, he chucked me out. And I deserved it.
Tears spattered the table. Margaret made no move to comfort.
Stop, Mum.
No. I must face it. Youre strong. Stronger than me, to say no I only coddled him out of fear fear of not being needed.
Margaret turned to the window the rain had cleared, light split the sky.
You didnt make him what he is you just gave him everything and he never learned to give back.
What do I do now?
You live, Mum. You can stay for now, but not as a convenience we must live separately, each with her own life.
Her mother agreed softly. Margaret left, laying down in her room, aware of her mother quietly pottering in the kitchen. That night, each retired early, in separate rooms, in their separate silences.
*
In the small hours, Margaret heard muffled crying. She found her mother hunched at the table, hands pressed to her face.
Sorry, didnt mean to wake you.
Doesnt matter.
Margaret poured her a glass of water, watched as she drank.
Cant sleep.
Nor I.
Her mother looked at her. Will you ever forgive me?
Margaret paused. Forgive? Let it go? Accept and move on?
Im not sure, Mum. Not right now.
Her mother nodded. Fair enough.
Go to bed. Tomorrow is another day.
Mrs. Harrington went to the spare room. Margaret stayed in the kitchen, looking into the blue-dark dawn, towers and rooftops drifting in the mist, and felt her heart at last begin to quiet.
*
She remembered how shed lost her father, suddenly, aged thirty. Hed died at work, a shock to them all. She arrived at the hospital to find her mother clasping Charles, weeping, comforting him. She herself stood aside, dry-eyed as ever, hands limp at her sides.
Come here, love, her mother beckoned. Margaret approached, received a lopsided one-armed hug less for her, more to keep Charles from feeling alone.
At the funeral, Charles bore his fathers portrait, mothers arm through his; Margaret trailed behind, lifting umbrellas. Rain soaked her, unremarked. That night, her mother said, Youre strong, Maggie. Do it for me. Charles is so fragile. Its harder for him.
Margaret had just nodded, gone to her lonely room, and watched the ceiling for hours.
*
The next morning, both women sat at the kitchen table. Sunlight nudged the curtains.
What will you do now, love?
About what?
Life. You.
Carry on work, live.
What about love? Marriage?
Margaret smirked. Im forty-three, Mum. Bit late for all that.
Never too late.
For me, it is. Im used to solitude.
Her mother fell quiet.
Thats my fault.
Leave off, Mum. We cant change the past.
Youre so calm about it.
Im tired of anger. I just want peace.
Her mother nodded, washed up her cup.
Ill look for a room to let in the listings.
Take your time. Youre welcome a little longer.
Her mothers relief was a surprise. Really?
Really. My terms, though.
Of course.
Days passed. Mrs. Harrington kept busy in the flat: cooking, cleaning, not intruding. They shared less conversation, just quiet cohabitation.
One evening her mother announced, Found a cheap room on Kings Road. Ill be moving next week.
All right.
Thank you for sheltering me.
Its nothing.
She hesitated.
Do you hate me?
Margaret thought. Hate? No just tired emptiness.
No. I dont hate you.
What, then?
Nothing. Just nothing.
Her mother lowered her gaze. I see.
That night, the bell rang. Charles, drunk and unkempt.
Wheres Mum? he demanded hoarsely.
Asleep.
Wake her I need to talk to her.
Go home, Charles. Its late.
I wont leave, not until Ive spoken to her!
He lurched for the doorway; Margaret blocked him.
Go. Or Ill call the police.
He sneered, The police? On your own brother? Youve lost your mind.
Get out.
He raised his fist; she didnt flinch. The blow didnt fall. He wobbled. Mrs. Harrington came out in her dressing gown.
Charles? she asked in a weary voice.
Come home, Mum, dont stay here with her. Come home, Ill forgive you.
She stared at him his red face, unwashed shirt, shaking hands.
No, Charles. Im not coming.
What?
I wont live with you again.
Im your son!
You are. But you dont respect me. You never loved me. You just needed me.
Charles lunged, but Margaret got between them.
Go away, Charles.
He glared then spat at her feet, and stumbled off into the black hall. Her mother leant against the wall, shaking. Margaret put a hand on her shoulder, an old reflex. Her mother leaned in, weeping quietly, and for once Margaret just let it happen, holding her as best she could.
Sorry, her mother muttered.
Dont be. Youre only human, Mum.
Her mother looked at her, something new in her eyes: gratitude, maybe even respect.
Thanks, love.
They went to their rooms. Margaret lay awake, thinking what Charles had become, and that her mother had finally seen him clearly, though far too late.
*
Morning came. Her mother packed, ready to go.
Ill move today.
So soon?
I wont be a burden, love.
Will you call me?
I will.
They stood at the door, uncertain.
Youre strong, Mum, Margaret said.
A weak smile crossed her mothers lips. So are you, love.
Her mother stepped onto the landing, turned once.
Will you call, Margaret?
When I need to, Mum.
The door creaked softly to, and Margaret for once didnt feel so terribly alone.
