In the dead of winter Margaret Thompson finally decided to put her old cottage on the market and move in with her son. Her daughterinlaw and James had been nagging her for years, but she clung to the little house as if it were a lifepreserver. It wasnt until a mild stroke left her shaky enough to realise that living alone was a hazard, especially in a hamlet without a doctor, that she finally sold the place leaving most of the furniture to the new owner and packed up for Jamess flat.
Come summer, James and his wife Eleanor shifted from their cramped flat on the ninth floor to a brandnew twostorey cottage in the Cotswolds, built to the exact specifications James had drawn up as a boy. I grew up in a house on solid ground, he declared, so Im going to build the one I always imagined. The cottage boasted a spacious kitchen, bright living rooms, and a bathroom with tiles the colour of a clear English Channel. Its like the seas come inside, Margaret joked.
There was just one oversight: Margarets bedroom and her granddaughter Lucys room were both upstairs, meaning the spry octogenarian had to brave a steep staircase to reach the loo at night. Dont let me tumble out of my sleep, she muttered each time, gripping the banister like a liferaft.
She settled into the new family quickly. Her relationship with Eleanor remained warm, Lucy was a quiet teenager who spent most of her time online, and Margaret made a point of keeping out of everyones way.
Just keep quiet, say less, and see less, she told herself in the mornings as everyone rushed off to work or school, leaving her alone with Riley the chowchow and Marmalade the tabby. A pet turtle also lived in a round aquarium, poking its head out to watch Margaret as she fed the fish and the turtle, then beckoned the dog for a spot of tea. Riley was a sensible, wellbehaved chap who stared at Margaret with his dark, soulful eyes as she fetched a tin of childrens biscuits his favourite treat. She indulged him with the biscuits, not because a chowchow needed a special diet, but because she felt sorry for the pooch.
After lunch and a tidy house, Margaret padded out to the garden. Accustomed to a farmers life, she kept at the vegetable beds. While digging, she barely noticed the tall hedge that hid the neighbours plot, except for a small gap behind the house where a low decorative fence had been put in place. The neighbour, an elderly gentleman in a threadbare hat, was a mysterious figure who appeared now and then, always retreating into his shed or garage when she looked his way.
One morning, as Margaret was straightening Lucys room the teen always left the bed unmade in a rush she pulled back the curtains and saw the old man shuffling slowly towards the raspberry bushes, his head bowed, an empty bucket in hand. He wore a faded shirt with long sleeves, and Septembers chill was already nipping at his fingers. He coughed, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and then, to Margarets astonishment, began to weep.
My, what a sad sight, she thought, heart fluttering. Do you need help? she called, but a sharp female shout from the open window stopped her. Hes not alone, then, she reasoned, glancing back at the window. The neighbour seemed to be calling, yet he ignored it, sitting there like a wilted flower in a gale. Margaret felt a pang of pity; loneliness can be a cruel companion, even for those who live in a house.
She started paying more attention to the neighbours routine, spotting him in the garden here and there, hearing the occasional thump of a saw in his outbuilding. One afternoon she overheard him speaking to someone, his voice tinged with melancholy:
Ah, poor birds, youre free while the weathers warm. When winter comes youll be locked up and forgotten. Im locked in my own little cage too. Where do we go? Who needs us when were old?
The gloom in his tone made Margaret grimace. How on earth does a man end up chatting with chickens? she mused, returning inside.
At dinner she asked Eleanor about the neighbours. There used to be a family here, Eleanor explained. After the matriarch died, the patriarch, Mr. Harold Brown, stayed with his son. The son married, brought his wife over, but once he retired the house fell silent. Harold never worked the garden; he shopped in town, visited his granddaughters school, and generally kept to himself. The girl, now sixteen, goes to the same class as Lucy, so Harolds become a bit of a lonely old codger.
And the son? Margaret pressed.
Hes a quiet, wellmannered chap who never dares to argue. Thats how they were raised, Eleanor replied.
Ive always envied those with husbands whod snap at anyone who even glanced at their wives, Margaret said with a wry smile. A real bloke would tear the cheeky blighters apart, or
The same bloke would also nip his own wife if she stepped out of line, Harolds son chimed in from the doorway, having overheard the conversation.
That night Margaret lay awake. The conversation had dredged up old wounds, so she started drawing on scrap paper: a heavy iron gate on a lake, a sunken key at the bottom, waves lapping at the lock. No one will ever retrieve that key, she whispered to herself.
Memories of an abusive husband who once threatened to bury her under an apple tree flickered through her mind, fueling a visceral dread. She tied a rag to the bedroom door handle and a wooden poker to the bedframe, the sort of precaution one takes when fearing a nightmare. It wasnt for herself but for Lucy, who still lived with her. One night she woke to the sound of a knife scraping at the door, shoved Lucy out the window, and scrambled out herself, heart hammering. The doors shut, she told herself. The past is best left behind.
The next morning was crisp and clear. After checking off her errands, Margaret headed to the local bakery for a fresh loaf. The shop owner boasted that his bread was baked that night, but the loaf Margaret selected had a hard crust, evidence of yesterdays baking. You cant fool a proper baker, she said, pointing out the stale loaf. The embarrassed shopkeeper swapped it for a fresh one, and as Margaret left, an elderly gentleman on the porch thanked her for standing up to the rude salesman. He turned out to be Harold, his face thin but not sour, his smile warm.
Fancy a walk? Were practically neighbours now, he said.
Really? Margaret replied. You live near Oleg and Kate? Im Margaret, Olegs mum. Moved out here after I retired.
Oh, you used to be in Yorkshire, didnt you? Harold guessed.
Yes, I was. Living alone gets hard when youre not as spry as you used to be, she admitted.
The fresh bread smells lovely, Harold said, tearing off a piece. Care for a bite?
Thanks, but Im on a diet for my ulcer. I keep the fresh bread for the kids, she answered, smiling.
Your son digging the potatoes yet? he asked, chewing.
Well start Saturday, Margaret said, sensing his hunger.
She seized the moment: Lets be proper neighbours then. Im Margaret Thompson, and youre Harold Brown, right? How about tea sometime?
It feels a bit odd, Harold replied.
Whats odd about a cuppa? My dog stays at home, Ive just brewed a fresh pot. No rush. Come through the gate into the garden, Margaret said, noticing his wary glance at the windows.
Inviting him in, she set about making tea. Harold perched on the edge of the sofa, taking in the modest yet cosy surroundings embroidered pictures, potted flowers on the sill, knitted throws on the armchairs all whispering of a household that cared for each other. He thought to himself that in todays world it seemed only wealth mattered, while genuine warmth was a rarity.
They sipped tea and nibbled homemade scones. Margaret kept topping the plate, wanting to offer him a hearty bowl of stew, but refrained for fear of offending him. Riley the dog lay at the doorway, eyeing the guest calmly; the pooch usually only growled at the truly dangerous, not at a harmless old neighbour. The conversation drifted to crops, weather, and market prices. Margaret wanted to ask why Harold seemed perpetually downcast, but she hesitated, knowing she only saw him from the upstairs window.
Eventually Harold stood, feeling the heat of the cosy room and the lingering memory of a latewife. He lingered, savoring his tea a little longer, recalling the day his daughterinlaw flung a slice of bread at his face over a property dispute. He sighed heavily.
From that day on Margarets life acquired a new spark. Mornings saw her hurriedly preparing breakfast for the kids, then heading to the garden where Harold would cheerfully wave from his own little plot, accepting the food she offered with a shy smile. Their secret spot behind the house, hidden from prying eyes, became a place for harmless chatter, free from Eleanors sharp tongue.
Just before a disastrous day, Harold mentioned that his son and family were off to a seaside holiday in Cornwall. Margaret, delighted, said, Let them have a break. Youll need a proper roof for the night, not that shed. He blushed, perhaps realising shed guessed his plans.
She woke to the sound of a car. Dawn was breaking, and a taxi pulled up at the gate. Neighbours stepped out, slamming the gate behind them as the driver loaded their bags. Did Harold not see them off? Margaret wondered, then lay back down, restless.
Thoughts swirled: Why do parents cling to their children all their lives, only to be discarded in old age? She recalled stories of famous TV presenters whose children never visited, and of a factory director left to die alone. God, dont let anyone have such children, she muttered.
She rose early, made breakfast, fed the kids and Lucy, gave Riley his biscuit, and walked out to the garden. Harold was nowhere to be seen.
Probably off for a quiet stroll, she thought, trimming onions. An hour passed without a sign of him. The garden felt eerily silent, and a strange unease grew. She placed an empty box on the low fence and, noticing a porch light flickering, knocked on the neighbours door. After a moment, the door cracked open and she called, Anyone home? Mr. Brown?
Silence answered. She stepped into the hallway, then the entrance hall, and let out a startled gasp. Harold lay on the sofa, one arm limp, a bottle of nitroglycerin spattered on the floor, white tablets scattered. Lord have mercy! she shouted, fumbling for her son Olegs number. He answered straight away; between sobs she begged him to call an ambulance.
Within fifteen minutes, sirens wailed and a doctor arrived, checking pulse and pupils before preparing an injection. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief the old man was still alive.
The day went on in a daze. How could they abandon their father? she thought, remembering that his son had seen his fathers condition but still left. Did they think hed die without help? The memory of a Sovietera story where a mother was locked in a summer kitchen came to mind.
Never again, God, she whispered.
Harold was discharged a month later. Margaret visited him daily, bringing homemade soup. You have to eat to live, shed say, her favourite proverb.
During one visit she learned that Harold owned the cottage, but Eleanor wanted a deed and a power of attorney for his pension. If I hand over my pension Ill starve, Harold complained. Ive already written a will naming my son, but he doesnt know about it. Inheritance cant be split in a divorce, so my son wont be left roofless in old age.
Margaret replied, Good. Theyll let you go home soon. My children have a flat they dont live in, Lucys still with her parents. Well look after the flat together, and you can live peacefully. No need for you to stress. In old Yorkshire we didnt say I love you; we said I pity you, which is what Im doing now wishing you a good life.
