Hey love, Ive got a little story to share think of it as a cosy chat over a cuppa.
In the dead of winter Margaret Whitmore finally decided to put her cosy cottage up for sale and move in with her son. Her daughterinlaw and James had been nagging her for ages, but she kept clutching onto her little nest. It was only after a stroke, once shed recovered as far as she could, that she realised living alone was downright risky, especially since the nearest doctor was miles away in the nearest town. So she sold the place, handed most of the furnishings to the new owner, and packed up for Jamess house.
Come summer, Jamess family shuffled from the ninthfloor flat to a brandnew twostorey bungalow theyd just built on the outskirts of a quiet village near Oxford. Hed designed it himself, saying, I grew up in a house built into the earth, so Im putting that feeling into my own home.
The bungalow was spacious, with a bright kitchen, airy rooms and a bathroom that looked like a slice of the sea a pale blue that reminded Margaret of the coast. Feels like weve walked straight onto the beach, she laughed.
Only one thing James hadnt thought about: Margarets bedroom and her granddaughter Ethels room were on the top floor, so the elderly Margaret had to trudge down the steep stairs to the loo in the middle of the night. Hope I dont take a tumble in my sleep, she muttered, gripping the railings tight.
She settled in quickly. Her relationship with Sarah was always solid, and Ethel kept to herself, her world revolving around the internet. Margaret made a point of staying out of everyones business. Just keep quiet, listen more and see less, she told herself.
Mornings were a bustle everyone off to work or school leaving Margaret with Rex the dachshund, Misty the cat, and a shy little turtle named Shelley who liked to perch on the edge of the round fish tank, stretching her neck to stare at Margaret. After feeding the fish and the turtle, Margaret would call Rex over for tea. The pooch was a calm, clever chap and would sit by the kitchen doorway, eyes locked on hers as if waiting for a treat.
Come on, lets have some tea, shed say, pulling out a tin of biscuits. Rex adored those biscuits nobody else ever gave him any, and because he was a chihuahuatype, he needed a special diet. Margaret felt sorry for him, so she started buying childrens biscuits and sharing them with Rex.
Once lunch was sorted and the house tidy, Margaret would slip out to the garden. Shed always kept a hand in the soil, even after moving. While weeding the beds, she often glanced over at the neighbours plot. A tall wooden fence hid most of it, except for a small gap behind the house where James had put up a low decorative fence. She didnt know the owners, but shed seen an old man in a worn hat working there a bit of a loner, always hurrying back to his shed when she looked his way.
A few days earlier, Margaret caught something that left her unsettled. She was on the second floor, tidying Ethels room the girl always rushed around, never making her bed. Margaret pulled back the curtains and opened the window, only to see the old man ambling slowly with his head down, stopping by a raspberry bush, picking up an old bucket and sitting on it. He wore a faded shirt with long sleeves, coughing now and then, wiping his eyes with his cuff. Coughing and out in the cold, yet no coat, she thought, and then realised he was crying.
Her heart skipped a beat. Do you need help? she called, hurrying to the stairs, but a sharp female shout from the house stopped her. Hes not alone then, she reasoned, glancing back at the window. The man didnt answer when she called his name, just stayed slumped there, looking utterly despondent. The wind tossed his greying hair, hugging his hunched shoulders. Margaret felt a pang of pity she knew how brutal loneliness could be.
She kept an eye on the neighbour from her garden, watching him work in the shed or wander the plot. One afternoon she overheard him muttering, Ah, you free birds, you can roam while its warm. When the frost comes youll be locked up, forgotten. Im trapped too. Who needs us when were old? His voice was so weary it made her stomach twist.
At dinner, she asked Sarah about the neighbour. There used to be a family here. The matriarch died, and her husband, Peter Wilkes, stayed on with his son. The son got married and brought his wife over, but after he retired the house turned sour. Peter never worked a day in the garden he just roamed, went to the shop, visited the kids school. The girl next door is now sixteen, in the same class as Ethel, so the old mans become unnecessary.
What about his son? Margaret pressed.
Hes quiet, proper, never says a word. Thats how they were raised, Sarah replied.
Its not a good way to live today, Margaret said, sighing. I always envied people whose husbands would stand up for their wives.
True, Peters son interjected, though he was standing just outside the kitchen door, a real bully would even hurt his wife if needed.
That night Margaret couldnt sleep. The conversation had stirred up old aches. She kept a notebook by the bed and sketched a heavy iron door on a lakes shore, the key tossed to the deepest part. No one will ever retrieve it, she whispered to herself.
She also remembered her own late husband, who once threatened to bury her under an apple tree. The fear still lingered, so she tied a blanket to the door handle and a heavy iron poker to the bedpost, just in case. Not for herself, but for dear Ethel. One night she heard a rustle, saw him trying to pry the door with a large knife. She shoved the little one into the window and escaped herself.
The doors shut, she told herself, and thats a good thing. The past is past.
The next morning was bright and dry. After handling a few chores, Margaret headed to the local bakery for a loaf. She told Rex to wait, then stepped out through the gate. The bakerys front door was already buzzing with the shopkeepers voice. Inside, a customer was arguing over a loaf that the baker claimed was fresh from the night before. Margaret sniffed the bread, saw the crust was hardened, and said, You cant pass off yesterdays loaf as fresh; a proper loaf will have a little dent, this ones all dry. The shopkeeper swapped the bread, took the cash, and retreated to another aisle. Margaret bought a fresh loaf from another counter and left. An elderly gentleman on the doorstep thanked her for standing up for the truth. He turned out to be Peter, the neighbour shed seen earlier a thinfaced but friendly man with a warm smile.
Its a pleasure to meet a neighbour, he said. You live with James and Sarah?
Yes, thats us. Ive just moved out here.
James told me youre from up in Yorkshire, Peter replied.
Yorkshire, Margaret corrected, I lived alone for years, healths not what it used to be.
The bread smells wonderful, he chuckled, breaking off a piece. Want a bite?
Thanks, but Im on a diet. Fresh breads for the kids.
Your son digging potatoes yet? he asked, nibbling.
Well start Saturday, she answered, noting his growling stomach.
She then mustered the courage to ask, Shall we get to know each other? Im Margaret Whitmore, and youre Peter Wilkes, right? How about tea at my place?
It feels a bit odd, he said.
Nothing odd about a chat over tea. My dog stays home, Ive just brewed a fresh pot. Come through the garden gate, she replied, noticing his wary glance at the house windows.
Inviting him inside, Margaret busied herself with the tea. Peter perched on the edge of the sofa, taking in the modest but cosy surroundings embroidered pictures, flowers on the sill, knitted throws on the chairs. He thought to himself, These days people value only money; it drives the living out of the home.
They sipped tea and nibbled homemade scones. Margaret kept topping his plate, wanting to offer a hearty bowl of soup but fearing to overstep. Rex lay at the doorway, eyes alert but calm. Hed always growled at strangers, but Peter gave off no threat. When she heard a low growl from Rex later, shed close the gate, knowing it was just a passing caravan of travellers.
Their chat drifted to the garden, the weather, market prices. Margaret wanted to ask why Peter seemed so down, but shed have to admit shed only seen him from the upstairs window. He sensed the need to leave, yet the room felt warm, and he lingered, perhaps remembering a wife long gone. He thought about his sons recent outburst, shouting about a deed for the house, and sighed heavily.
From that day on, Margarets life took on a new rhythm. Mornings shed hustle the kids out, make a quick breakfast, then head to the garden. Peter would already be out there, waving, and shed hand him a few fresh veggies. Hed shyly accept, grateful for her kindness. The garden was tucked away from prying eyes, so they could talk freely without Sarahs sharp remarks.
The day before a trip, Peter mentioned his sons family were off to Cornwall for a holiday. Margaret smiled, Let them have a break. You should move back into the house before it gets too cold in the annex. He turned a little red, perhaps surprised shed guessed.
She woke to the sound of a car. Outside the gate, a taxi was loading bags for the neighbours. She wondered, Did Peter not see them off? She lay awake, thoughts tumbling: Why do children cling to parents all their lives, then discard them in old age? she mused, recalling a TV presenter who was abandoned by her own son. Peter, a former factory manager, now faced the same lonely twilight.
She rose early, made breakfast, saw the kids off, fed Rex and Misty, and stepped out. The neighbours yard was empty. Probably taking a quiet break, she thought. She trimmed onions, but the silence grew heavy. She propped a empty crate against a low fence, saw a lamp flicker on the porch, and felt a prickle of worry. She knocked, waited, then gave the door a gentle push. Is anyone home? Peter? she called.
Silence answered. She stepped inside, into a hallway, then the living room, where she gasped. Peter lay on the sofa, his left arm limp, a bottle of nitramine spilt nearby, capsules scattered on the floor. Oh my God! she cried, dialing James. He answered straight away, panic in his voice. She begged him to call an ambulance.
Within fifteen minutes the sirens wailed, and a doctor arrived, checking pulse and pupils, preparing a syringe. Margaret felt a surge of relief the man shed come to know was still alive. The day passed in a blur.
She kept asking herself, How could they leave a father in such a state? The thought of the son seeing his father suffer and then disappearing gnawed at her. She recalled a story from Sholokhov about a mother locked in a summer kitchen to starve. God, dont let anyone have children like that, she whispered.
Peter was discharged a month later. Margaret visited him daily, feeding him, saying, You have to eat to live. She later learned that Peter owned the house, but Sarah was pushing for a deed and a power of attorney to control his pension. If I hand over the pension Ill die of hunger, hed said, I already left a will for my son, but he doesnt know about it. Margaret replied, Good, youll be out of the hospital soon. My kids have a flat, the granddaughters with her parents. We can look after you, no need for stress. In olden days theyd say I feel for you rather than I love you.
And thats where we are Margaret found a new purpose, sharing tea, garden produce, and a bit of company with a neighbour who finally felt less alone. Hope you enjoyed the little tale. Talk soon!
