Andrew married at twentyfour. His wife, Poppy, was twentytwo. She was the only child of a university professor and a schoolteacher, and the couple seemed to sprout boys like weatherfronts, with a daughter following a few months later.
Margaret, Poppys mother, had retired and taken the grandchildren under her wing. Andrews relationship with her was oddly formal; he called her only by first name and patronymicMargaret dearand she replied with a cool, distant you, always using his full name. They never quarreled, yet Andrew felt a chill in her presence, as if the air itself had turned to glass. Still, Margaret never aired grievances, speaking to him with a measured respect, and she kept a strict neutrality between him and Poppy.
A month earlier, the firm where Andrew worked went bust, and he was shown the door. At dinner Poppy slipped out, We wont get far on my wages and Mums pension, Andrew. Find a job. Easy to sayfind a job! For thirty days he paced the thresholds of every office, and nothing.
In a fit of irritation he kicked a stray beer bottle across the kitchen floor. Margaret stayed silent, though her eyes flickered with meaning. Before the wedding he had overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.
Poppy, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your whole life with?
Mum, of course!
I think you dont grasp the whole weight of it. If only your father were still alive
Mum, stop! We love each other and everything will be fine.
And the children? Will he be able to provide?
Hell manage, Mum!
Its not too late to pause, think. His family
Mum, I love him!
Oh, dear, you wont have to bite the bullet then!
The time to bite has come, Andrew muttered with a sour smile, while Margaret stared into the teacup as if it were water.
He did not want to go home. It seemed Poppy was reassuring him with a feigned Tomorrow will be better, while her mother sighed, judging silently, and the children, with mischievous grins, asked, Dad, found a job yet? Hearing the same refrain over and over became unbearable.
He wandered the misty riverside, sat on a bench in a park, and as night fell he drove to the family cottage they used from May to September in the Cotswolds. A single window glowed in the bedroom of Margaret. He crept along the garden path, the curtain trembled, and he sat down, his back landing squarely on a low wall.
Margarets voice floated from the doorway, Andrews been gone a long time. Did you call, Poppy?
Yes, Mum, the line was dead. He probably hasnt found work yet and is wandering somewhere.
Her tone iced over, Poppy, dont you dare speak of your childrens father that way!
Oh, Mum, really? I just think Andrews being a fool, not looking for a job. Hes been a couchpotato for a month now!
For the first time in six years the crack of Margarets fist on the table echoed through the cottage, Dont you dare speak of your husband like that! What did you promise when you walked down the aisle? To stand by him in sickness and in sorrow, to support him!
Poppy stammered, Mum, Im sorry. Please dont worry. Im just exhausted, worn out. Forgive me, love.
Alright, go to bed, Margaret waved wearily.
The lights dimmed. She paced the room, drew back the curtain, gazed into the darkness, then lifted her eyes to the ceiling and crossed herself with fervent reverence, Lord Almighty, merciful and kind, protect the father of my grandchildren, my soninlaw! Let not his faith in himself be lost! Help him, O Lord, my dear son! She whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
A heat swelled in Andrews chest, a knot of fire. No one had ever prayed for himnot his stern mother, who had spent her life in the local council, nor his fatherwho had vanished when Andrew was five, a ghost of a memory. He had grown in crèches, then at school, then university, where he immediately took a job because his mother could not tolerate idleness and believed he could fend for himself.
The heat rose, spilling outward in thin, unwilling tears. He remembered Margarets earlymorning pies, the rich broth she simmered, the dumplings that seemed miracles, the jam jars she filled, the pickled cucumbers and cabbage stacked for winter.
Why had he never cared? Why never praised? He and Poppy simply worked, birthed children, and thought that was enough. Or perhaps he thought that was enough. He recalled a night the whole family watched a documentary about Australia, and Margaret confessed shed always dreamed of setting foot on the sunburnt continent. Andrew laughed, Its too hot there; they wont let a lady in an icy coat through!
Andrew lingered by the window, his hands clutching his head.
At dawn he and Poppy descended to the veranda for breakfast, the table laid with pies, jam, tea, and milk, children beaming. He lifted his gaze and softly said, Good morning, Mum.
Margaret flinched, then, after a beat, replied, Good morning, Andy.
Two weeks later Andrew secured a job, and a year after that he sent Margaret on a holiday to Australia, despite her fierce protests. The dream faded, but the strange logic lingered like a halfremembered lullaby.
