James marries at twentyfour. His wife, Blythe, is twentytwo. She is the only child of a university professor and a schoolteacher. Their first children are two baby boys, followed a short while later by a daughter.
Jamess motherinlaw, Margaret Hughes, has retired and now devotes herself to the grandchildren. Their relationship is oddly formal: James calls her Margaret, while she replies with a measured you, always addressing him by his full name. They never argue, but James feels a cold distance when shes near. Still, Margaret never stirs up trouble; she speaks to him with a polite respect and keeps a strict neutrality in his marriage.
A month ago the firm where James works collapses, and he loses his job. At dinner Blythe drops a sigh:
James, Moms pension and my salary wont stretch forever. We need to find you something.
Its easy to say find a job. James spends thirty days knocking on doors and comes up emptyhanded.
In a fit of frustration he kicks over a beer crate. Margaret watches in silence, her eyes flashing with unspoken meaning.
Before the wedding James overhears a conversation between his motherinlaw and Blythe.
Blythe, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your life with?
Of course, Mum!
It seems you dont grasp the full responsibility. If only my husband were still alive
Mum, enough! We love each other, itll be fine.
Will the children be provided for? Can he support them?
He will, Mum.
Its not too late to walk away, Blythe, to think. His family
Mum, I love him!
Oh, you wont have to bite your elbow then!
The time for biting has come, James mutters, a grin lacking cheer. Margaret watches like a stone in water.
James doesnt feel like going home. He senses Blythes false reassurance, Dont worry, tomorrow will be better, while her mother sighs, judging silently, and the kids tease, Dad, found a job yet? He cant bear to hear it again.
He walks along the riverbank, rests on a bench in the park, and as night falls he drives out to the family cottage in the Cotswolds, where they stay from May to October. A single window glows in Margarets bedroom. He slips down the garden path, the curtain quivers, and he lands on a low log.
Margaret peers out:
James has been gone a long time. Did you call, Blythe?
Yes, Mum, the lines dead. He probably hasnt found work yet, so hes wandering somewhere.
Her voice hardens:
Blythe, dont you dare speak of your childrens father in that tone!
Oh, Mum, are you serious? It just seems James is loafing about, not looking for work. Hes been sitting on my lap for a month!
For the first time in six years James hears Margaret slam her fist on the table and raise her voice:
Dont you dare speak about your husband that way! What did you promise when you married? in sickness and in health! to stay by his side and support him!
Blythe stammers:
Mum, Im sorry. Please dont worry, alright? Im just exhausted. Im sorry, love.
Alright, go to bed, Margaret says, waving a tired hand. The lights go out. She paces the room, pulls back the curtain, peers into the darkness, then lifts her eyes to the ceiling and fervently crosses herself:
Lord Almighty, have mercy on my grandchildrens grandfather, my daughters husband. Do not let him lose faith in himself. Help him, Lord, my dear son!
She whispers, tears streaming down her face.
A hot knot swells in Jamess chest. No one has ever prayed for himneither his stern mother, a woman who spent her life in the local council, nor his father, who vanished when James was five. He grows up in nurseries, then primary school, later university, and jumps straight into work because his mother despises idleness and believes he can fend for himself.
The heat climbs, filling his insides until it bursts into reluctant, stingy tears. He recalls mornings when Margaret rose before anyone else, baking scones he loved, simmering hearty stews, and rolling dumplings that seemed like miracles. She tended the children, swept the house, planted vegetables, made jams, and pickled crisp cucumbers and cabbage for winter.
Why had he never shown interest? Why had he never praised her? He and Blythe simply worked, had children, and thought that was enough. Or perhaps thats what he believed. He remembers a night the whole family watches a TV documentary about Australia, and Margaret mentions shes always dreamed of visiting that distant continent. James chuckles, saying its far too hot and no one would let a lady in a frosted coat survive there.
James sits for a long while beneath the window, clasping his head in his hands.
At dawn he and Blythe descend to the veranda for breakfast. The table is laid with fresh scones, jam, tea, and milk; the children smile, eyes bright. He looks up and gently says, Good morning, Mum.
Margaret startles, then replies after a pause, Good morning, Jamie!
Two weeks later James lands a new job, and a year after that he sends Margaret on a holiday to Australia, despite her fierce protests.
