Margaret Thompson was huddled in her chilly, damp cottage, the kind of place where the smell of mildew seems to have settled in the walls for decades. No one had bothered to tidy up for ages, but it was hers, and she was still the lady of the housethough all her energy was spent on worry, and she had no clue where to begin.
A sting of hurt tightened her heart; there were no tears left, even though shed been sobbing all the way here. Maybe these old walls will mend my spirit in time, she thought, pulling her threadbare coat tighter around her as cold seeped into her hands and feet. She rested her head on the kitchen table and let her life drift back.
The most precious thing she owned was her daughter, Ethel. The poor girl had been frail from birth. Her husband, John, would mutter, Youre no good to me, Ethelcant you sleep, youre always on the medicines, why not have a healthy child instead? Hed hardly any idea how to help. Ethel barely made it to term, giving birth at fortytwo, after losing two babies in early pregnancies. She stopped hoping for any usual happily ever after.
John eventually decamped to the next village with a new wife, who promptly gave birth to a son. He no longer wanted to hear about his ailing daughter. Meanwhile, Ethel grew stronger each year, becoming a striking young woman. Margaret barely noticed the transformation; the load of farm work, the running of the household, and the endless chores fell squarely on her shoulders. She toiled on the collective farmwell, the local dairywhile trying to keep the home together. Her motherinlaw, Agnes, moved in when Margaret could no longer manage alone. The old woman was a handful: one minute shed beg for a drink, the next shed try to shift to the other side of the bed.
Ethel finally earned her schooling, met a decent fellow named Arthur, and married for love. Two years later, little Annie arrived. Ethel didnt want to be a stayathome mum, especially with the mortgage on the cottage still to pay, so she pleaded with her mother:
Mum, dear, why dont you move in with us? Itd be cheerier for you, and we could use the help. The grandparents are gone, youre on your own.
No, love, Margaret replied, I have my cow, my old cat, and my garden. How could I abandon my home?
Sell the cow, it hardly gives milk anyway, and let the neighbour take the cat. Mrs. Nelly is kind; she wont refuse. Well be waiting for you in a week!
Margaret couldnt turn her own blood away. The neighbour did take the cow and the cat; her son, daughterinlaw, and grandchildren promised to look after the house. So Margaret packed up and headed for York. Ethel and Arthur often worked late, leaving Margaret to stroll with Annie, feed her, and even manage a decent dinner.
Annie was the spitting image of her grandmothercheeky, bright, and never a sickly spell in sight. When Annie turned four, Ethel enrolled her in the local nursery, reasoning that the little one needed to socialise.
Then the relationship between mother and daughter soured. Arthur was perpetually irritable, and Ethel complained that arguments with him often stemmed from Margarets meddling. The grandparents dote on Annie, and the child began to cling more to them than to her mother. One evening, Margaret heard Ethels sharp words:
Mum, we dont need you any more. Go back home. Annies in nursery, the mortgage is paid, the flat is cramped, and youll be better off on your own.
Margaret felt as though she might die on the spot. She never imagined shed hear such cruelty from her own flesh and blood. She shoved a few belongings into a bag, caught the bus, and tried not to weep. Annie clutched her sleeve, asking to be taken for a walk.
Arthur drove her to the bus station, didnt even say goodbye. He barely left the kitchen, though the house smelled of his cooking. Margarets heart ached, but she refused to let Annie see her cry.
Outside, rain began to fall, making the chill bite even harder. As she trudged home, a rough voice shouted something indecipherable. Her neighbour, Penelope Green, burst in, waving a dishcloth.
Oh, Margaret! I thought youd gone and let someone loot the place. Goodness, what are you doing sitting in the dark? Come on, get up, were having tea. My niece Nadines frying crumpets, and its been ages since weve seen each other.
Penelope practically hauled Margaret by the arm, chattering away:
My grandchildren are at school, doing brilliantly. Your cow gave us a heifer this year; weve kept her for the farm. Youll have to see how gorgeous she isdont sell her, you could keep her for yourself.
The kids greeted Margaret as if she were family. They brought over her cat, Whiskers, who promptly began purring and recognised his old owner. Margaret felt tears of joy well up; finally, someone wanted her around and shared stories of village life, laughter ringing through the kitchen.
After dinner, Penelopes son, Tom, said:
Weve got plenty of room, Aunt Margaret. Stay as long as you like; dont even think about leaving. Ill fix the roof, bring firewood, and tidy the stove. If you ever want to move back, youre welcome, or you might just decide to stay for good.
The slight, weary old woman smiled, feeling a warmth she hadnt known in years. Humanity, she realized, could still be kind.
And so life went on in Hawthorn, a little village where Margaret finally found a place to belong.
