A Daughter Fades, A Mother Flourishes
Autumn in Littleford this year is harsh and damp. Rain rattles the windows of the local clinic from dawn, as if begging to come in and find warmth. I sit here sorting medical records, feeling unsettled, though, truth be told, nothing much is wrongno serious illnessesbut anxiety lingers, buzzing like midges before a storm.
The door creaks open, strained and heavy. Margaret Statham stands at the threshold.
Ah, Margaretfifty-odd years old and looking more weathered than anyone deserves. Her grey scarf is skewed, and her coat hangs off her thin shoulders as if draped on a hanger. Under her eyes, shadows gather as though they’ve been smeared there. And her handsred and swollen from icy water, trembling, fussing with her coat buttons.
Mary, she whispers, voice rough and tight. Could you spare me some drops? My hearts racing, thumping up in my throat. And for Mum maybe some valerian. Shes had another attack, we were up all night.
I glance at her over my glasses, a chill inside. She looks as if life has almost slipped from her, standing here with barely a spark, like water at the bottom of a dried-up well.
Come, sit, I tell her, pulling out the blood pressure monitor. Youre wearing yourself thin, my dear. You havent a bit of colour left.
No time, Mary, she leans against the door frame, not bothering to sit. Mums alone. What if she wants water, what if her blood pressure jumps? Ill run, just give me the medicine.
I hand her the bottles. She snatches them with stiff fingers and is gone. A draft trails cold round my ankles. Through the window, I watch her stooped and wading through mud toward her cottage, wondering, Dear Lord, why such a fate for her? Its not a mother shes tendingits a millstone round her neck.
Edith Statham was a striking woman onceloud, spent her life at the parish council bossing everyone about. The moment she retired, she fell ill.
My legs have gone, shed holler. My hearts stopped.
Ten years bedridden. Ten years Margaret whirls around her, devoted as ivy.
Next day, I cant resist. I pull on my coat and head across to them, claiming to check in. Inside, its spotlessrugs crisp, not a hint of illness, but the smell of pies and braised cabbage.
Edith sits high on her bed, like a queen. Cushions pile up behind her. Her face rosy, smooth, not a single stray wrinkle, eyes bright and sharp.
Ah, Mary, she bellows. Made it at last, did you? Can’t expect help from that useless girl she jerks her head towards the kitchen. I tell her: Margaret, theres a burning in my chest, and what does she do? Mum, let me finish milking the cow. Cares more for the cow than her own mother!
Margaret, meanwhile, hauls a heavy enamel bucket. Her legs give, back arches. She sets it down, kneels, and starts scrubbing the floors. Quietly. All you hear is her whistling breath.
Edith, I say, stern. You could show your daughter some compassion. Shes grown transparent.
Compassion? Edith rises up, indignant. Whod give me compassion? I raised her, lost sleep for her, and now what? I cant even beg a glass of water! This is my cross, Mary, this blasted illness. Shes the daughter, its her duty.
Looking at Edith, I seeshes strong enough for three men. Her illness is simply self-love gone wild. She drains life from Margaret, much like a spider from its prey. And she believes it, so thoroughly everyone else does too.
Margaret keeps her head down, only her rag scouring the boards. Swish, swish. The sound haunts me, echoing with hopelessness.
A month passes. Winters at the door, first snow fallssharp, bitter.
I sit at home with tea and biscuits, when a bang at the window rattles the glass.
Outside stands young Tom, the neighbours lad, eyes wide.
Mary! Quick! Aunt Margarets collapsed! Out by the well! She cant get up!
I dont remember runningmy old legs flew. When I arrive, Margaret lies on frozen ground, buckets toppled, water spilled, freezing. Her face pale as snow, lips blue.
With help from the men, we carry her inside.
From the bedroom, Edith shouts:
Whats all that noise?! Margaret! Where are you wandering? My hot water bottles gone cold!
I bend to Margaret, check her pulseits a thread, barely moving. We call an ambulance; they rush her to the hospital. Heart attack. Severe.
Edith is left alone.
I visit her room; she blinks.
Wheres Margaret? Wholl bring me my commode? Wholl cook my porridge?
Margarets in hospital, I say sharply, losing patience. Youve brought her to this, Edith. Shes dying.
Youre lying! she shrieks. Shes doing this on purpose! Wants to escape me! Abandon her helpless mother! Selfish cow!
Its revolting, truly. Id spit, but my vows prevent it. I give her water, hand her a tablet, and leave. I wonderhow will you manage now?
But fates a crafty lady. The next day, the village bus arrives, and off steps LucyEdiths granddaughter, Margarets daughter.
Lucy was never liked in Littleford. Left for the city ten years back after school, never returned. They called her proud, sniffing at village folk. Margaret wept for her, wrote lettersnever answers.
And now she returns. Leather jacket, short trendy haircut, clear, tough gaze. She looks nothing like her mother or grandmother.
She comes to see me first.
Hows Mum? she asks, stiff, business-like.
Mums poorly, I reply. In intensive care. Full exhaustion. No reserves left.
Lucys lips tighten, jaw clenched.
Understood. Im going to Gran.
What happened in their cottage, the whole village speculated. Only, two days later, as I pass, I hear raised voices. Ediths shouting. I think, they must be killing the old woman. I rush in.
A pictureEdith beetroot red, waving her arms on her bed. In front, Lucy stands calm as stone, holding a bowl of soup.
I wont eat this! the grandmother howls. Its unsalted! And cold! Margaret always brought me piping hot! Wheres my daughter?!
Mums in hospital because you drove her there, Lucy replies, voice steady. And I am not Margaret. I wont salt it. Dont want it, dont eat. When hunger strikes, youll eat.
She sets the bowl on the bedside table, turns and leaves.
Water! Edith shouts after her. Bring me water, you brute! Im dying!
Lucy stops in the doorway, glances back.
Theres the jug. Theres a glass. Your hands work? Off you go.
I thought Edith might have a stroke. She hadnt lifted a glass in ten years!
Mary! she calls, spotting me. Bear witness! Shes starving me! Tormenting me!
Lucy meets my gaze, and I see pain so raw in her grey eyes, I almost break. This isn’t cruelty, ladiesits surgery. She cuts deep to let the poison drain.
For two weeks, Lucy trained her grandmother. Strictly.
I wont take out your commode. See the chair toilet? If you can sit, you can transfer over.
Change your bedding? Do it yourself. Youve got hands.
If you shout, Ill shut the door and go to the garden.
The village tittered. Shell finish the old woman off, women whispered at the pump. But I kept silent. Because I saw: Edithshe revived!
At first she nearly burst from rage. Then, hungry, she started using the spoon herself. Then, when Lucy firmly withheld water, I saw Edith standing! Slowly, grumbling, clutching the bed frame, she shuffled to the table.
A month or so later, Margaret was discharged.
Lucy brought her home by taxi. Margarets still weak, pale, but not see-through. She walks, hanging onto her daughter, scared to go in, thinking the old tirade will resume: Where have you been, lazybones, my heels itching.
They step inside. Silence.
Mothers room is empty. Bed made.
Margaret clutches her chest.
Shes dead?
No, Lucy grins. Shes in the kitchen.
There, Edith sits at the table, glasses perched, peeling potatoesherself!
Upon seeing Margaret, she puts down the knife.
A pause, ringing clear enough to hear the clock tick. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Margaret leans against the door, tears flowing.
Mum youre up
Edith looks at her, then at Lucy. Her gaze is oddnot angry, but confused, as if waking from a long sleep.
Youd get up, too, she grumbles, but the old bite is gone. With this one a sergeant in a skirt.
After a moment, she murmurs,
Sit down, Margaret. Potatoes are getting cold.
I watch them, young and old, thinking: How much energy do people waste on manipulation, these endless games of the afflicted, the unlucky? Lifes just one go, never a rough draft. Sometimes, to save someone, you shouldnt fluff their pillow, but yank it away.
Winter passed. Snow melted, carrying off that stale old existence.
May arrived. Youve not seen May in Littleford unless youve breathed in air so syrupy with wild cherry that youd eat it with a spoon; evenings are deep blue, and nightingales sing in the ravine until your soul turns inside-out.
I walk by the Stathams place one evening.
Fresh-painted gate, tulips blaze in the gardenMargarets pride.
Table is set in the yard. Samovar gleams in the golden sunset.
Three sit together.
Edith in her wheelchair (still struggles with a distance), but she holds her own cup and dips her ginger biscuit. A smart scarf with sparkles is wrapped round her shoulders.
Lucy sits nearby, laughing at something, laptop on her kneesshes a remote worker now, right here.
And Margaret Margaret roams the garden. Not rushing, not stoopedwalking gently. She strokes a young apple bough, breathes in the white blossom. Her expression is calm and clear. Wrinkles remain, sure, but her eyestheyre alive.
Margaret spots me, waves,
Mary! Come in for tea! Weve cracked open the gooseberry jamyour favourite!
I step through, the gate creaks familiar, homely. I sit with them, the tea hot and robust, smoky.
You know, Mary, Edith says suddenly, staring at the setting sun,
I used to think love meant someone fetching and carrying for you. Turns out, love is when they dont let you give up. When youre pushed to live, even when youre out of strength.
Margaret comes and hugs her shoulders. Quietly. Lucy lays her hand across her grandmothers.
We sit in that hush, with only a cricket fiddling behind the stove and a distant cow lowingthe herds coming home. Oh, what peace, thank God. It feels as though everything will be all right now.
I look round my clinic, our dusty lanes, cottages with carved trim, and knowtheres no place better than your own village, when homes are full of peace. Here, even the air heals, and the land gives strength, if you weed bitterness from your heart like youd pull nettles.
