One afternoon, a woman I hadnt seen in five years turned up at my doorstep. Margaret Whitcombe. Back in Little Welling, folks called her “the Generals Wife” behind her backnot because she was married to a soldier, but for her regal bearing, her sharp gaze (keener than any surgeons scalpel), and pride enough to fence our entire village three times over. She carried herself as if she were pacing a palace hall, not trudging through muddy lanes, and never bothered with small talkjust a curt nod over her shoulder, and that was that.
Yet here she stood at the door of my clinic, barely herself. Her spine was still straight, but her eyes were hollow with despair. Her floral headscarf was pulled low, as if she wanted to hide. She shifted awkwardly, unable to cross the threshold.
“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No sense letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for paracetamol.”
She stepped inside and perched on the stool by the hearth, hands folded in her lap. Always immaculate, those handsnow they were dry, cracked, trembling faintly. She said nothing. I didnt push. I brewed her teapeppermint and elderflowerand set it before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm your soul.”
She took the cup, and her eyes glistened. No tears fellpride wouldnt allow itbut they pooled there like water in a well.
“Im all alone, Evelyn,” she finally whispered, her voice frayed. “I cant bear it. Twisted my wrist yesterdaynot broken, thank heavensbut it aches like the devil. Cant fetch wood or water. And my back hurts so much I cant breathe.”
Her complaints spilled out, murky and bitter as a spring brook. I listened, nodding, but what I really saw wasnt her present miseryit was the past. Five years ago, her house, the finest in the village, had been full of laughter. Her only son, James, tall and capable, had brought home a bride. Lucy.
A quiet slip of a girl, with trusting eyes and honey-blonde hair in a thick plait. Hands delicate but hardworking. Anyone could see why James loved her. Why Margaret didntthat baffled the whole village.
But she didnt, and that was that. From day one, Margaret picked her apart. “Sits wrong, looks wrong. Beef stews not brown enough, floors not scrubbed enough.” Lucy made jam? “Wasted sugar, wasteful girl.” Weeded the garden? “Pulled up all the nettles for soup, clumsy thing.”
James defended her at first, then gave up. A mamas boy through and through. He wavered between them like a leaf in the wind. Lucy never fought backjust grew thinner, paler. Once, I met her at the well, eyes brimming.
“Why put up with it, love?” I asked.
She smiled faintly. “Where would I go, Auntie Ev? I love him. Maybe shell soften”
She didnt. The last straw was an heirloom lace tableclothLucy washed it carelessly, and the pattern faded. Oh, the row that followed! The whole street heard.
That night, Lucy left. No fuss, no scene. By morning, James was frantic. He found her in town, they saymarried, had a daughter. Never came home. Not a call, not a letter. Like a door slammed shut.
At first, Margaret bragged. “Good riddance,” she told the neighbours. “Useless daughter-in-law, and a son whod choose a skirt over his own mother?” But she aged overnight. Her pristine house, clean as an operating theatre, echoed with loneliness.
Now, she sat before me, all her pride stripped away like onion peel. Just a frail, lonely old woman. Funny thing, karmait doesnt fly out of spite. It just comes full circle.
“Nobody needs me, Evelyn,” she murmured, a single tear escaping. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont talk nonsense,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living. Lets sort that back of yours.”
I gave her an injection, rubbed in liniment. She straightened a little.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Never thought Id see kindness again.”
She left, but my heart stayed heavy. Some ailments have no cure. Loneliness is one. The only medicine is another person.
I stewed for days, then rang James through a contact in town. My hands shook dialling. What would I say?
He answered, voice deeper, rougher. “James, its Evelyn from Little Welling. Got a minute?”
Silence. Then”Hello, Auntie Ev. Something wrong?”
“Your mothers struggling. Too proud to admit it, but shes poorly”
More silence. Then Lucys voice, soft but firm: “Let me.”
“Hello, Auntie Ev! How bad is she?”
I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Lucy listened.
“Thank you for calling,” she said firmly. “Well come Saturday. Dont tell herlet it be a surprise.”
Imagine that. Chased out, scorned, yet not an ounce of spite in her. Just mercy. Thats power, that ismercy stronger than pride.
Saturday dawned grey and damp. I checked on Margaretshe sat by the window, staring. Spotless house, but no warmth. Like a museum.
“Waiting for the milkman?” I teased.
“Waiting for death,” she muttered. But her eyes kept flicking to the lane. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.
Afternoon brought a carnot the milk van. James stepped out, broad-shouldered now. He opened the back door, and out came Lucy, holding a little girl in a pink puffer jacket, fluffy as candyfloss.
James hesitated, jaw tight. Lucy squeezed his arm, whispered something. The gate creakedrusted time shifting at last.
I didnt see inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from the chimney. Thick, hearty. By evening, golden light glowed in the windows. It looked so cosy, I smiled through tears.
Next day, I “dropped in to check her blood pressure.” The house was alivesmelling of pies and crayons. James chopped wood outside, axe ringing in the frosty air. Lucy bustled in the kitchen; by the hearth, little Rosie played with a kitten.
Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl, watchingnot glaringjust seeing. Her sons strong back through the window, Lucys deft hands, Rosies earnest face. The mask was gone. Just a tired, lined, living face.
She spotted me, smiled with her eyes. “Come in, Evelyn. Lucys baked.”
Lucy grinned. “Sit down, Auntie Ev. Teas ready.”
We drank amid warmth and chatter, no ghosts at the table. Just the crackle of the fire, the buttery scent of pastry, Rosies giggles. James sat beside his mother, laid his big hand over her bony one. She didnt pull away. Just shivered, still.
They stayed a week. Fixed the roof, stocked the woodshed, airing out years of stillness. On leaving day, Margaret stood on the step, shrunken. Rosie hugged her knees.
“Granny, will you visit us?”
Margaret broke then. She knelt, clutching the child, weeping softly as autumn rain. “Forgive me silly old fool”
Lucy embraced them both. “Well come again, Mum. Promise.”
And that, my dears, is the best medicine in the world.
