There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val Struggled to Open the Garden Gate, Slowly Shuffled to the Door, Fumbled with the Old Rusty Lock, and Stepped into Her Cold, Untended Cottage, Sitting Down by the Lifeless Hearth It Smelled of Emptiness, Though She’d Only Been Away Three Months—Cobwebs Hung from the Ceilings, the Antique Chair Creaked in Protest, and the Wind Howled in the Chimney, As if the Cottage Was Scolding Her: “Where Have You Been, Mistress? Whom Did You Leave Me With? How Are We Supposed to Survive the Winter Now?!” “Hold on, my dear, just a moment—let me catch my breath… I’ll light the fire soon, we’ll get warm…” Just a Year Ago, Granny Val Bustled Around Her Old Cottage, Whitewashing, Painting, Hauling Water—Her Petite, Spry Figure Bowing Before Icons, Busy at the Hearth, Flitting Through the Orchard Where She Was Forever Sowing, Weeding, and Watering The Cottage Loved Its Mistress Back—Floors Creaked Joyfully, Windows and Doors Flung Open at Her Touch, the Oven Baked Pies as if Cheered On by Her Presence: It Was Good, Val and Her Old Cottage Together Widowed Early, She Raised Three Children—One a Merchant Navy Captain, Another a Military Colonel, Both Living Far from Home, Rarely Visiting Only Her Youngest, Tamara, Stayed in the Village, Chief Agronomist, Always at Work; She’d Pop In on Sundays, Fill the House with Pies and Laughter—Then Another Week Apart Her Comfort Was Her Granddaughter, Sweet Svetlana, Who Truly Was Raised by Granny’s Hands And What a Beauty She Became! Tall and Proud, With Grey Eyes and Thick Fair Hair Flowing Past Her Waist—Village Boys Were Spellbound Whenever She Walked By, Her Elegance Remarkable for a Country Girl Granny Val Was a Looker in Her Own Youth, But Comparing Old Photos to Svetlana’s Grace—It Was Shepherdess to Queen Smart as Well; She Finished Agricultural College in the City, Returned to Work in the Family Village as an Economist, Married the Local Vet, and the Young Couple Was Given a New Brick House—A Proper Little Manor for Those Times But While Granny’s Cottage Was Surrounded by a Lush Garden, Svetlana’s New Place Had Little More Than Three Lonely Stalks—She Was Not Made for Gardening, Cocooned by Granny from Every Draught and Chore Then Came Her Own Little Boy, Vanya—No Time for Gardens Now Svetlana Begged Granny to Move In: “Come live with us, it’s warm, spacious, no need to stoke a fire…” When Granny Turned Eighty, Her Health Faltered—Her Lively Legs Refused Their Duty; She Finally Agreed to Move But After a Few Months, She Overheard Svetlana: “Granny, I love you, but you just sit! You’ve always worked, and now you rest while I manage everything—I hoped you’d help…” “But, sweetheart, I can’t anymore… my legs won’t carry me…” “Hmph… Funny how you aged as soon as you moved in…” Soon After, Granny Was Sent Back to Her Cottage—Her Failure to Help Weighing Heavy on Her Spirit Her Steps Grew Feeble, Crossing from Bed to Table Became a Feat, Her Beloved Church Now Out of Reach Father Bernard, Their Vicar, Came to Visit His Once-Energetic Parishioner—He Found Her Bundled in a Worn Cardigan and Scarf, Writing Letters to Her Sons: “I’m doing ever so well, my dearest boy—everything’s grand, thank God!” Yet the Pages Were Blotched with What Could Only Be Tears Father Bernard Drafted the Neighbour, Anna, to Look After Her; Anna’s Husband, Old Sailor Uncle Pete, Would Bring Granny to Church by Sidecar When He Could Meanwhile, Svetlana Fell Ill—She’d Long Blamed Her Stomach, But It Turned Out to Be Cancer. In Six Months, She Was Gone Her Husband, Lost in Grief, Took to Drinking at Her Grave, Little Vanya Left Dirty and Alone Tamara Took the Boy In, But Her Agronomist Duties Left No Time for Childcare—So Vanya Was Sent to Boarding School Determined Not to Let Her Great-Grandson Go, Granny Val Arrived with Uncle Pete’s Help: “I’ll take Vanya myself—he won’t go to a home while I live.” Neighbours Judged Her, Wondering If She’d Lost Her Mind—How Could an Old Woman Care for a Young Boy? Father Bernard Braced for the Worst—But Found the Cottage Warm and Clean, Vanya Listening to Fairy Tales, and Granny Dancing Around the Kitchen, Baking Treats for the Vicar’s Family Later, Father Bernard Told His Wife, Alexandra, Who Pulled Out Her Old Blue Journal, and Read the Story of Her Own Great-Grandmother—Who On Her Deathbed, Hearing Her Newborn Great-Grandchild Cry, Got Up, Soothed the Baby, and Decided She Simply Couldn’t Die Just Yet As the Old Song Goes: “It’s Far Too Soon for Us to Pass—There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home!” His Wife Concluded, Smiling: “My Great-Granny Vera Loved Me Too Much to Go. She Lived Another Ten Years, Helping My Mother Raise Me—Her Beloved Great-Granddaughter.” Father Bernard Smiled Back—For Clearly, There Will Always Be Work to Be Done at Home

Theres always work to be done at home…

Granny Edith fumbled with the squeaky old gate, shuffled wearily to the front door, wrangled for ages with the rusty lock, and stepped into her chilly, unlived-in cottage. She sank onto the nearest wooden chair beside her cold, long-forgotten hearth.

The air hung with the scent of emptiness.

Shed only been gone three months, yet in that time the ceilings had grown thick with cobwebs, the ancient chair creaked in protest, the wind moaned through the chimneyher house greeted her with a sulk: Where have you wandered off to, mistress? Who did you leave us with? How will we survive the winter?

“Just a moment, my dear old thing, just you wait,” panted Granny Edith, catching her breath. “Ill get the fire going soonwell warm up together…”

Only a year before, Edith had darted around her cottage, freshening the limewash, touching up faded paint, lugging buckets of water indoors. Her tiny, sprightly frame drifted about: bowing before the shelf of family photos, bustling at the cooker, flitting out to the gardenplanting, weeding, watering.

And the house rejoiced with herfloorboards merrily creaked beneath her brisk steps, doors and sash windows flung wide for her hard-practised hands, the old range eagerly baked golden tarts. Life was good for Granny Edith and her beloved old home.

She lost her husband young. Raised three childreneducated them, made them proper people. One son, a ships captain, the other a colonel in the armyboth settled far off, only rare visits now and then.

Only her youngest, Judith, stayed in the village, working as the chief agronomist, out from dawn till dusk. Shed pop round to her mothers on Sundays, share some fresh pies, comfort each others soulsthen vanish for another week.

Ediths greatest joy, though, was her granddaughter, Lucy. To be honest, that girl grew up at her grandmothers feet.

And what a beauty she was! Striking grey eyes, a tumble of golden curls down her backhair like sun-ripened oats, thick and glossy, almost shining. Sweep her hair into a ponytailunruly locks would cascade around her shoulders, rendering the local lads entirely tongue-tied. Their jaws would drop, I tell you. Such a lovely figure, too. How did a country girl end up with such poise, such grace?

Edith herself had been considered decent-looking in her youth, but any old photo would showshe was the shepherdess, and Lucy was the queen.

Bright girl, too. Graduated in agricultural economics from the city, came back home to work. Married a local vet, and through the young families social scheme, they received a new homea proper brick house, the envy of the neighbourhood in those days.

Of course, Granny Edith’s cottage looked out over a blooming garden, everything sprouting and flowering, while Lucys new home had only managed a few stunted plants so far. If truth be told, Lucy wasnt much for gardeningnot for want of trying, but Edith always shielded her from draughts and hard labour. Then along came little Charlie. There was simply no time to fuss with gardens.

Soon, Lucy began inviting Granny Edith to live with her. “Come on, Gran, move in! The house is big, all the mod consyou neednt light a fire every day.”

But Ediths health faltered as she turned eighty. Her legs, once so nimble, now faltered. She finally yielded and moved in with Lucy for a couple of months. It wasnt long, though, before she heard:

“Oh, Gran, you know I love you so much! But why are you always sitting? Youve worked your whole life, always on your feet! And now, you just sit there? Ive plans for a proper gardenI was hoping for your help…”

“But I cant, darling, my legs just dont work the same… Im not young, you know…”

“Hmm… Funny, you werent old until you came here…”

It didnt take long before Granny Edith, feeling shed let her granddaughter down, was sent home to her lonely cottage.

The disappointment hit her hard. Not being able to help, not being neededshe ended up bedridden. Her feet barely scraped the floor, tired out after a lifetimes work. Venturing from her bed to the table became a mammoth task, and making it to her cherished village church was out of the question.

Father George, the old vicar, paid her a visit. Edith had always been the most devoted helper at church until her illness. He glanced around with concern.

Granny Edith sat at the table scribbling her usual monthly letters to her sons.

The cottage was chillythe stove barely lit. The floorboards freezing. Even under her thickest old cardigan and a slightly grubby scarf (a shock for such a fastidious woman!), with scuffed slippers on her weary feet, she looked fragile.

Father George sighedEdith needed a hand. Who could help? Maybe Mary down the laneshe was still robust, a couple of decades younger than Edith.

He unpacked bread, ginger biscuits, and half a still-warm fish pie (a gift from Mrs Alexandra, his wife). Rolling up his sleeves, Father George swept the ashes from the stove, brought in an armful of logs, lit the fire, filled the battered kettle and set it on to boil.

Oh, my dear boy!excuse me, our dearest Father! Help me with these envelopes, will you? My handwritings a scrawl these daysthe letters wont get far if Im not careful!

Father George sat, penned the addresses, and glanced at her trembling script. In shaky, oversized letters: “I am keeping very well, darling son. I have all I need, thank God!”

Yet the paper was spattered with smudgestears, from the looks of things.

Mary took charge of Ediths care, Father George tried to visit and give her communion regularly, and on big feast days, Marys husband Peter (a retired sailor) would bundle Granny Edith onto his old motorbike and whisk her to church. Gradually, things looked up.

Lucy, the granddaughter, stopped visiting, and then, after a couple years, fell ill herself. Shed long complained about stomach pains, chalking them up to old troubles.

Turned outlung cancer. Nobody knows how or whybut within half a year, Lucy faded away.

Her husband practically took up residence at the graveyardsleeping off drink, waking to fetch more. Their son, little Charlie, now four, was left scruffy and hungryno one seemed to want him.

Judith, Ediths daughter, took him in, but her demanding job offered her little time for a grandson. Charlie was about to be placed in the local childrens home.

It was a reputable place: the headmaster kept things lively, proper meals were served, and the kids could go home for weekends.

But it wasnt a proper home, and Judith was stuck: she had to work late, and retirement was far off.

So one day, Peter the neighbour pulled up by Judiths with Edith in his old sidecarPeter in his striped sailors vest, anchor tattoos peeking out. They made a comical pair.

Edith announced, firmly: “I’ll take Charlie to live with me.”

“Mum, you can hardly walk yourself! How will you cope? He needs someone to cook, to wash his clothes!”

“As long as Ive breath in me, I will not send Charlie to a home,” Edith declared.

Startled by her usually gentle mothers resolve, Judith fell silent and set about packing Charlies things.

Peter ferried both old and young back to the cottage, hauling them inside. Neighbours clucked their tongues.

“Kind old soul, but mustve lost her wits in old ageneeds looking after herself, now taking in a child! Not a kitten, is he? Hell need proper care! Whats Judith thinking?”

After Sunday service, Father George made his way to Ediths, worried hed find little Charlie underfed and neglected.

Instead, the house was cozily warm, the stove blazing. Charlie, clean and rosy, lay on the sofa listening to a recordThe Gingerbread Man fairy tale. And Edith, supposedly frail, fluttered about briskly: basting a baking dish, kneading dough, cracking eggs for a cheesecake. Her legs, once so feeble, now moved lively and quickas before her illness.

“Oh, dear Father! Im just making some cheese bunshold on a tick, Ill have a hot treat for Mrs Alexandra and little Harry soon…”

Father George returned home, still reeling with delight, and told his wife what hed seen.

Mrs Alexandra listened, thoughtful, then reached for a thick blue notebook, leafed through, and found the page she wanted:

“Old Mrs Whitfield had lived a long life. It all passed byhopes, dreams, feelingseverything now sleeps beneath the silent, snowy garden. Time, time to head where theres no pain, no sorrow, no regrets… One gusty February evening, Mrs Whitfield prayed a long while before her photo shelf, then settled in bed and said, Fetch the vicarIm about to go.

Her face turned as white as the drifts outside.

The family fetched the vicar, she took communion, and then lay for a day, refusing food and water, barely breathingher soul hesitating in that shrunken old shell.

Then, a sudden flurry at the front doorcold air and the cry of a newborn.

Quiet please, Grans dying in here!

Well, thats not much use with a newborn, said her granddaughter Lucy, cradling her tiny daughter, just home from hospital. With everyone off at work, the dying granny and the new mother were left alone. Lucy, milk slow to come, was exhausted, and the baby wailed endlesslythe noise putting a halt to Mrs Whitfields departure.

Suddenly, the old lady lifted her head, her vague gaze sharpening. She shuffled to the edge of the bed, sought out her slippers with skinny bare feet, and heaved herself up.

When the family returned, anxiously expecting to find her last breath spent, they found Granny Whitfield not only alive, but pacing about the room, rocking the now-silent, content bundle, while her granddaughter took a much-needed nap on the sofa.”

Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband and finished:

“My great-grandmother, Vera Whitfield, loved me too much to let herself die. As the old song goes: ‘Its too soon for us to gotheres still work to be done at home!’ She lived another ten years after that, helping my mother (and your own dear mother-in-law) to bring me up, her cherished great-granddaughter.”

And Father George grinned back at his wife.