There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val struggled to unlatch the garden gate, tottered up to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock for ages, then finally entered her chilly, unheated cottage and sank onto a rickety chair beside the cold stove. The house smelled empty and unlived in. Although she’d only been away for three months, cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the antique chair let out a mournful creak, and the wind whistled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her with a grumpy, “Where’ve you been, mistress? Who’d you leave me with? How are we supposed to get through winter like this?” “Just a minute now, my dear,” she murmured, “let me catch my breath… I’ll light the stove, we’ll warm up…” Just last year, Granny Val bustled briskly about her old place: whitewashing, painting, fetching water. Her tiny, sprightly figure would bow before the icons, then take charge of the stove, then whirl through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house rejoiced with her—the floors creaked with her lively steps, doors and windows eagerly swung open at the gentle press of her work-worn hands, and the oven baked splendid pies. They belonged together: Val and her timeworn cottage. She buried her husband early. Raised three children, educated each one, set them up in life. One son was a sea captain; the other, a colonel in the army—both living far away and rarely visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village, now the chief agronomist—but she worked all hours, visiting her mother only on Sundays with a soul-restoring pie, then away again for another week. Her consolation was her granddaughter, little Svetlana, who had practically grown up at Granny’s side. And goodness, how lovely she’d become—with big grey eyes, waist-length golden hair that shone even on cloudy days, and a willowy figure. Wherever did a village girl get such poise, such beauty? Granny Val herself had once been a looker, but comparing an old photo to Svetlana’s—well, it was shepherdess and queen… And clever, too: Svetlana finished university in a nearby city and returned home as an agricultural economist, married a local vet, and thanks to a scheme for young families, they were given a brand-new brick house—a real showstopper for those parts. The only thing missing was a garden—at Granny Val’s there was riotous colour and growth, but at Svetlana’s, just three timid green shoots. Svetlana, gentle by nature and always coddled by Granny against draughts and hard chores, wasn’t one for growing things. And then baby Vasya came along—no time for gardens now. So Svetlana invited her grandmother to move in: “Come on, Granny, live with us—it’s a big, comfortable house, no need to light the stove.” When Granny Val turned eighty, her sturdy legs suddenly refused to cooperate, and at last—reluctantly—she agreed. But after just a couple of months, she overheard: “Granny, you know I love you so much! But why do you just sit around? You’ve always been so active, always working, and now you’ve settled in—see, I wanted to start a little farm and was counting on your help…” “But I can’t, my dear, my legs just don’t work anymore… I’m getting old…” “Hmph… Funny how you got old the moment you moved in with me…” And so, not living up to expectations, Granny Val was quietly packed off back to her own place. Upset at not being able to help her beloved granddaughter, she soon took to her bed. Her worn-out legs barely moved anymore: getting from her bed to the table was a feat; making it to her beloved church? Impossible. Father Boris visited his loyal parishioner—once such an energetic helper at the old church. He surveyed the cold, draughty cottage. Granny Val sat at the table, laboriously penning her usual monthly letters to her sons. It was chilly—the stove barely warm, the floor icy. Even her best jumper and a scruffy old headscarf couldn’t keep her, once the tidiest of housekeepers, comfortable. Father Boris sighed: She needs help. But whom to ask? Maybe Anna, who lived nearby and was still hearty—twenty years younger than Val. He got bread, ginger cakes, and half a hot fish pie (a kind gesture from his wife Alexandra), then rolled up his sleeves, cleared the old ashes, chopped and carried in wood for several stoves, stoked the fire, fetched water, and set a big blackened kettle to boil. “Dear boy—oh, I mean, dear Father, please help me with the addresses for the envelopes. My handwriting’s so wonky it’ll never get there otherwise!” Father Boris glanced at the shaky scrawl—big, wobbly letters: “I’m doing very well, darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!” But the letters about Granny Val’s “good life” were all blurry with ink—and, it seemed, with salty tears. Anna came to look after her, Father Boris checked on her often, and for big church holidays, Anna’s husband Uncle Pete, an old sailor, would bring Granny Val to church on his motorbike. Life gradually brightened. Her granddaughter stopped visiting, and before long fell gravely ill. Svetlana, always plagued by stomach pains, put it down to an old complaint—it turned out to be lung cancer. She passed away in just six months. Her husband, devastated, all but lived at her grave, drinking day and night. Four-year-old Vasya was left dirty, hungry, and neglected. Tamara took him in, but busy as she was, she couldn’t look after her grandson—and Vasya was soon lined up for the local children’s care home. It was well run, with a lively headmaster, proper food, even home visits at weekends—but nothing like family. One day, in Uncle Pete’s battered old “Ural” bike with a sidecar, Granny Val appeared at Tamara’s. Uncle Pete, barrel-chested and tattooed all over with anchors and mermaids, looked ready for a fight. Granny Val announced briefly: “I’m taking Vasya to live with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk! How can you handle a little one? He’ll need feeding, washing…” “As long as I live, Vasya won’t be sent to a home,” Granny Val declared. Astonished by her usually gentle mother’s determination, Tamara fell silent and started packing Vasya’s things. Uncle Pete delivered them both back to the little cottage, nearly carrying them inside himself. Nosy neighbours shook their heads: “Lovely old dear, bless her, but she must’ve lost her marbles—she can’t care for herself, never mind a child! He needs so much attention… What’s Tamara thinking?” After Sunday service, Father Boris braced himself for the worst: would he have to remove poor, hungry Vasya from a weak, ailing old lady? Instead, he entered a warm, welcoming cottage. Vasya, clean and content, listened to a scratchy old record of “The Gingerbread Man.” And that frail old lady? She was flitting around the kitchen, greasing baking trays, kneading dough, mixing eggs into cheese. Her tired old legs were suddenly working just like they used to. “Dear Father! I’m just making cheese buns… Wait a tick—hot ones for Alexandra and little Koozie…” Father Boris went home still reeling and told his wife what he’d seen. Alexandra paused, fetched a thick blue notebook from the bookcase, found a marked page, and read aloud: “Old Mrs. Egorova had lived her long life. Everything had passed by, flown away—hopes, dreams, all asleep beneath the snowy drifts. It was time to go where there’s no pain, no sorrow, no sighing… One February evening, Egorova prayed long before her icons, then lay down and said to her family, ‘Call the priest—I’m ready to pass.’ Her face became pale as the snow. The priest came, she made her confession, took communion, and lay for a whole day—taking neither food nor water. Only her faint breath showed a soul not yet departed. Suddenly, the front door burst open—a gust of cold air, a baby’s wail. ‘Hush now, Granny’s dying here.’ ‘I can hardly stop a baby—she’s just been born!’ Grand-daughter Nastya had come home from hospital with her newborn, and, all alone, felt helpless—her milk hadn’t come, she didn’t know how to soothe the baby, who screamed, disturbing dying Egorova. Somehow Egorova roused herself, sat up, put pale feet on the floor, and groped for her slippers. Hours later, when the family returned—expecting a death—they found Egorova brisk, alive, pacing the room with the now-contented baby, while the exhausted young mother recovered nearby.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and said: “That was my great-grandmother, Vera Egorovna. She loved me so fiercely, she simply refused to die, saying, as the song goes: ‘Oh, it’s much too soon for me to go—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived for ten more years after that, helping my mother, and raising me, her favourite great-grandchild.” And Father Boris smiled back at his wife.

Theres always still plenty to be done at home, isnt there

Old Mary Jones fumbled with the creaky gate, limped her way to the front door, and wrestled for ages with the rusty old lock. She finally stepped into her chilly, empty cottage and sat herself down by the cold hearth. The place smelled stale and unlived-in.

Mary had only been gone three months, but that was enough for cobwebs to swallow up the corners and for the antique chair to groan at her weight. The wind moaned down the chimney, and it almost felt like the house was cross with her: where have you been, my dear? Who did you leave me to? How are we meant to get through the winter now?

I know, I know, give me a moment, love. Let me catch my breath. Ill light a fire, well warm up in no time

Only a year ago, Mary was bustling about the old place: scrubbing, painting, fetching water. You couldnt keep her still. One moment, shed be bowing before the family photos on the mantel, the next, shed be fussing over the Aga, or flitting round the garden, planting, weeding, wateringalways a job to do.

The house used to share in her joy, floorboards creaking cheerily beneath her quick steps. Doors and windows would swing open at her touch, and the oven would turn out golden pies faster than you could ask for them. Mary and that old cottage were a perfect pair.

Shed lost her husband too young, but brought up her three children all the same, made sure they had a proper education, and got them all out into the world. Her eldest son, David, was a captain of a merchant ship and lived somewhere up north. The second, Peter, was a colonel in the Army and based out east; both busy lives, both rarely got home.

Only the youngest, her daughter Grace, had stayed in the villageshed become the chief agronomist, always busy, dashing in now and then on a Sunday. Shed sit with her mum, have a slice of pie and a cuppa, pour out her heart, then off again for another week.

Marys greatest comfort had been her granddaughter, Daisy. Daisy had practically grown up at her grandmothers apron-strings.

And Daisywell, what a beauty she turned out to be! Striking, with those big, storm-grey eyes and a thick tumble of honey-blonde hair reaching halfway down her back. Whenever she tied it up, golden curls would spill over her shoulders and you could see the village lads just gawping, completely lost for words. She had a real air about her for a country girl.

Mary herself had been a pretty woman in her youth, but you put her faded photograph next to Daisys and youd think you were looking at a shepherdess next to a queen.

Daisy was clever tooshed gone away to study agricultural economics at the uni in Bath, and then come back home to work. She married Tom, the local vet, and thanks to a government scheme for young families, they moved into a brand new brick housea proper detached one, not just your average home.

The only catch was, Marys old cottage boasted a glorious garden bursting with roses, rhubarb and snapdragons, while Daisys new place had nothing but three lonely saplings. And gardening, honestly, wasnt Daisys strong suit. She might be a country girl at heart, but she was gentleher gran always shielded her from drafts and hard work.

Then her little boy, Henry, was born, and there really was no time to bother with gardens anymore.

So Daisy started urging her gran to move in: Gran, come live with us. Weve got all mod consno more firing up the range. Mary was slowing down, with her eightieth birthday rolling round, and somehow her legs started giving out just around then, as if her age had been waiting for the perfect moment. At last, she gave in and moved in with Daisy.

It lasted a couple of months. And then she overheard Daisy saying, Oh Gran, you know I love you! But why do you just sit around? Youve always been on the goall your life! I need a bit of help with the house, especially with baby Henry

I would help you, love, but my legs just arent what they used to be. Im not up to it anymore

Funny that, Daisy shrugged. Soon as you moved in, you started acting old

Before long, dismissed as past it, Mary was bundled back to her little house.

The shame of it allof letting Daisy down, of not being able to helpleft Mary bedbound. Her legs barely shambled across the floor, and popping to the table or the church turned into a mighty ordeal.

Reverend William, her old friend from St. Michaels, came by himself to see his favourite parish helper. He took stock.

Mary sat at her scarred table, writing her regular letters to her sons. The place was coldthe old hearth wasnt doing muchand she was bundled in her thickest, but well-worn, cardigan, a not-so-fresh headscarf and battered slippers. It hit Rev. William that she could do with a bit of help. Maybe Anne, from the next laneshe was still sturdy, a good twenty years younger than Mary.

He brought some brown bread, ginger biscuits, and half a big, still-warm fish piea nod from his Alice. Then he rolled up his sleeves, cleared the ashes, toted in a few loads of logs, lit the fire, set the kettle on.

My dear boy! Ohsorrymy dear Reverend! Can you help me with the addresses on these? My handwritings so shaky now, I doubt the post would have a clue where to take them!

He sat, wrote out the addresses, and glanced over her lettersbig, wobbly writing, all saying, Oh, Im doing just splendidly, dearest. I want for nothing, thank God! But the smudges on the paper told a different, tear-stained tale.

Anne started helping her, and Rev. William kept up his visits. On big holidays, Annes husband Joe, a retired sailor, would fetch Mary to church on his old motorbike. Life sort of settled into a rhythm.

But Daisy didnt visit. Then, a couple of years on, Daisy fell seriously ill. Shed had a tricky stomach for a while, blamed her aches on that, but it turned out to be lung cancer. Nobody knew why hershe faded away in just half a year.

Her husband was devastated, practically moved to her gravedrinking through the days, sleeping amongst the headstones, stumbling off for more bottles. Little Henry, only four, was left grubby, unkempt, and hungry.

Grace took him in, but work was never-ending, and she simply didnt have the time. They started making arrangements to put Henry in the county care home, which at least was run by a lively headmistress and gave the kids good meals. Theyd take them home at weekends if they wanted, but well, it wasnt exactly a family upbringing. Grace, though, had no other choiceshe was run ragged, and retirement seemed a distant hope.

Just then, up turned Old Mary, riding in the sidecar of Joes ancient Triumph. Joesolid as ever, tattoos showing beneath his striped vestlooked like a seaside tough. Mary announced simply:

Im taking Henry home with me.

Ma, you can barely walk! How will you manage with a small child? Hell need proper meals, clean clothes

So long as Im alive, Henrys not going into care, Mary said firmly.

Stunned by this steel from their normally meek Mary, Grace nodded silently and packed Henrys things.

Joe delivered the pair to Marys old cottage, practically carrying them through the door. The neighbours muttered behind the nets: Lovely old dear, but she must be off her rockershe cant look after herself, let alone a child Hes not a puppy, he needs real looking after Whats Grace thinking!

After Sunday service, Rev. William headed over with a heavy heart, ready to discover chaos and neglect.

The cottage was warm, fire crackling, and a bright-eyed, neat little Henry sat on the sofa listening to Jack and the Beanstalk on an antique gramophone. Frail old Mary? She was gliding around the kitchen, dabbing pastry with a feather, kneading dough, cracking eggs into the curd. And her tricky legssomehow, theyd found life again.

Oh, Vicar! Im just making some cheese pastries hang on a minuteyou and Alice and little Samll have a treat to take home in a tick

Rev. William left for home, still stunned, and recounted the scene to his wife.

Alice thought for a moment, then got out her thick blue journal, flipped through and found just the page she wanted:

Old Mrs. Evans had lived her long life; all her hopes, dreams, and worries seemed to sleep under the soft white snow outside her window. It was time, she said, to meet her Makerno more pain, no sadness, no sighing. One snowstormy February evening, Mrs. Evans spent a long time in prayer, then told her family, Fetch the vicar, Im off soon.

Her face turned white as the drifts beyond the glass. The family summoned the priest, she confessed, took communion, and then lay a day and a night without food or water, breathing so softly her family could barely tell she was alive.

Suddenly, the front door banged opena whoosh of cold air, a babys wail.

Hush, weve an old lady dying here.

I cant hush a newborn! said her granddaughter Mary, whod just come back from hospital with her tiny red-faced daughter. In the morning, the house was empty except for the dying old woman and the new, tired mother. Marys milk hadnt come in, the baby screamed, and the noise made it impossible for Mrs. Evans to focus on dying.

But then, the old lady lifted her head, looked about, mustered all her strength, put her feet to the floor and felt about for her slippers. When her family rushed back home, expecting to find her gone, there she wasalive as ever, pacing the room with the now-burping, contented baby, while the weary young mum napped in peace.

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

My great-grandmother, Vera Evans, adored me. She just couldnt allow herself to leave this worldshe used to hum, Its not my turn to go, theres still so much to do at home! And she lived for another ten years, helping Mum and me, her favourite great-granddaughter.

And Rev. William smiled back at his wife.