Theres Always Work Left to Do at Home
Old Granny Edith fumbled with the latch of the rickety wooden gate, making her slow, shuffling way up the overgrown path to the cottage door. She struggled with the rusty lock for ages, frostbitten fingers aching, before finally stepping into the musty parlour of her cold, long-abandoned cottage and slumping onto the rickety chair beside the silent fireplace.
The cottage smelled of emptiness.
She had only been away three months, but in that time, spiders had spun thick cobwebs between the beams, the ancient rocking chair groaned in protest, and the wind moaned mournfully through the chimney. The old house seemed to greet her with a grumble: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How shall we see out the winter together?
Just a moment, dear house, give me a minute… Ill have the fire going soon, youll warm up… let me catch my breath first she muttered, patting the icy hearth.
A mere year earlier, Granny Edith would flit about her home with purposewashing, painting, fetching water from the old well. Her small, wiry frame would bow reverently before the parlour cross, bustle over to stoke the fire, then dart out to the garden to plant and tend her flowers and beans.
The cottage had thrived in her company: the floorboards chirped under her lively steps, doors and sashes swung willingly under her timeworn, gentle hands, and her oven baked proud golden loaves. The old house and Edith, together, were content.
Shed buried her husband young, then raised three children, sent each one out into the world, educated and ambitious. Her eldestRichardhad become a sea captain, her middle childHenrya colonel, both living far away and rarely returning to visit.
Only her youngest, Margaret, remained in the village as the head gardener on Lord Bells estate; always busy from dawn till dusk. Shed dash in on Sundays to share pie with her mother and then hurry off again for another week.
Her real solace was little Jenny, her granddaughter, whom shed truly raised as her own.
And how Jenny had grown! A real beauty! Wide, storm-grey eyes, hair the colour of ripe barley, long and shininga halo about her head. When shed toss it over her shoulder, the local boys would stand dumbstruck, jaws dangling. That graceful figurewhere did a country girl get such poise, such charm?
Granny Edith herself had once been a pretty woman, but if you placed her young photo next to Jennys, shed look a mere shepherdess in the presence of a queen.
Jenny was clever too: studied economics in London, then returned home to work for the village council. She married a vet, and thanks to a government scheme for young families, they were gifted a fine modern house.
What a place it was! Solid brickwork, slate roofa mansion by the standards of the day.
Yet Ediths world was wrapped in her orchard and flower beds, everything fragrant and alive. Jennys house had only a few spindly saplings trying to take root, and Jenny herself, for all her country upbringing, was delicate, protected always by her grandmother from draughts and hard work.
Soon little Thomas arrived, and Jenny had no time for gardens at all.
So Jenny began urging Granny Edith to come live with her: a grand, comfortable home, no worry of keeping the fire going.
Edith had just turned eighty, and as though her legs had been waiting to betray her on the hour, she found herself struggling to walkweak, uncertain. At last, she gave in and moved in with Jenny.
For a couple months things went well. Then, one evening, Jenny said:
Granny, I do love you so! But why must you always be sitting? In my memory you were always bustling about, hard-working. Now you just rest… I wanted your help with all this, to make a proper home.
But my dear, my legsthese days, I can barely move… Im old now
Hm, you only became old when you came to live here, it seems
Not long after, Jenny, disappointed, packed Edith off back to her cottage.
The heartache of failing her beloved granddaughter left Edith bedridden.
Her legs, once so restless, now crept ever slowerworn out by a lifetime of care. To reach the kitchen was a feat; to make it to her beloved parish church, impossible.
It was Father Charles who came to visit her, the kindly old vicar of the parish, whose tireless help had kept the old church standing. Edith was still at her letterswriting her monthly notes to her sons, as she always did.
The air was chilly; the fire barely crackled. Across her shoulders was the oldest, threadbare cardigan, and, on her feet, a worn pair of slippersEdith, the housekeeper famed for her pride in tidiness. Father Charles sighedshe needed company, someone to help.
Perhaps Anne from three doors down, strong as ever, a good twenty years younger than Edithmaybe shed take over.
Out came crusty bread, ginger biscuits, a slab of still-warm fish pie (a gift from Mrs. Charlotte, the vicars wife). Father Charles rolled up his cassock sleeves, cleared the fireplace of ash, brought in firewood and got the flames going again, set a blackened kettle atop the hob.
My dear boyer, I mean, dear Father, help me with these envelopes, would you? My handwritings so wobbly, the letters might never arrive!
He sat and penned the addresses, briefly glancing at the shaky, large scrawl on her paper: I am very well, my darling boy. I have everything I need, thank God!
But the paper was blotched, as if the ink had mixed with salt tears.
Anne took up kindly oversight of Edith, and Father Charles kept up his visits. On great feast days, Annes husbandUncle George, a retired sailorwould fetch Edith for church on his motorbike. Gradually, life took on a new pattern.
Jenny never visited. Then, a few years later, she fell ill herself. Shed long had trouble with her stomach, but they soon discovered it was cancer of the lungs. No one ever knew howshe faded within six months.
Her husband all but moved to the churchyarddrinking, sleeping beside her grave, waking only to buy another bottle. Little Thomas, just four, was left dirty and hungry, cared for by no one.
Margaret took him in, but so overwhelmed was she by her job as head gardener that Thomas was soon marked for the county orphanage.
The orphanage was considered decent; a strict but fair headmaster, proper meals, and children could stay home for weekends.
It wasnt a family, but there was little choice: Margaret worked late, and pension was a long way off.
Thats when, one drizzly afternoon, Granny Edith turned up at Margarets house in the sidecar of Uncle Georges rickety old motorbike, stern-faced and with her mind made up.
Ill take Thomas myself, she declared.
Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage a child? He needs looking after, clean clothes, home-cooked food
So long as I draw breath, Thomas wont go to the orphanage, Edith said firmly.
Astonished by her determination, Margaret fell silent and started packing the boys things.
Uncle George drove them both home, nearly carrying them into the cottage. Neighbours wagged their heads.
Poor dear Ediths gone soft, hasnt she? Needs looking after herself, and now she takes in a child! Thats not a puppyits a lad who needs care. Heaven help her and whats the daughter thinking!
After Sunday service, Father Charles trudged over with a heavy heart, wondering if hed find young Thomas miserable, or Edith too frail to cope.
To his surprise, the cottage was warm, the hearth blazing. Thomasclean and contentwas sprawled on the sofa, listening to the old gramophones retelling of The Gingerbread Man.
And there was Granny Edith, flitting birdlike round the kitchen: brushing a tray with goose feather, kneading dough, cracking eggs into cheeseas light on her feet as shed ever been.
Father dear! Im making cottage cheese tarts for Mrs. Charlotte and little Freddiewait a bit, theyll be warm as midsummer!
Father Charles made for home, not quite believing it, and told Charlotte what hed seen.
She fell silent a moment, then took down from the shelf a thick blue notebook, paging through until she found the memory she searched for:
Old Mrs. Evans had lived her long years, all hopes and dreams snug beneath frosty white drifts. When her time came, she called for the vicar and confessed and communed and for a day or more lay still, neither eating nor drinking, just the faint breath to say her soul had not flown yet.
Suddenly, the door openeda cold February gust and a babys wail. Shh, Mrs. Evans is dying, someone whispered. The child doesnt know better, replied her mother, whod just returned home from hospital with her newborn. Left alone for the day, the young mothers milk hadnt come in, and the babys cries rang through the cottage, keeping Mrs. Evans from her rest.
With great effort, Mrs. Evans sat up, planted bony bare feet on the floor and started searching for her slippers.
When the family hurried back, fearing the worst, they found her not only alive, but remarkably briskpacing the room, rocking the now-contented baby to sleep, while her granddaughter slumbered in peace.
She later told me, Theres work yet to dotoo soon to go while the house still needs me. And she lived another ten years, helping to raise me, her great-granddaughter, my mothers darling.
Charlotte smiled and closed the notebook.
My great-gran, Vera Evans, always said: Its too soon for me to dieIve still got things to do! She saw me grow up, and tended the family as long as she possibly could.
And Father Charles smiled back at his wife, both remembering how a living house always has work left for loving hands.
