The door didnt open right away. Margaret Thompson had just enough time to catch her breath, though the sweat on her forehead kept trickling down in unpleasant little streams, tickling her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose. From behind the door came a surprised gasp, then the click of the lock, and finally, there she washer daughter.
“Mum?! Bloody hell How on earth did you lug all these bags? And why? And why didnt you call ahead?”
Tall, tanned, with an expression of mild horrorthis was how her beloved daughter Charlotte greeted her, the daughter Margaret hadnt seen in over a year. When was the last time Charlotte had bothered to visit them, the old folks? Too busy, of course. So Margaret, nudged by a nagging worry, had braved the long journey herself.
“Just picked em up and carried em, love. Im used to it,” Margaret replied breezily to one of the questions, nodding at the bags. “Couldnt come empty-handed, could I?”
She heaved both suitcases over the threshold. Charlotte made no move to helpwhether from shock or sheer bafflement, it was hard to say. Finally, she grabbed one of the bags and dragged it aside so they could actually walk through the door.
“Good grief, whatve you got in here, a whole roast pig?”
Her voice was smooth as polished granite, and there wasnt a scrap of joy in itjust bewilderment and irritation. No hug, just a helpless glance at the second baga bloated, old-fashioned wheeled suitcase squatting in the middle of the parquet floor like some misplaced relic from another era.
Margaret took a tiny step forward. Her fingers, trembling from exertion, fidgeted with the clasp of her raincoat.
“Sorry, love Brought a few bits. Jam for our little Ben, that chutney you like. All from our garden, your dad and I grew it” Her voice wavered, guilty and breathless from her recent heroic efforts.
Charlotte sigheda deep, bottomless sound, already weary at the thought of the hassle. Her gaze flicked from the suitcase to her motherthe crumpled dress, the scarf askew, the tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.
Without waiting for an invitation, Margaret perched on the nearest white leather pouf, sitting bolt upright in that old-fashioned way, her work-worn hands folded in her lap. The trip had drained her dry. Twenty-eight hours on the train, then wrestling that clunky suitcase through the Tube, where it kept jamming in the ticket barriers.
But how could she come without it? Shed never arrived on her daughters doorstep empty-handed. Never. Especially not now, after more than a year without seeing her.
“Did you change your number?” Margaret exhaled, glancing around. “Ive been calling for four days, straight to voicemail. Your dads blood pressure shot up by day two, by day three I was a nervous wreckthought my heart would drop right out of me, imagining God knows what happening to you here” She waved a hand, brushing off the memory. “Anyway! When I still couldnt reach you on the fourth day, I thought, right, thats ittime for a ticket. Booked for three days later, still no word, were both beside ourselves, and then this slog all the way to London Whats with the phone? You cant just vanish on your elderly parents like that. Were in our seventies, remember? And Ive dragged myself all this way with bags.”
Charlotte looked away. A faint flush crept over her usually composed face. She touched her perfect ponytail, smoothing an imaginary strand.
“Its fine, Mum. Just got a new number, been busy, forgot to tell you” She said it fast, almost swallowing the last words.
“And Bens dads number wasnt working either.”
“Changed his too. We switched providers.”
Sitting on the stiff, unyielding pouf, Margaret couldnt help but admire her daughter. Charlotte Their youngest, the one theyd prayed for. After two rowdy boysa longed-for girl, their pride and joy.
Her thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the boys. The eldest, James, was over in America. Moved for work years ago. Rarely called, only on big holidays. Hed had kids there, grandkids Margaret knew only from photos on her phone. Sometimes she caught herself imagining their voices, their laughterbut her mind refused to paint them clearly. Too far away.
“Mum? Youve gone quiet. Feeling alright?” Charlottes voice snapped her out of it, sharp with concern.
“No, love, just thinking. Still recovering from the trip.” Margaret forced a weak smile. “Hows Ben? Everything peaceful?”
“Hes at football, should be back any minute. Maybe you should freshen up?”
“In a bit, love. Let me catch my breath. Fetch us some water?”
With measured, practiced steps, Charlotte disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Margaret another quiet moment for memories. The middle son, Oliver, lived up in Manchester, not far from them, but they saw him rarely. Things with his wife, Natalie, had never quite clicked. The girl was sharp-tongued, prickly. Margaret triedknitted the grandkids jumpers, baked their favourite steak pies, brought homemade preserves. But it was never enough. The jumper was the wrong style, the pie too rustic. She never argued, never made a fuss. Swallowed the slights, smiled, and prayed Oliver was happy.
But it was Charlotte who weighed heaviest on her heart. Nine years ago, theyd seen her married to Edward, a decent, hardworking lad from the next town over. Shouldve been smooth sailing, but after little Ben was born, something shifted. She came home with the baby, then, leaving him with them and her dad, bolted for Londonstudy, work, said she was suffocating in the countryside.
“So hows our Ben, then? Mustve shot up,” Margaret asked softly, sipping the water, her heart pinching with that familiar ache.
Charlottes face softened.
“Tall as anything, Mum. Proper little man now. His football coach says hes brilliant. Only”
She trailed off, turning to fiddle with a vase on the console.
“Only he still asks sometimes when were going to visit Granny Marg and Granddad Tom in the village. Specially when hes poorly or upset. Says your place smells of apples and pies, and here well, it stinks of traffic.”
Margaret closed her eyes. She remembered every night Ben, back with his mum in the city, had cried down the phone, begging to come home. He didnt do that anymore. Remembered her Tom, smoking in silence on the porch, swiping at the odd stubborn tear. Theyd poured all their simple love into that boy, and then hed been taken away like a borrowed book. And there was no explaining it to him.
“He ought to be with his mother,” Margaret had told herself more than Tom at the time. “Its only right.”
On the train, watching the blur of trees through the window, shed tried to picture Ben. What did he look like now? If he took after Edwardtall, solidhed have shot up like a weed. Tom had begged for photos. “Take loads, love, Ill be lost here on my own.” Hed have come too, but a week before her trip, hed come down with some fever. Only yesterday morning had he dragged himself up, pale but stubborn.
“Youll manage alone? I cant sit here not knowing, its eating me alive,” shed fretted, packing jars of jam.
“Course I will,” Tom had croaked, tugging the blanket higher. “You go. Just make sure our Charlottes alright. Got a feeling shes drifting for a reason.”
“Come on, Mum, up you getlets feed you!” Charlotte steered her further inside, her voice warming a fraction. “Ive got some posh ready-made soup and fancy meatballs. Ohspeak of the devil!” she added as a key turned in the lock.
The door swung open, and there stood a tousle-haired ten-year-old with a sports bag slung over his shoulder. Spotting his grandmother, he froze, eyes wide, then kicked off his trainers mid-stride and launched himself at her.
“Gran! Youre here!”
Margaret crushed him in a hug, his small frame warm and smelling of autumn air and boyish sweat. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
“Blimey, Gran, youll squeeze me to bits,” he laughed, but didnt let go, beaming up at her with a grin half-embarrassed, wholly delighted.
“Look at you! Proper grown!” she sniffled, holding him at arms length to take him in. She smoothed his messy hair, her rough palm brushing his sun-kissed face. “Big lad now. I knitted you a jumper, green with reindeer” Her voice faltered. “Probably too small now. Got it wrong again.”
“Salright, Gran, you can add to it!” he chir
