Oh, dear lady, the childs a premature wisp yet stout as a hedgerow. Do not fret, the tide will turn, for both your daughter and your grandchild.
Godgrant it, murmured Margaret as the doctors silhouette faded down the corridor. When the door shut, she whispered to herself, here comes the sorrow.
The grief had slipped into the Whitby household six moons ago, when a nosy neighbour, a chatty old woman with a penchant for peeking, drifted in for a cuppa and a slice of toast with marmalade. She dropped a careless remark:
When will you be expecting a proper bump? Have you already started stashing nappies?
What bump? snapped Margaret, bewildered.
Which one? the neighbour clucked, pointing at the little goat that had escaped the barn that week, its mouth clamped in a kitchen towel.
Perhaps youve swallowed something strange, Margaret tried to hold her ground.
Ah, but youve never known labours ache, so you pretend not to understand. Im no doctor, and this isnt my business.
That night Aunt Margaret interrogated Clara, then wept for what seemed an endless list of misfortunes: an unborn babe, a sunkissed wanderer, a vanished shepherd, and the whole male line that had faded with him. The arrival of the tiny, huskyvoiced Blythe brought no joy, only chores, bruised pride and a scorching shame. Clara showed no heat for the infant, cradling only when feeding or soothing, and nothing more. Aunt Margaret stared at her granddaughter with a blank stare, love absent from her eyes. And yet it was the fourth greatgrandchild, why celebrate? Even the daughter of her own girl bore little promise. So Blythe entered this world unloved, stumbling on wobbly legs.
A year later Clara fled to a council estate in Sheffield, hunting for a mothers peace. Blythe stayed with Aunt Margaretstill a kin, not a stranger. She required no special care, ate what was set before her, fell asleep at the appointed hour, never fell ill. The doctors words held true: Blythe was robust, yet still unloved.
Grandma Blythe lived to seven. In that span Clara had learned the trade of a housepainter, married a bloke called Charlie, and bore a son named Ollie. Then the memory of Blythe resurfaced; the girl was now a young woman, a potential aide to her mother. Clara travelled back to the village for her daughter, but Blythe, who saw her mother only twice a year, showed no gleeful welcome. Claras eyes narrowed with reproach:
Oh, Blythe, youre as cold as a stone. Others would have burst with joy, clung to me, and you just stand there like a stranger.
Seeing Blythe off, Aunt Margaret shed a single tear, felt a pang of longing for a few days, then the following Saturday the household was flooded with two new grandchildren from the elder sondear Lenora and sweet Octavia. The bustle buried Blythes memory deep in the cupboards of neglect. Though Aunt Margaret felt little sorrow for Blythe, the parting from the freshly hatched, yellowcheeked chicks drew rivers of tears.
In the council estate Blythe never quite fell in love with its grey brick, but she had no choice. She grew accustomed, made a handful of mates, and went to school. After lessons she did chores: ran for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk, peeled potatoes before her mothers return. As she grew older she escorted Ollie to nursery, and, mimicking her mother, warned a lanky boy:
Watch your step; youll feel my wrath. My strength is not enough for you! I pull my own sinews to the limit, and you give me nothing!
Charlie never heard any affectionate words from his sister, and Blythe never heard any either; she never expected them. She barely suffered, unaware that love could be any different.
She did hear the tender nicknames the other girls mums used, and her own mother called Ollie sunbeam and puss. Blythe, once Zinnia, believed she could never be a sunbeam; she was grown, unlike the everyoung Charlie.
At home Blythe wasnt coddled, but she wasnt scorned either. No loaf was withheld, no sugar lump denied. She wasnt decked in ribbons nor pampered with salty treats, yet she wasnt starving or threadbarejust unloved.
At fifteen Blythe fled the cold, alien house shed known for eight years. She secured a place at a city culinary college, dreaming of devouring enough pastries to fill a carriage. In the bustling town of Birmingham she found three other girls sharing a dormitory, each becoming her own little landlord after class.
Then she met Volodymyr, and suddenly the world burst in colour. Though November was drab and damp, the sun seemed to shine just for Blythe. The other dorm mates would pop out for a quick television flick in the redtinted corner. Volodymyr whispered strange, beautiful phrases that swirled Blythes head and took her breath away.
You are my beloved, he murmured, and Blythe, accustomed to perpetual neglect, melted in a fleeting happiness.
Soon mornings made her feel sick. She should have rushed to a doctor, but the moment slipped. By eighteen, Blythe had no proof of illness, so she grabbed a medical note and, handinhand with a suddenly wistful Volodymyr, headed to the registry office.
Thus began Blythes married life, and at the same moment her brief romance faded. The young couple moved into Volodymyrs modest terraced house. His mother and grandmother showed no particular affection for Blythe, yet they allowed her to stay on their plot. What could she do? She wasnt the first, nor would she be the last, to slip into a quiet existence. Perhaps it was for the best a child would arrive, Volodymyr would settle down.
A neighbour from the estate sighed enviously:
Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a citygirl.
Blythe could not refute him. She didnt need to broadcast that her urban life was just a label. The house sat in a suburban culdesac, comforts as sparse as a village: water drawn from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Blythe never complained; she was accustomed. She carried a bucket of water, the liquid splashing, her feet chilled. With that cold water she also drenched the unborn child she carried. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but was it Blythes fault?
Volodymyr seemed to pity her, briefly a day or two then vanished with his mates. His mother and grandmother let Blythe linger in the house, helping where they could, perhaps hoping something would click. It never did. After a while Volodymyr brought home another woman, declared he never loved Blythe, never had.
Blythe complained to her friends, wept a little, then resolved she had lived unloved all her life, so why mourn now? She packed her modest belongings, obeyed the motherinlaws command to head all four ways, and shut the door behind her on a strangers threshold.
She moved into a factory dormitory. The mess hall stood on the plants grounds, the block was near the gate, and the workers club sat just opposite. Not a life, but a berry, theyd joke. Blythe smiled, not cursed nor wilted, finally feeling a shade of content. She marched to work, to the club, to the cinema with her comrades.
She rarely visited her own mother, stepfather, or brother; they didnt wait for her, and she didnt press herself upon them. Grandmother Margaret passed when Blythe turned twentyone. She attended the funeral, glanced at the oncefamiliar spots.
Grandmother Margarets will left her modest cottage to beloved grandchildren Lenora and Octavia. Blythe held no grudge; they were the cherished berries of the old ladys garden, while she was the trimmed, unloved stem.
If Blythe had claimed the inheritance, the relatives would have torn each other apart over the modest £500. The loudest wails came from Blythes mother, Clara, who wailed that the dear Ollie was left without a bent spoon from the old woman. Wasnt he a grandchild too? Wasnt it as bad as Lenora and Octavia? In her lament, Clara forgot her eldest daughter entirely. Blythe never received a bent spoon.
Blythe tried twice to stitch a new life, courting men, but both attempts fell flat. No suitor ever escorted her to the registry office, so she never rushed there. Shed been once, that was enough.
Her personal life fizzled for the same reasons twice: one man drank and chased women, another drank and beat. Choose your poison, she thought. She was relieved she never tangled with the registry office again; otherwise, more drama would have followed. She packed her few trinkets into a cheap suitcase and returned to the public ward, where her dear friends waited.
For over a decade she roamed dormitories, growing weary of strangers beds. By then she was nearly thirty, and any widow craved a nook of her own, a pot on her own shelf. Single women were the last to get flats; families got them first. Sometimes she dropped by Aunt Alices washroom, who scrubbed the factory floors each evening, to chat. After three or four months of such talks, Aunt Alice suggested:
Zinn, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a little girl and her husband. Ive been watching you; youre a sturdy, diligent woman. Her husband, Mathew, is a decent bloke gentle, only drinks on holidays. He isnt a smooth talker, but hed never hurt you. Think about it; the girl is tiny, shell call you Mum.
Blythe thought it over and moved in with Mathew. She painted his little room white for the May holidays, bought assorted curtains greentowhite blossoms, yellowandblue dresses for the tiny one. The girl, named Sophie, soon began to babble and called her Mum.
Mathew was gentle, never struck his wife, handed over his wages, never uttered crude words. Blythe never heard romantic verses from him she was used to none. Why would she need them, having been unloved from birth?
Three years into marriage, loves words finally reached Blythe, not from her husband but from little Sophie, who ran in from the yard, clutching yellow dandelions, pressed her cheek to Blythes, kissed her sweetly and whispered:
Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Alice, more than doll Yulia.
Blythe hugged her daughter, laughing and crying at once, finally feeling the love shed never known.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Ilya. Mathew adored his wife, rose at night to tend the infant, hung diapers, helped push the pram from the stairwell. Soon the factory granted them a spacious, bright council flat. Live and be merry, they told them. Blythe rejoiced; there was purpose now.
They raised their children, waited for grandchildren. In their garden cottage, silverhaired Blythe boiled jam, while around her the youngsters tumbled.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
Grandma, I love you too, echoed Daniel.
Grandma, I love you, mumbled little Maisie.
We all love grandma, hiding smiles in our greying beards, said Grandpa Mathew.
Blythe brushed away a sudden tear. Years ago she never imagined destiny would gift a woman, unloved from the start, such a flood of affection.
