I remember it as if it were a tale told by the hearth in the old cottage that my grandmother, Mrs. Whitmore, kept at the edge of the Yorkshire moors. She would often lean over the kitchen table and say, Take care, child, or youll end up crashing through the doorway with a slapontheback. Weve no need for more shame. Those words, sharp as a winter wind, were meant for my cousin Emily, though I never expected such a harsh warning from anyone older than me.
Ever since I was a little girl, the village gossip whispered that my mother, Mrs. Whitmore, had been quite the wanderer. We lived five years with Martin, never had a child, and thenwellshe went off to the seaside resort and came back with a bundle, my grandmother would say, never pausing for propriety. The fact that my mother had travelled three years before Emilys birth, and that she had been accompanied not by a lover but by my aunt Nora, never soothed the old womans disapproval. Grandmother kept repeating that Emily was a troublemaker.
Father, a stern man who regarded his own mother as a wolf, watched from the shadows, wondering what more he could do when daily the family was reminded that his wife was raising a reckless child. The house was spacious; father had stayed at home after his own marriage, insisting that the younger son should tend to his parents. In that household, the motherinlaw despised her daughterinlaw, and every step the son took seemed to be under a curse. I cannot bear to watch her sit, to watch her walkshe is no match for you, she would mutter. Yet the son, obstinate as ever, clung to his love.
Our own little one, the granddaughter whom everyone called LovingLucy, grew up as a sweet, clever darling, while Emilynow a stubborn, solitary creaturesnarled like a poisoned wolf. When Lucy would whirl about the garden, calling her grandmother Nana, the old woman would glare, as if the blood in her veins were foreign. She could not decide where to seat Lucy, or what to feed her.
Dear, have some cucumbers, she offered.
I dont want them, theyre bitter, Lucy answered.
Indeed, they are bitter, Grandmother agreed, just like you, Emilylazy and cursed. Mary, Mary, feed a starving child.
She presented a tin of cream and some hard rolls.
The rolls are stiff, Lucy complained.
Theyre stiff, indeed, Grandma retorted, youre making a stone out of them, my dear. She could not keep her eyes off Lucy, scolding her as if the girl should shake herself free of those stiff bones.
The house will be yours, my only granddaughter, she promised, or shall I leave you a roofless soul? Let your parents decide, or take care yourself; the world is ready for you. And so Emily lived, bound to the cottage, while thoughts of the townManchesterglimmered in her mind like distant lanterns. The day came when she decided to go to the city for her studies, and Grandmothers parting words echoed, Mind the road, my dear, and dont let shame follow you.
Emily thrived at school, eager and lively. The city dazzled her with ladies in fine gowns, gentlemen in crisp waistcoats, and bustling streets that sang of opportunity. She wanted to show her mother the splendor of the world, but how could she take her there? Grandmother and father would never consent; the old snake of family duty coiled around her, drinking her hopes. Only because of her mothers insistence did she finally set foot in the city.
There she befriended the matron of the womens hostel, Mrs. Anne Anderson, whose son lived up north with two grandchildren. The matron, a stout woman with a warm smile, coaxed Emily, Your mothers been called to a parentteacher meeting, you see. A girl who has spent a year in school should not be left without a mothers guidance. They arranged for Emilys father to grumble, for Grandmother to sneer that the girl was flirting with boys instead of studying, and for the mother to fear reprimand. Yet teachers praised Emily, her mothers spirit lifted at last.
One night, Mrs. Anderson and I sat over tea, and the older women gossiped as only they could. Martha, one began, Ive spent my whole life as a servant. Besides Emily, I never had any children. Even the old folk think that a woman like me should have a child, but alas Another added, I studied hard, got top marks, wanted to live in the city, go to the librarydreams that never came true. Yet she thanked her daughter for opening her eyes to the city, for never having left the countryside before.
Will Emily ever find true happiness? another asked.
It will be well if she stays in the city, the matron replied, waving a hand, otherwise shell spend her whole life here, praying a good husband will appear. When asked about her work, Martha answered, Im an accountant now, these past few years. The women laughed, So youre literate, Martha? and she smiled, Of course, I studied locally, dreamed of the cityoh, Anne
Anne urged, Move on, Martha. Ah, Anne, you say youd like me to learn, Martha sighed. Their chatter faded into whispers as the night deepened.
Back at home, Marthas motherinlaw hovered, her husband glowered like a wolf, and shed twice jabbed at the old mans eye and nose in a fit of order. She rushed to work, covering bruises with a practiced hand, yet her thoughts seemed elsewhere, as if she were not truly present.
The following month, Martha returned to the meeting with Emily. The girl has stopped studying, shes meddling with menlook, Martin will bring her home in the night. The village women swore that Martin, who had battered Martha badly, even frightened the old woman herselfnot for Marthas sake, but out of fear for his own deeds. Martha ran to the constable, bearing sausage and a slab of pork, pleading for help. Martin, twisted as a serpent, swirled around his wife, but Martha finally broke free, looked upon the yard full of livestock, the house that was not hers despite a quartercentury of toil, and thought of what might happen should Martin meet his end.
She gathered a few modest belongings, filed a complaint, and left her work without notice. The village gasped, releasing Martha from her bonds. Emily leapt as if to touch the heavens. Mother, is that you? she called.
Its me, child, Martha answered, her voice trembling, my strength is gone, my body a canvas of bruises.
Oh, mother, Emily wept, dont you ever return?
No, Martha whispered, clenching her lips, I stay away, for you to have a better life.
Martha found work in a Manchester mill as an accountant, was given a room in a hostel, and began to bloom again. She and Emily walked together in the evenings, their silhouettes merging with the amber streetlights. Rumours spread through the village that Martin, after a night of drinking, had come back angry, demanding Marthas return. I will not go with you, she said, enough is enough. Martin snarled, his teeth grinding, but Martha was no longer the frightened girl; she was a woman of steel.
Dont be foolish, Martha, Martin hissed, or Ill call the constable.
Bring the constable, Martha replied, if you think you can intimidate me.
He claimed they had been misled a month prior, that the letters never arrived. Im sorry, he stammered, I love you still.
Love a wolf who has devoured the flock, Martha muttered, I am done. She turned away, and the old anger melted into tears.
Later, I heard whispers that a new daughterinlaw, Kitty, had arrived, swift and cunning, a serpent in the household who now commanded Martin. The villagers said Kitty was the cause of all the misfortune, that Martha, once kind and diligent, now lived in the shadows of her own home. Some even claimed that Emily, ever the recluse, would not even be invited to her own wedding, for the city folk had forgotten the old ways.
And yet, the story of Martha, Emily, and the Whitmore family lives on, a reminder that even in the bleakest moors, a spark of resilience can light the path to a brighter tomorrow.
