Mary Peterson sat by the kitchen window, wishing she had the energy to give it a good wipe but feeling far too weary. The garden outside was a jungle of nettles and dock, but the overgrowth didnt bother her a bit. A harsh winter had drained the last of her strength; even if she wanted to pull the weeds, she simply couldnt. Moving around the cottage was a slow, careful affair, let alone tending a plot of soil.
The winter had been bitter and frosty. The old castiron stove sputtered and coughed, the chimney clearly blocked, and with wood in short supply Mary only stoked the fire on occasion. She shuffled about in woolly slippers and a threadbare coat, venturing to the village shop as rarely as possible what did she really need? In February she came down with a savage cold and feared she might never get up again. Her neighbour, Gail Whitaker, dropped in to check on her and, after a quick glance, called the doctor.
The doctor examined Mary briefly, shook his head and said, Medicine isnt a miracle. What matters most is the will to live and to fight this thing.
Im old enough for thats all, Mary muttered, turning away.
Day by day the desire to keep going seemed to melt away. Why bother? For whom? For what? she wondered. Yet the illness finally eased, and Gail became a daily visitor, bringing steaming soup and a pot of freshly brewed tea.
Dont trouble yourself, Gail, Mary would say, Ive got a mountain of chores at home.
Nothing to worry about, well manage, Gail replied, humming as she stoked the stove. Vasily will swing by on Saturday with a load of firewood. Youll stay warm, and youll have me to keep you company.
Gail was in her early forties, lively, always smiling, and had once been schoolmates with Nicholas, Marys only son. Nicholas had left for university in the city, stayed on, married Eleanor a fashionable city girl with a delicate air. When they visited, they never fetched water from the well or helped with the weeding, but Mary never held a grudge; as long as Nicholas was happy, she was content. Their grandson, Sammy, was a cheeky little lad who grew up spending his summers in the village, breathing the fresh air and running about the fields. Over the years the familys visits grew sparser a few times each summer, then only after New Year.
One bright August afternoon Eleanor, chewing on a sprig of dill, chided, Mary, why on earth are you planting a garden at your age?
Come in August and well harvest together. Youll have enough veg to last the whole winter, Mary retorted.
Mother, thats Eleanor talking, Nicholas added. Shall we just buy the produce?
Its all storebought chemicals out there! Here everything is homegrown and natural, Mary protested.
By the end of August Mary was whirring jars of crisp pickles and plum compote, thinking of the winter evenings when the family would open them and be reminded of the good old days. When the first snow fell she started knitting socks and mittens tiny pink or yellow ones with snowflake patterns for Eleanor, grey and blue pairs for Nicholas and Sammy. She handed them out as winter gifts.
Why are you piling on so many? Eleanor frowned, eyeing the stack.
At least theyll keep warm, Mary said with a shy smile, knowing the gifts would likely stay in the drawer. Eleanor was a fashionista, Nicholas drove a sleek car, but Mary kept looping yarn, stitch by stitch.
Nicholas tried to persuade Mary to move to the city. Well get you a flat, heating, hot water everything.
No, son, Mary replied. This is my home, my childhood, my fathers memories. Come visit more often instead.
And work? he asked.
Just take a holiday here, she said hopefully.
A holiday in the village? Working a whole year for a weekend in the country? No thank you! Eleanor laughed. Mary nodded, wanting to be nearer to her son but unwilling to abandon the only life shed ever known. She remembered the occasional trips with Nicholass father to the county town when they were young, curious about city life, only to find the hustle, the dust, and the endless noise. Here, in the quiet countryside, everything felt right.
Her husband had died twenty years earlier. Nicholas was still a student then, and Mary had felt a strange, lonely void, yet she never called him back, understanding the limited prospects of village life. She waited for him and his family to drop by, until that fateful summer when a terrible crash claimed Nicholas, Eleanor, and Sammy. Their car slammedheadon into a laden lorry; all three perished. From that day onward Marys spark dimmed. She sat by the dusty, halfopen window, tears tracing the lines on her face as she thought of little Nicholass grin and Sammys cheeky ways.
A bright voice called, Auntie Mary, howre you feeling? It was Gail, standing at the low fence opposite.
Fine, fine, Gail. And you?
Just fine! Im baking onion pies now, will pop over for tea this evening, Gail replied, hurrying back home.
A few hours later Mary still lingered by the window, now pulled shut against the evening chill, fresh air drifting in, mosquitoes buzzing. The neighbours gate swung wide and out bounded twelveyearold Tommy, Gails son, followed by Gail herself, cradling a towelwrapped plate, then Anya, and tiny Zoe, the youngest of the sisters, aged eight and three. Gails family was large four older sons, two younger daughters, and she was expecting another baby. Her husband Basil, a sturdy, teetotal man raised among nine siblings, had always dreamed of a bustling, happy household, and Gail welcomed as many as she could.
Tommy, fetch some water! Gail ordered as she stepped into Marys cottage. Auntie Mary, we need to get these pies on the table before they go cold.
Gail, youre fussing over an old hen, Tommy teased.
Well, weve lived sidebyside for years. Took your meds today? Gail asked, pulling mugs from the cupboard.
I did, Mary sighed. Whats the point? Id like the Good Lord to tidy me up.
Dont say that! If you believe in Him, you shouldnt speak like that. Not everything on earth is settled yet.
Anya pointed at an unfinished mitten with a stray needle poking out. Whats that, Grandma Mary?
Its a mitten I started; not finished yet, Mary answered.
Its lovely pink, soft. Could you give it to me when its done?
Of course.
And make a smaller red one for Zoe?
Settle down, love! Gail laughed.
Maybe Ill learn to knit myself, Anya mused. For me, Zoe, Tommy, everyone! Grandma Mary, teach mealtime.
Come tomorrow, Anya, well start, Mary said, a grin breaking through.
Ill be there! Anya promised.
Tommy returned with two buckets of water. An old electric kettle, a gift from Nicholas, whistled as it boiled. They settled for tea. Gail, gesturing to her round belly, chuckled, Another lad on the way. Bad timing the harvests due and Im already swamped. How will I manage? She rattled off news: the eldest staying in the city for a summer placement, the middle child failing two years of exams, Basil promoted to foreman, and other bits and bobs. Mary listened halfheartedly, eyes flicking between Gails chatter, the children darting after pies, and the warm glow in her chest. She suddenly wanted to be well enough by morning to teach Anya to knit. The cupboard brimmed with yarn enough for the soontoarrive baby, colourful socks and mittens for everyone. If she ran short, she could always buy more. By the end of summer shed have to get back in shape, otherwise who would help with the pickles and the little ones? Their parents had long since passed, and grandparents were still needed. A faint smile tugged at Marys dry lips.
Little Zoe rubbed her eyes, yawned, and whispered, We should remember all the fairy tales.
What tales? Gail asked.
The ones with happy endings. Absolutely happy. Mary stroked Zoes sleepy head, feeling, for the first time in ages, that she still had a purpose.
