I recall, as though it were only yesterday, the words my old gran used to fling at me when I was a girl in the little hamlet of Ashford. Watch yourself, child, shed say, if you go tramping about the lane with a lover, youll bring shame upon the whole family. Shed warned me, Ellen, of the disgrace that might follow, as though my own missteps could topple the house.
From my earliest days Id heard whispers that my mother, Margaret, had been something of a wanderer. Five years we lived with Mitchel, no children, the old woman would mutter, then she went off to a seaside resort and brought back a boy. She never chose her words gently, and no amount of reasoning could convince her that Margaret had travelled three years before my birth, accompanied not by a lover but by my aunt Nadine, my mothers sister.
Gran never stopped calling me a troubled girl. My father, John, glowered at my mother as a wolf would at a foe, yet he had little choice each day the old woman nagged him about how his wife was raising a brood that was not his. The house was large; John, when he married, stayed close to his own parents, feeling obliged to look after them. My mother never liked my sisterinlaw, and she would say, Shes a burden, she clings to my son; I cant stand the way she sits, the way she walks. Yet she would also admit, I love my son, stubborn as he is.
Our youngest, my own granddaughter, was a different sort. She grew up sweet and pretty, a darling of the heart, while the other girlmy niece, a hardbitten, solitary sortwas like a wolf cub hissing poison. When the little one ran about, calling everyone Gran, the old woman would glance at her with a sour eye, muttering that she was no blood of mine. She could not decide what to feed her, whether to give cucumber or not. Bitter cucumbers, shed scoff, just like you, Ellen, a lazy wretch who waters the garden with curses. Shed call out for Mary, Mary, feed the child, lest the babe starve. And then, Here, dear, some cream with rolls. The girl would pout, The rolls are hard as stones. Grandmother would reply, Hard, indeedlike your stonelike rolls, Margaret. She would stare at her granddaughter, scolding as she sent the younger one away, her words a tangled knot.
Gran promised a home for my dear little one, insisting, Shall I leave my bloodstained cottage empty? Let your parents take charge, or see to it yourself. Thus Ellens life unfolded. When she finally set her sights on the cityLondon, to seek an educationGrans parting words rang in her ears. Ellen took to her studies with an eager spark, delighting in the bustle of the town, the ladies in fine gowns, the gentlemen in polished frock coats. She longed to show her mother the wonders of the world, but her parents, especially Gran, clung to her like a vine, refusing to let her go. The old serpent will not let you leave, they warned.
She befriended the matron of the hostel, Anna Andrews, a stern woman whose son lived up north and had two grandchildren of his own. Your mother summons you to a parents meeting, Anna would say, though youve only been at school a year. So they did, and John muttered, while Gran sniped, Shes surely consorting with lads instead of studying. My mother feared reproach, yet teachers praised Ellen, and she revived her spirits.
Anna and Margaret, the matron, soon became close, sharing tea through long evenings, spilling their lives into each others ears. I have lived my whole life as a servant, Anna confessed, and had no children but yours, Ellen. She sighed, I studied hard, earned top marks, dreamed of city life and librariesyet fate had other plans. She thanked Ellen for showing her the citys wonders, for the first time stepping beyond the villages borders. Do you think I have such luck, Ellen? she asked.
Perhaps, laughed Anna, if you stay here, youll find a good husband someday. She waved her hand, Otherwise, youll spend your life longing for a decent man. Ellen replied, What do you do, Margaret? Im a clerk in the towns accounting office, she said. Yes, Im literate, educatedgrew up here, always wanted the city. Whats the matter, Margaret? Anna asked. Move, I say, she urged.
On one occasion, Margarets husband Mitchel came home drunk, brandishing a bottle as if it were a sword. He shouted at his mother, then bought a bottle of gin and drank it all. Mother, mother he croaked, Did a letter ever arrive with my name on it? His eyes darted, his hands trembling. He ranted for a week, then brought home a stranger, Katarina Yates, a woman of the city who set the household in order. She was no meek Mary, but a forceful presence, commanding every corner. Grandmother, frightened, tried to hide her nose from the new brides glare.
Meanwhile, the sweet granddaughter, beloved by all, fell victim to a scoundrel who pretended kindness. The woman, now called Kitty, turned out to be a schemer, leaving the innocent girl in ruin. The village folk whispered, Martha lives in the city, now a shrew, and has taken a cunning wife. They spoke of Ellens own granddaughter, poor thing, who had been left with a boy named Nathan before she fled to the town, hoping to find her fortune.
Through it all, I remember the bitter laughter, the clatter of hard rolls, the harsh admonitions of an old woman who never softened. The story of Ellen, her mother Margaret, the unyielding Gran, and the restless Mitchel is a tapestry of English country life, stitched with love, strife, and the stubborn hope that one day the wind might carry a better destiny to a humble cottage on the moors.
