Sweetheart, But It’s Chilly There in Winter!

Mum, its bitter cold out there in winter! Youll need a woodburning stove and a heap of logs!
Darling, youve always been a country girl. All you ever knew was that way of living. Grandfather and Grandmother spent their whole lives in a little village, and that was fine. In summer its glorious you can tend the vegetable patch, pick berries, hunt for mushrooms in the woods.

Martha had only just begun to settle into retired life. Sixty years behind her, thirtyfive of those spent crunching numbers in the accounts department of a textile mill. Now she could sip her tea at dawn, leaf through novels, and let the day drift by without a rush.

The early weeks of retirement were a balm of silence and ease. She rose whenever the sun felt right, lingered over a leisurely breakfast, and watched the morning programmes. Shopping trips were taken at the quiet hours, when the market queue was empty a tiny miracle after four decades of earlymorning commutes.

Her daughter, Blythe, called on a Saturday morning.

Mother, we need to have a serious chat.

Whats the matter? Martha asked, a crease of worry forming. Is everything alright with Mabel?

Yes, Mabels fine. Ill tell you everything when Im there. Dont worry!

Those words, meant to calm, only tightened the knot in Marthas stomach. When children say dont worry, there is always a hidden worry.

An hour later Blythe was in the kitchen, her hand resting on the roundness of her pregnant belly. She was thirtytwo, with a second child on the way, yet still not married to James, the man she lived with. They had been together four years; James floated from job to job today a warehouse loader, tomorrow a courier, the day after a night guard. Blythe was on maternity leave with her little girl, and another leave loomed.

Mother, weve got a problem with the flat, Blythe said, twisting the handle of her tea mug. Our landlord wants to raise the rent. Were barely managing the current £650 a month, and now shes demanding another £200.

Martha nodded, her eyes soft with empathy. She knew how hard it was for young families.

We thought about moving to a cheaper place, Blythe continued, but nobody wants to take a flat with a toddler.

What are you thinking of doing? Martha asked, already sensing a twist.

Thats why Im here, Blythe whispered, her fingers fidgeting at the edge of her cardigan. Could we stay with you for a while? Just until we save enough for a mortgage.

Martha poured tea into two chipped mugs. Their twobedroom council flat was already cramped; adding another infant and a soontobeborn would push it to the brink.

Blythe, how will we all fit? I only have two small rooms.

Well make it work. The main goal is to save money. Were paying £1,300 in rent now thats over £15,600 a year. If we could redirect that into a deposit, it would help us get our own place.

Martha imagined James strolling through the corridors in his slippers, shouting into the phone, while Mabel wailed, toys littered every corner, and cartoons blasted at full volume. Evelyn the name shed once given her first child was a distant echo.

Where will Mabel sleep? Martha asked, trying to stitch together a plausible plan.

In the big room well set up a cot. Youll have the smaller room; youll just need a sofa and the TV.

But I just retired, I crave peace after forty years of work! Martha sighed, feeling the weight of her own fatigue.

Blythe answered, Mum, why do you need peace at sixty? Youre still spry. Grandmothers your age are still looking after their grandchildren.

It felt like a rebuke, as if all other grandmothers were saints and she, selfish.

And you have that cottage up the lane, remember? A lovely stone house you keep in tiptop shape. You could stay there fresh air, quiet gardens, tomatoes, and herbs. Doctors say fresh air is good for us older folk.

On the cottage? Martha asked, incredulous.

Yes, a solid home with a garden. You could grow your own veggies, and the air would be clean.

Cold seeped into her thoughts. The cottage was thirty miles from town, the bus only ran at dawn and dusk.

But its freezing in winter. Youll need a wood stove and to haul logs.

Darling, you grew up in a farm, you know how it works. In summer its a paradise pickberries, mushrooms, the whole lot.

Blythes voice sounded like she was selling a fivestar resort, not a modest country cottage with no hot water.

What about doctors, pharmacies, the shops? Martha asked.

Youll only need to go once a month for checkups. Stock up on food, freeze it. The freezer is huge, youll have plenty.

And my friends? My neighbours Ive chatted with for years?

Call them. Or theyll visit the cottage, bring a barbecue, have a laugh.

Martha listened, stunned. Her daughter was proposing she become a hermit in the countryside so the tiny flat could be reclaimed for Blythes family.

How long do you want to stay? Martha asked.

At least a year, maybe a year and a half.

A year in a twobedroom flat with three children, or a year on a remote cottage.

What does James think?

Hes all for it, Blythe replied brightly. He says the cottage is far better than city life no hustle, no stress.

Hell even put up a satellite dish for you, so you have more channels.

Martha pictured James, generous and gentle, lounging on her favourite sofa, offering a dish.

Think about it, Mum, Blythe urged. What else would you do in a tworoom flat? Nothing. Meanwhile well save, well get on our feet.

When do you plan to move?

Tomorrow, if you like. Weve got few belongings. The landlords already looking for new tenants, and we must vacate by the end of the month.

Marthas hand trembled as she poured another cup of tea. Blythe stared, waiting for a verdict, her eyes pleading: Will you turn us away when were in need?

What if you and James split up? Youre not married, after all.

It doesnt matter, Blythe said firmly. Weve been together four years, the kids are ours. Marriage wont change anything.

And if you do part ways?

We wont, she asserted. And if anything happens, the flat is still yours.

Martha sensed the thinness of that promise. Shed known James for four years; his job shifted every six months, his friends came and went. Blythe clung to him like a schoolgirl in love, ready to sacrifice everything.

Mum, I just want a bit of peace after all these years, she complained.

Peace for yourself? Blythe snapped. Thats selfish. Supporting your children and grandchildren is a holy duty!

Martha felt her resistance melt.

What if I say no? If I cant take you in?

Blythe fell silent, then sighed heavily, pressing a hand to her swollen belly.

Mum, I dont know what Ill do then. It would break my heart. Id feel terrible if you turned me away when Im desperate.

The words carried a hidden threat, a promise of lifelong resentment, a rift that might sever the bond with her grandchildren.

She imagined Blythe telling everyone, Can you believe my mother refused to help her own daughter?

Where will we go then? Blythe sniffed. James says maybe his mothers onebedroom flat, but she doesnt like us.

Martha knew Jamess mother sharptongued, nononsense. Blythe wouldnt last long there.

Please, Mum, just a year. Well be careful, we wont bother you. Youll go to the cottage when you like, escape the city buzz.

And Ill only have to travel there on weekends?

Exactly. Weekends you can visit the town, shop, meet friends. Weekdays are quiet on the cottage perfect for an older lady.

Martha finally agreed, her voice weary: One year, no more. You must save, you must keep looking for a place of your own.

Blythe threw her arms around her mother. Thank you, Mum! Youre the best. Well be good guests, well manage the house.

On the cottage Ill go whenever I feel like it, Martha added, setting the condition.

Of course, Mum! Your flat, your rules. Were just guests.

A week later they moved in. James arranged his belongings in the wardrobe; Emily darted from room to room, exploring the new territory. Blythe directed the chaos, telling everyone where to put what.

Martha stood amid the upheaval, packing a bag for the cottage, feeling exiled from her own home.

The first months were a nightmare. James mastered the television, blasting it at full volume, chatting on the phone at all hours. Energy drinks and protein shakes cluttered the fridge.

Blythe demanded constant attention Its too hot, its too cold, the music is too loud. Emily wailed at night, toys strewn everywhere, cartoons looping from dawn till dusk.

Martha ventured into town once a week for groceries and prescriptions, horrified at the disorder that had invaded her tidy flat. Unwashed dishes piled in the kitchen, childs clothes and Jamess socks dried in the bathroom, the beloved sofa stained with juice and crumbs.

Blythe, shall we tidy a bit? Martha suggested.

Not now, Mum! The baby needs me, James is exhausted from work, I need rest in the evenings.

I can help while Im in town, Martha offered.

No, thank you. Well manage. Once the baby arrives well clean everything.

Later never came. Martha washed dishes, vacuumed, dusted, only for the mess to return before her next visit.

On the cottage, she felt like a castaway. Thirty miles from civilization, the nearest shop three miles away, the bus a twicedaily lifeline. Neighbours would ask, Gale, why are you here all year? Youve got a flat in town.

Shed explain, My daughters family is staying temporarily, were saving for our own home.

Oh, thats sensible, helping the young.

Winter on the cottage was harsh. The wood ran out fast, water had to be boiled on the stove. Martha felt stranded at the edge of the world.

Six months later Blythe gave birth to a baby boy, Dennis. Martha hoped the extra income would speed up their house hunt. Yet when she visited, Blythe declared, Mum, with two kids well never find a place. Shall we stay another year?

Martha realised the promise of one year was a mirage. It would stretch to two, then three.

Will you spend the rest of your pension years in that empty cottage? she wondered, furious.

Eventually the police had to escort Blythe and her family out. Insults and threats flew at Martha, but she held fast to the agreement a year, no more.

Was she right, or had she overstepped? The whisper of the wind through the cottages stone walls seemed to answer, Sometimes the dream decides who awakens.