Tatiana Ivanovna Sat in Her Chilly Cottage, Where the Scent of Dampness Lingered, and Order Had Long Since Been Abandoned, Yet Everything Was Familiar

Margaret Whitcombe sat in her cold little cottage, the air thick with damp, the rooms long untended, yet everything familiar and dear belonged to her. She was still the mistress of the house, though her strength had been spent on worry, and she could not tell where to begin.

A hurt long ago tightened her heart; there were no tears left, though she had wept for days on end. She hoped the aging walls would mend her spirit with time.

Clad in a coat and a warm hat, her hands and feet trembling with cold, she rested her head on the table and let the memories of her life drift back.

The dearest thing she possessed was her daughter Elsie. From birth Elsie had been frail, and Margarets husband had often muttered, It would have been better to have a healthy child instead of a nightwatcher who never sleeps and is always on medicines! Yet they persisted, and at fortytwo Elsie was finally born, after two premature losses that had left Margaret doubtful of any future happiness.

Soon the husband left for a neighbouring village, taking a new wife who already had a son. He could not bear to hear of his ailing daughter any longer.

Elsie grew stronger each year, becoming more beautiful, while Margaret scarcely noticed the girls transition to adulthood. The weight of caring fell heavily on Margarets shoulders: she worked diligently on the collective farm, kept the household running, and relied on Elsies help. In a village, a woman without a husband struggled. When the strain became unbearable, Margarets motherinlaw moved in, adding to the burden. The old lady could barely rise from her bed, constantly asking for a drink or to be turned on her side.

Elsie eventually received an education, fell in love, and married a good man. Two years after the wedding her own daughter, Lucy, arrived.

Elsie was unwilling to stay at home, especially with the mortgage still to be paid, and she begged her mother:

Mother, dear, move in with us. It would brighten both our lives, and you would have company now that the grandmothers are gone.

But I have my cow, my old cat, my gardenhow could I abandon my home? Margaret replied.

Sell the cow, it gives little milk anyway. The neighbour, Mrs. Nora, is kind and will take the cat. In a week well be ready for you! Elsie pleaded.

Unable to refuse the plea of her own child, Margaret consented. Nora took the cow and the cat, and promised to look after the cottage. Thus Margaret packed her few belongings and travelled to the town.

Her daughter and soninlaw worked late, leaving her to walk with Lucy, feed her, and still manage to prepare dinner. Lucy resembled her mother so closely that Margaret felt as if she were holding her own soul. They spent days and nights together, and, thank heavens, the little girl seldom fell ill.

When Lucy was four, Elsie enrolled her in a nursery, believing the child needed to grow among peers. The relationship between mother and daughter soon soured. The soninlaw was perpetually dissatisfied, and Elsie complained that she and her husband quarrelled constantly because of Margaret. The grandmother spoiled Lucy, and the child, now disobedient, left the nursery in tears, clinging more to her grandmother than to her own mother.

Margaret felt adrift, unable to understand what had gone wrong, until one bitter afternoon Elsies words cut her to the bone:

Mother, we no longer need you. Go home. Lucy now goes to nursery, the mortgage is paid, and the tworoom flat is cramped enough. It will be better for you there.

The thought of dying on the spot crossed Margarets mind; she had never imagined herself spoken to so harshly. She gathered a few belongings quickly, caught the bus, and tried only to keep herself from weeping. Lucy clutched at her skirt, begging to be taken for a walk.

The soninlaw drove her to the coach station, dropped her off without a word, and never turned back. Margarets heart ached, but she did not want her daughter to see her weeping.

She arrived at her old cottage just as rain began to fall, the cold seeping deeper into her bones. From the darkness she heard a rough voice and curses. Then a neighbour came in, brightening the gloom.

Oh, Margaret! I thought someone had come to loot your house, she said cheerfully. Come, get up. My niece Nancy is making pancakes; sit down, well chat. Its been ages.

The neighbour practically hauled Margaret by the arm, spilling stories about her own grandchildren who were already at school, about the cow that had given birth to a heifer this year, and about plans to keep the animal at the dairy works because it was such a beautyno one could sell it. The children greeted Margaret as if she were family, and the neighbour brought along the cat, proudly declaring how clever and affectionate it was. The cat, now named Mousy, began to purr and recognised her new owner at once.

Joy rose in Margarets chest; she was no longer alone. She listened to tales of village life, of a bustling, merry household, and laughed with everyone. No one asked why she had returned, nor did anyone demand prior notice.

After dinner, the neighbours son said:

Our house is big enough for you, Aunt Margaret. Stay as long as you like; we wont let you go. Ill mend the roof, bring in firewood, fix the stove, and clean the chimney. Well make your home proper, and if you ever wish to move again, youll have a place here.

The thin old woman smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her that only human kindness can bring.

Thus Margaret Whitcombes life settled once more in the little village of Bramley, where the memory of hardship was softened by the generosity of neighbours and the gentle purr of a cat.