The Intriguing Stranger

30April2025
I sit at the kitchen table of our modest semidetached in Birmingham, the rain tapping the windows, and I feel it necessary to record the madness that has tangled our family for the past three decades.

My eldest daughter, Agnes, has always been the one to pass judgment. Her temper and impossible standards kept her from ever marrying; by thirty she had become a bitter, almost misogynistic reclusea living ulcer in the household. When she labelled my younger daughter Emily the nuisance that afternoon, I saw the same scowl on my own face, but kept my mouth shut. It was clear I disapproved of the new bride we had unwittingly welcomed, though I could not yet name the reason.

Our only son, Tom, had gone off to the Army and returned with a woman he called his wife. She arrived with neither parents nor a penny to her name. Nobody knew whether she had grown up in an orphanage or simply drifted in on some distant relatives goodwill. Tom, ever the optimist, laughed it off: Dont worry, Mother, well make our own fortune. I asked him what sort of character he had brought into the houseperhaps a thief, perhaps a conartistsince men of that sort seemed to be multiplying these days.

From the moment Vera Nichols set foot in our home, she stopped sleeping through the night. Halfasleep, I could hear her waiting for some mischief, fearing the moment she would start rummaging through the cupboards. The sisters whispered that she might be hiding valuablesfurs, goldso that one morning we wouldnt awaken to find our possessions vanished. Within a month Toms motherinlawmy wife, Margarethad her patience shredded, wondering what eyes Vera had brought into the house.

Our estate was respectable: a thirtyacre garden, three piglets in the sty, a handful of chickens, and more birds than one could count. No one could work the land from sunrise to sunset without feeling exhausted, yet Vera never complained. She tended the garden, fed the piglets, cooked, cleaned, and did everything to please Margaret. Still, if the matriarchs heart was not in it, even goldlined rugs would not smooth the cracks.

On her first day she told Vera, Call me by my first name and my middle name; thats how well get along. Youll never be a daughter to me, no matter how hard you try. From then on I addressed her as Vera, Margaret never used a nickname. I myself muttered, Something has to be done, and left it at that, refusing to indulge the endless bickering. Yet we never let any other relatives interfere; every petty dispute was swiftly settled.

Tom, however, proved a wandering spirit. He spent his evenings rattling on about whom he had married, and whom he had not. One day Agnes introduced him to a girl from the village, and chaos followed. The sisters rejoiced, believing the troublesome Vera would finally be driven out. Margaret kept quiet while Vera pretended nothing had happened, her eyes dulled to a weary shine.

Then, like a thunderclap, two pieces of news fell upon us: Vera was expecting a child, and Tom announced he was filing for divorce. Margaret, stunned, said, I never promised you as a wife. I told Tom, If you married, live with itdont whine. Youll soon be a father. If you cause trouble, Ill drive you out, and youll never see my name again. I laughed, Youre still a boy in breeches; being a man means raising a child, giving him wisdom, and then you may truly call yourself a man.

Tom stormed out, taking his belongings, while Vera stayed behind. In due course she gave birth to a little girl, and we named her Violet. Margaret said nothing when she heard the name, though a faint smile flickered in her eyes.

Ten years passed. The sisters married, and the house was left to three of us: Margaret, Vera, and Violet. Tom reenlisted and was posted up north with his second wife. A retired sergeant, Mr. Harding, took a room in the house, offering Vera a modest stipend. He was a respectable man, older than she, and his presence seemed proper. He asked Margarets blessing to see Vera again, and she, with a sigh, said, If you love her, live with her. She added, I wont let you move Violet elsewhere.

Neighbours chattered endlessly, calling Vera a meddlesome old crone, accusing her of driving Toms son away, and ridiculing the way she kept the house together. Yet Vera paid them no mind. She never spoke of the younger folk, kept her dignity, and stood like a sturdy oak. Violet gave birth to a granddaughter, Kate, whom Margaret never seemed able to cherishafter all, a granddaughter is still just a child in her eyes.

Disaster struck without warning. Violet fell gravely ill. Her husband, broken by the strain, turned to drink. Margaret, without a word of complaint, emptied every penny from the savings book and whisked Violet off to London for treatment, paying for every medicine and every specialist. It was all to no avail.

One morning Violet felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. Margaret, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, boiled it, and brought the steaming bowl to her. Violet could not eat it; tears fell for the first time in my mothers life, and Margaret wept with her, whispering, Why do you leave me now that I have loved you? She then steadied herself, dried her eyes, and said, Children will be alright; they will not be lost. She held Violets hand until the end, stroking it gently as if asking forgiveness for every harsh word between them.

Another ten years slipped by. Violets daughter, now a young woman, was betrothed. Agnes and Emily, now grey and wrinkled, arrived for the ceremony, both childless, and the whole extended family gathered. Tom returned, his marriage long over, looking for a drink and a glimpse of the granddaughter he had never known. Upon seeing Violet, radiant as ever, he felt a surge of pride, only to learn that her father was a man who was not his own. He turned on Margaret, accusing her of bringing an outsider into the house, demanding she be thrown out. Margaret replied, No, son. You are not a father. You have never outgrown the trousers you wore as a boy.

She spoke as she always hadplain and unflinching. Unable to bear the insult, Tom packed his things and left again, while Violet married a kind man and bore a son she named Alexander after the man who had once pretended to be his father. Last year we laid Vera to rest beside Violets grave, a modest stone in the back garden.

Now, in the quiet of the garden, a small birch sapling has sprouted between the graves of motherinlaw and daughterinlaw. No one planted it; it seemed to have risen from nowhere, perhaps a final, silent greeting from Violet to her mother, perhaps a last pardon from Margaret.

Looking back, I realise that stubborn pride, whispered accusations, and the refusal to see each others humanity only tighten the knot of family sorrow. The birch stands as a reminder that even the deepest rifts can grow new life if we are willing to let go of our grievances. I shall try to remember this lesson every day, lest I repeat the same old mistakes.