Still Plenty to Do at Home… Granny Molly struggled to unlatch the garden gate, shuffled up to the…

Theres Still Things To Do at Home…

Grandma Violet fumbled at the rusty latch of the garden gate, shuffled her way to the front door, and took ages with the old, stiff lock. The house greeted her with that cold, empty air that spoke of months uninhabited. She made her way to a worn wooden chair by the chilly fireplace and lowered herself with a sigh.

A stale, unlived-in scent drifted through the cottage.

Shed only been away three months, yet already cobwebs strung themselves across the beams, the old chair let out an unmistakably exasperated creak, and the wind howled down the chimney. The house seemed to scold where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave us for? How will we survive the winter now?

Just a moment, my darling, just a moment. Let me rest a sec, and Ill get the fire going. Well be warm in no time

Just last year, Grandma Violet would flit between kitchen and garden with the brisk energy of a woman half her agewhitewashing, painting, fetching water. With a spring in her step, shed bow before the mantlepiece icons, dash to the stove to bake, then race off to the apple trees to plant, prune, and weed. Her airy little figurea constant motion.

And the cottage seemed to join in: the floorboards would merrily creak under her nimble steps, windows and doors swung open at a single touch from her knotted yet gentle hands, and the old oven churned out steaming pies. They belonged to each other, Violet and her home.

Shed buried her husband early, raised three children whod all made their way in the world. One son was a ship captain, another a colonel in the army; both lived far away, returning to the village only occasionally. Only her youngest, Alice, stayed behind, working tirelessly as head agronomist at the local nursery, seldom home except to stop by for a Sunday pie with her mum.

Her true comfort was little Grace, the granddaughter shed pretty much raised herself.

And what a beauty Grace had grown into! Tall and elegant, eyes big and storm-grey, hair the pale gold of ripening barley and thickly curled to her waist, with a shine as though the sun itself lingered on each strand. Shed walk down the lane and the local lads would simply lose their footing, struck useless by the sight. Honestly, Grandma Violet herself had been quite the looker in her time, but set her old wedding photo next to Graces school portrait: a shepherdess next to a princess.

Brilliant, too. Grace finished her degree in agricultural economics in London, only to return to the village and work as an advisor. She married a local vet, and, thanks to a social housing scheme, they were gifted a new brick housea proper manor by village standards.

Only, unlike her grandmothers well-loved cottage, there was nothing growing yet around the new place: a couple of lonely saplings, nothing more. In truth, Grace was not at all inclined to gardeningdelicate in spite of her rural upbringing and shielded from hardships by her gran.

And now with baby Jamie in her arms, she had even less time for orchards or veggie patches.

Grace began pleading, Come and live with us, Nan! Its warm, no need to stoke that old Aga yourself! When Violets legs started to give inher eightieth birthday marked the moment, almost like time was waiting for something officialshe caved and moved in with her granddaughter.

She lasted two months.

Then, Grace cornered her in the kitchen:

Oh, Nan, I do love youyou know that! But why do you just sit there? Youve never been one to be idle! I was hoping you might help me get the place sorted

Im sorry, dear, I just cant, my legs wont move like they used to Im old now…

Hm became old the second you moved in with me, did you?

Before long, it was decidedNan, being too frail to be of use, would return to her home.

Worry and guiltthat she hadnt been able to help her beloved granddaughtercrippled Violet. Her legs hardly moved at all. Getting from bed to table was an ordeal. Getting to church became simply impossible.

And so Father Bernard, the kindly village vicar, called on his long-time parishioner. He surveyed the chilly parlour with a concerned eye.

Violet was sitting at the table, quietly working on her usual monthly letters to her sons.

It was properly coldthe fire had gone out again. The floor chilled the soles through even her thickest woollen stockings, cardigan patched and greying, scarf a bit grubbynever like her, who used to be so fussy and neat! Slippers already worn through.

Father Bernard sighed. She needed help. Who could he ask? Perhaps Mary from next dooryounger than Violet by two decades, fit and steady.

He left a parcel: bread, some ginger biscuits, half of a fragrant, still-warm fish piea gift from Mrs. Alexandra, his good lady wife.

Rolling up his sleeves, Father Bernard shovelled out the spent ashes, brought in enough logs for several days, built up the fire, then fetched and set the great blackened kettle to boil on the stove.

My dear boy! Oh, I mean, dear Father Bernard! Help me with these addresses, will you? If I write them with my hopeless chicken-scratch, the letters will end up nowhere!

He sat and neatly composed the addresses, glancing at Violets wobbly, oversized handwriting. One phrase stood out, large and shaky: I am very well, my darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!

The truth, though, was obvious from the blotchy lettersthose ink stains, he was quite sure, were salted with tears.

By and by, Mary started dropping in daily, and Father Bernard checked in often, giving communion when he could, and, on special Sundays, her husband Peter, a retired sailor, would bring Violet to church on the back of his old Triumph motorbike. Slowly, life settled into some sort of rhythm.

Grace stopped visiting. Two years passed. Then, she fell ill. For years, her complaints were dismissed as stomach trouble, but the diagnosis was severelung cancer. Within six months, Grace faded away.

Her husband grieved by the grave, drinking himself numb beside the headstone, while little Jamieonly fourwas left ragged and hungry, nobody wanting the responsibility.

Alice took him on, though her work left no room for childcare: Jamie was soon prepared for the county orphanage.

It was, by most accounts, a decent place: a hands-on headmaster, hot meals, weekends home if you like. Not a family, but Alice had no alternative, working long hours until pension.

Then, one day, in the battered sidecar of Peters old Triumph, Grandma Violet showed up at Alices door, Peter at the handlebars, tattoos of anchors and ships wheels peeking from under his wool jumper.

Violets words were simple:

Ill take Jamie home with me.

Mum, youre hardly walking yourself! Howll you manage? Hell need washing, feeding, looking after

So long as I live, Jamies not setting foot in that home, Violet said, cutting through all protest.

Alice was dumbstruckher quiet mothers resolve shocking her into silence. Without another word, she began packing Jamies things.

Peter brought the pair home, arms almost carrying them into the cottage. Neighbours shook their heads:

Poor old Violet, gone barmy with ageneeds looking after herself and now shes brought a child home? Hes not a puppy, for heavens sake. Whos going to care for him? Whatevers Alice thinking?

That following Sunday, Father Bernard walked over with sinking heart. Would he find Violet and Jamie cold, hungry, and alonea boy no one could look after?

He opened the door to a glowing, toasty cottage where Jamie, clean-faced and cheery, listened to an old recordThe Gingerbread Mansprawled across the settee.

And there was Violet: busy and light on her feet as shed ever been, brushing butter over a baking tray, mixing dough, cracking eggs into cheesea sparkle returned to her step, the years and pain shrugged off for the moment.

Father dear! Im just about to bake some cheese buns, give me a ticka hot treat for Mrs. Alexandra and your lad as well

Father Bernard went home in a daze and told his wife what hed seen.

Mrs. Alexandra, thoughtful after a moment, fetched down a thick, blue notebook from the shelf and flipped to a bookmarked page:

Old Eleanor lived out her long years. All that passeddreams, heartaches, hopesnow slept beyond the snowy lane. Time to leave for that place where theres no sorrow in the air But one February evening, as snow battered the village green, old Eleanor prayed long by her bed, then said, Call the vicarits my time now.

Her face pale as the winter drifts outside.

The family hurried, wanting to be present for her passing. The vicar came, prayers were read, and, for a day, Eleanor lay unmoving, taking neither water nor bread, barely breathingbut not gone yet.

Then the front door banged opena gust of cold air and a babys squall.

Quiet, pleaseGran is dying in here.

I cant hush a newbornshe wont know not to cry!

It was her granddaughter, Claire, back from hospital in town, red-faced baby in arms, left alone with Eleanor after everyone dashed off to work. Claire, new to motherhood, clumsy, her milk only just coming inand the baby shrieked loud enough to wake the dead, certainly enough to disturb a would-be dying.

Eleanor stirred. Her clouded eyes brightened, and, with an effort, she slipped bare feet out of bed, searching for slippers. When the family came home early from work to say their last goodbyes, they found Eleanor, not ghostly or gone, but pacing briskly, rocking her cooing, newly-content great-granddaughter, while the mother, Claire, finally slept.

Alexandra closed the book, smiling at her husband.

My great-grandmother, Vera Eleanor, adored me so much, she simply refused to die then and there. She used to hum, Its too soon for dying yettheres still work to do at home!

She went on to live another ten years, helping raise meher only great-grandchild.

Father Bernard smiled back at his wife, an unspoken warmth filling the room.