There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Grandma Violet fumbled with the gate, struggled to the doo…

Theres Still Work to Be Done at Home

Granny Violet struggled to open the old garden gate and wobbled her way to the front door. After fiddling with the rusty lock for quite a while, she finally stepped inside her cold, draughty cottage and sank onto a rickety chair by the unlit fireplace.

There was an empty, musty smell in the air. Shed only been away three months, but the rafters already hung thick with cobwebs, and the antique chair creaked in protest. The wind moaned down the chimney, as if the whole house grumbled: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you think would look after me? How are we to manage through the winter now?

Hold on, my love, just a moment more, she murmured to the old walls. Ill get the fire going soon, and well warm up again

Just a year ago, Granny Violet had bustled about her old house: whitewashing, touching up paint, lugging in buckets of water. Her tiny, sprightly self was always to be found somewherebowing before her beloved icons, busy at the hearth, or darting into the garden to plant, weed, and water.

And the house, alive with her energy, would answerfloorboards cheerfully creaked under swift feet, doors and windows flung open at the first touch of her small, work-worn hands, and the oven turned out golden pies. Granny Violet and her cottage had always made a grand pair.

Her husband had gone early. Shed raised three children all on her own and saw to their education and futures. One son was a merchant navy captain; the other, a colonel in the army. Both lived far away and only visited once in a blue moon.

Only her youngest, Emily, had stayed on in the village, working as the chief farm manager. She was always dashing about with her work, popping in on Sundays to taste Grannys piesthen off again for another week.

Her solace was her granddaughter, Lucy. Truth be told, Lucy was practically raised by Granny.

And what a girl Lucy turned out to be! A true beautyclear, large grey eyes and a cascade of golden, wavy hair nearly to her waist. When shed tie it up, curls would tumble over her shoulders, and local lads would be transfixed, jaws dropping in awe. She had an elegant figure and poise rare in country girls.

Granny Violet, though shed been quite pretty in her youth, had to admit that, side by side in old photos, she looked like a shepherdess beside a queen.

Clever as well, Lucy was. Shed gone off to university in London, studied agricultural economics, and returned to the village to work. She married a vet, and as part of a new family scheme, was given a proper brick housepractically a manor compared to most.

Only, Grannys own cottage was surrounded by thriving fruit trees and flowers, a remnant of years of care, while Lucys new house had little more than a few spindly shoots in the garden. Lucy, though a country lass, wasnt much for tilling soil; Granny had always shielded her from cold drafts and hard work. Then little Alfie came along, her newborn son, leaving Lucy with no time for gardens at all.

So, Lucy began begging Granny to come and live with themCome on Gran, the house is big, its got all mod cons, no need to stoke a fire And, now at eighty and her strength fading, Granny Violet finally agreed.

She stayed with Lucy for a few months. But then, one day, overheard:

Gran, you know I love you dearly, but youre always just sitting there! All your life, you were busyhere youve just settled down. I want to start a proper home with animals, and I need your help

But I cant, love, my legs dont work as they used to Ive grown old.

Hmph Youre only old since you came to stay

And so, when Granny couldnt live up to expectations, she was gently but firmly sent home.

The sense of failureletting down her beloved Lucyleft Granny Violet bedridden. Her legs, worn thin from years of work, now barely shuffled her from bed to table, never mind over to her beloved village church.

Father James, their vicar, soon came calling. Hed known Violet as the life and soul of the parish, always helping out with the ancient church. Now, he quietly surveyed the frosty cottage, noticing the poor heating, the worn cardigan and headscarf, the scuffed old slippers that even the neatest of housekeepers would have found a disgrace.

Father James sighed; she needed company and help. Maybe Anna, the neighbour, twenty years her junior?

He set some bread, biscuits, and half a warm fish pie (a gift from his wife Alexandra) on the table, rolled up his sleeves, emptied the fireplace, brought in armfuls of logs, stoked a roaring fire, and put a battered old kettle on for tea.

Oh, my dear I mean, Father, please help me with the addresses on these envelopes. My shaky handwriting would never see these reach my boys!

Father James sat and wrote the addresses, letting his eyes skate over the uneven letters of her letters home. Written large and trembling: Im keeping ever so well, my dearest. We have everything here, thank God!

But every page was marked with watery inkblotsthe sort that only salty tears make.

Anna checked in and helped about, Father James offered regular communion, and on feast days, Annas husband, old sailor Uncle Pete, would bundle Violet up and bring her to church on his motorbike. So life found its own quiet path again.

Lucy didnt visit, and a couple of years later, fell ill. It started as a stomach complaint, but turned out to be lung cancer. Lucy wasted away within six months.

Her husband, devastated, practically lived at the cemetery, drowning his sorrow. Their four-year-old, Alfie, was left neglected and hungry.

Emily took little Alfie in, but with her job as chief farm manager, she had little time for care. The decision was made to send Alfie to a boarding school in town.

It was a good place: energetic headmaster, decent food, children could go home on weekends. Not the same as home, but Emily had few choices; her job kept her late and retirement was a long way away.

Thats when Granny Violet turned up at Emilys, riding in Uncle Petes old motorbike sidecar. Staunch and determined, they made quite a sight.

Ill take Alfie with me, Granny Violet declared.

Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage with a little boy? Hell need proper meals and clean clothes!

As long as I draw breath, Alfie wont go to an orphanage, Granny answered, with quiet finality.

Surprised at her mothers resolve, Emily fell silent and packed Alfies things.

Uncle Pete drove the two back, carrying them inside almost single-handed. Neighbours shook their heads:

Whats she thinking? Poor old soul, half-crippled, now brings home a child! Not a puppy to be cared for What will become of them?

After Sunday service, Father James came by, full of worry: would he find an old woman unable to cope, and a neglected child?

Instead, he found the house warm and toasty, the fire blazing. Alfie, content and clean, listened to old nursery records. And there was Granny Violet, lively and bustling as evergreasing a tray, kneading dough, whisking eggs into curdher ill legs moving as nimbly as before her illness.

Father, darling! Im just baking some cheese scones Sit down, wont you, and Ill send a little treat for Alexandra and young Thomas

Father James returned home, stunned by what hed seen, and recounted it to his wife.

Alexandra pondered a while, then reached for a thick blue notebook from the shelf and found the right page:

Old Eleanor had lived her good, long life. All her dreams, loves, and hopes lay quiet under a snowy blanket outside. It was her time to go, she said. But one dreary February evening, as she prayed before her icons, she lay down, telling her family to fetch the vicarIm ready for my final rest.

Her face grew pale as the snowdrifts on the windowsills.

The family fetched the vicar; Eleanor confessed, took communionand lay for a day, neither eating nor drinking. Only her gentle breathing showed life remained.

Suddenly, the hall door burst open, a sharp chill in the air, and a babys cry.

Hush now, Grans dying in here!
I cant quiet a newborn, shes just here from the hospital and doesnt know the rules yet

Eleanors granddaughter, Ruth, not long returned from the maternity ward, had only just arrived. Milk wasnt fully in, and Ruth, exhausted, couldnt settle her daughter. The babys wails filled the cottage, disturbing Eleanors peaceful departure.

But then, the nearly departed Eleanor raised her head, her cloudy gaze brightened. She forced herself up from bed, grasping the floor for slippers.

When her family returnedrushing back from work, fearing the end had comethey found Eleanor, backwards from the brink, livelier than ever. Shed quite changed her mind about dying, and now paced the parlour gently rocking her granddaughters baby, while Ruth, worn out, finally napped.

Alexandra closed the diary, smiling at her husband.

My great-grandmother, Vera Eleanor, loved me fiercelyand simply couldnt bring herself to pass on. She used to sing, Its much too soon for farewells, there are still things left to do at home! She lived another ten years, helping Mumyour mother-in-law, Ruthraise me, her cherished great-grandchild.

Father James smiled right back. And so, life taught them all: sometimes, all thats needed to keep going is someone to love, someone who needs you, and work still left to do at home.