Different People: The Story of Allie, the Daughter Who Came Hard-Won, and Semen and Marina, the Pare…

All sorts of folk

Little Charlotte was a curious child, both in spirit and in circumstance. Her parents, George and Janet, knew theyd spoiled her utterly, but how could it have been otherwise? Charlotte was so beautiful, so delicate, and their struggle to have her had been like climbing up the side of a lighthouse in a gale. For years, Janets belly remained silent. Theyd visited every doctor in London and even an old herbalist on the outskirts, but every white coat and every grey-haired wise woman told them, in that roundabout English way, that all was as it should be.

But of course, if all was in order, where was their baby? Finally, they listened to an old chap in a knitted waistcoat who whispered of a lady in Cornwall, celebrated for her odd potions and weepy stories of hope. Off they went, the pair of them, and sure enough, the old woman handed Janet a bottle of something that smelt like rain on a compost heap. A few drops every day, shed said, looking over her glasses, and you might find luck turns your way. So Janet wrinkled her nose and drank dutifully, and lo and behold, became pregnant. Their joy was like bells pealing across a sunlit meadow. Georges laughter could be heard through the hedgerows.

Pregnancy was a stormy sea, though, and George truly thought several times that Janet would never see the lighthouse at the end. She was badly sick, couldnt stand the smell of toast or the sight of roses, her hands swollen until rings and gloves became tortures. Janet slept little, venturing outside only to watch the rain in silence. When the time came, George, breathless with hope, was sure the worst was over, but after ten solid hours of desperate pain, the doctors shook their heads. They cut Charlotte free, pale and weary, with Janet teetering at deaths threshold for two endless nights. But fortune held. Janet recovered and, after a month in the childrens ward, she and Charlotte finally came home, George giddy with relief, ready to bathe his daughter in love, as if happiness itself lived under the eaves of their little flat.

Now, surely, life would be sweetan English rose of a family, everything just so.

When Charlotte turned five, George returned home, planted himself in an armchair across from Janet, and declared, Janet, we need to set about building a house. How can we go on living three abreast in a one-bedroom flat? Charlotte will need her own room. Every little English girl deserves that. Janet was always his confidante, but now she faltered. Where would such money come from?

Ive it all worked out. We wont rush it. A brick here, a window there. Little by littlesteady as she goes. Janet realised he was entirely right. A home of our ownthats the dream, she thought, what every proper family hopes for.

But fates hand trembled. Within six months, Charlotte grew deathly illfrom a sniffle to an ear infection and on to worse. For nearly three years, Janet and Charlotte lived in a blur of hospitals from Birmingham to Bath. The family borrowed from near and far; the debts mounted higher than hedges. But Charlotte recovered. By the time she was a teenager, the house plans and dreams had grown dusty in a drawerno more talk of new wallpaper or garden roses, not when every shilling counted.

Charlotte became independent, so Janet sought work at the factory for better pay, pinning hopes that with two wages, perhaps Georges dream might flicker again one day. They repaid their debts only when Charlotte reached fourteen. And as she grew, so did her wantsa new dress, a woollen coat like Maddys, the flutter of anticipation before every graduation dance. Janet and George saved what they could. Let Charlotte finish her schooling, Janet would whisper to herself, watching her daughters growing world. Shell go off to university, and then perhaps…

And yet, as ever, life took its own route. Off Charlotte wentto study in Manchesterleaving George and Janet quietly proud, standing outside in the cold to watch her train. In those two years, George managed to raise the shell of a house: walls up but boards for windows and makeshift doorsenough to make the outlines of a true home.

Time drifted on.

On a day that smelt of summer thunder, George and Janet returned from the unfinished house, exhausted but thrilledtheyd fitted two windows, the place slightly less drafty. The doorbell startled them, and when Janet opened it, her shriek cut the evening. There was Charlotte, belly round as the moon, trailed by a lank-haired youth biting his fingernails.

Charlotte, whats all this? Janet asked, eyes on her daughters stomach.

Oh, dont be silly, Mum. Me and Leo are having a baby. By the way, this is Leo. Hes moving in, toowere getting hitched.

Leo nodded wordlessly, chewing his gum with the solemnity of a cow in a meadow.

Janet stepped aside to let them in, and the whole odd party gathered round the table, a strange celebration. George was the first to speak, breaking the silence like a dropped teacup.

Charlotte, why the secret? Couldnt you have said something?

What for? Charlotte tossed her hair. So I could listen to your lectures?

And your studies?

Ill do without, thanks. Leo left university after the first term, and hes managing fine.

George eyed Leo, who only shrugged and returned to his deep contemplations.

And where does our Leo work, then, sans education? George pressed on.

Dad, must you? Nowhere at the minute. Just hasnt found his callingthats all.

Right, George said, the conversation crumbling into awkwardness.

Later that night, George spoke to Janet on the edge of sleep. Janet, I think we ought to move into the house. Fix up a room, carry on as we can, and let the young ones have the flat. Call it a wedding present.

Janet agreedit all made strange, dreamlike sense.

The young couple were delighted. George and Janet took only the essentials, leaving the rest for Charlotte and Leofurniture and odd pots so they wouldnt rattle around in empty rooms.

The house itself was little more than a shelter against the wind, but Janet kept cheerfulshed come home from work, boil potatoes in a cracked pan, haul water from the village pump down the road, and then help George mix mortar in the twilight. Sometimes Charlotte would turn up asking for a fiver or two, and though money was always tightthe building swallowing it upthey never turned her away.

George bit his tongue for as long as he could. Visiting Charlotte and Leo one rainy Sunday, he finally snapped.

So, Leo still hasnt found work?

Dad, he cant just slog at some building site for pennies, can he?

Why not? Doesnt he realise hes got a family to feed?

Leo finally looked up, blue eyes blank as the sky. I just didnt figure on hauling bricks and mixing cement, thats all.

So you thought family life would drop from the clouds, everything falling into your lap?

When they turned to leave, Charlotte stomped after them.

Why should Leo help you build the house, Dad? None of this was his idea!

At home, Janet slipped Charlotte some crisp notes in the hallway. George saw, but said nothinghis heart too weary to argue.

A week later, Leo found a job as a junior clerk in a nondescript office. The pay was meagre, but it was something. The parents were quietly relieveda bit of responsibility wouldnt go amiss.

As George and Janet worked their plot of earth, a boy from the house behind often watched from the shadowsa lad of ten or so, owl-eyed and bashful. He lived with his grandmother in an apple-tangled cottage barely visible through the trees. One evening, George invited him over, and Janet poured him a mug of tea and a saucer of digestives.

Hello, lad, whats your name?

Im Oliver, he stammered, cheeks pink as roses.

So they had a chatabout nothing and everything, as English neighbours do. Turned out Olivers parents had died when he was small, and his grandmother, old and fragile, often took to her bed. But Oliver cared for her without complaint.

As he left: Mister George, can I come and help you sometimes? Its summer, schools out. I get a bit lonely.

Of course, ladevery hand makes light work. Your granny wont mind?

Not at allshes glad Im busy.

Soon, Oliver was a fixturefetching tools, passing bricks, taking directions like a duck to water. George would tease Janet, Look at us nowfinally a good helper who knows a brick from a stone.

Janet grinned and wandered over to Olivers granny, known as Mrs. Potts. She was as pleasant and sharp as strong hot tea. Janet asked if she minded Oliver helping with the house, and Mrs. Potts only laughed.

Why not, love? Better to learn a trade than to while away the hours with the birds and bees. Hell pick up skills from your Georgelooks a handy sort, he does.

Janet beamed at George, still her rock after all these years, and thought with a pang that Charlotte never found someone with quite the same grit.

Later, Janet invited Mrs. Potts over for tea in the garden. We always have a pot on in the eveningsyou must join us. And from then on, their twilights were filled with talkGeorge and Oliver debating how to run the plumbing, the women sharing secrets and laughter until the bats were out.

Then, one foggy morning, Charlotte delivered her baby. George and Janet dashed to the hospital with a bag of apples, some baby vests, and even Leo, now surprisingly awake and bearing flowers. Returning home, they hosted a little celebrationneighbours in tow, Mrs. Potts congratulating them as though the Queen herself had knighted them.

They settled the new family back in their little flat. Leo found his feet at last; he stopped drinking, put together the cot, even learned to boil an egg. Janet visited often to help, but one day overheard Leo grumbling: Why does your mum have to come over all the time? You can manage, surely. We need our own family life, not constant interference.

Janet didnt mention it at home, but stopped coming round except to leave treats at the door. Charlotte must have sensed her mothers absence, but never askedher own nerves were fraying.

As the years tumbled on, George and Oliver became inseparablebuilding, planting, painting. When Olivers school term neared, George took him into town and bought him a new blazer and satchel; Mrs. Potts cried with gratitude, and George hugged the boy, Daft, really. I think of Oliver as a son now.

One winter night, not long after Janet and George had finally reached retirement, Oliver came running, pale as frost. Mrs. Potts, at eighty-five, had fallen dreadfully ill. Janet hurried next door, finding the old woman tucked up peacefully. She died that night.

After the funeral, George petitioned the council to become Olivers legal guardian; with a few forms and not much fuss, it was done. Oliver left the risk of the orphanage behind and was promised a small allowance by social services. Meanwhile, Charlottes little flat had grown crowded: Leos sister and her baby had arrived when thrown out by her husband. Charlotte did not complain, however, and her parents wisely kept their distance. Oliver, meanwhile, became family in a way Charlotte never quite managed: always ready with help, never letting Janet carry her own shopping.

When it came time for university, both George and Janet quietly determined to help Oliver succeed. But he surprised themfinding a job in the evenings to support himself, and every weekend hed come home with little gifts for his adoptive parents.

Then, suddenly, Janet fell illgrowing tired, losing weight. George was wide-eyed with worry; Janet was only sixty, so much left to live. Reluctantly, she agreed to a hospital stay. The doctors words cut through Georges mind like the sharp wind: advanced cancer, barely half a year left.

George phoned Charlotte, throat tight. Charlotte, your mums ill. Shes dying.

I see. Well, Ill try to visit tomorrow, Dad, and put the phone down, leaving George with an odd sense of loss, as though something terrible had shifted.

Charlotte visited once. When Janet came home, barely able to sit upright, the doctor warned shed soon need full care.

George braced himself. He called Charlotte, voice trembling. Could you come, love? Im not strong enough to bathe your mum alone.

Dad, must I? I cant be dashing across the county every day. Ill try, but no promises.

George waited the whole day, but she never came. He muddled through the night, doing his best, weeping with Janet as she apologised for the pain and the weight she was to him.

A month later, Janet passed away, quietly, holding Georges hand. Oliver, then twenty-two, wept openly for his lost Mum Janet. George never said a word to Charlottethere seemed nothing left to say.

Oliver returned to his old town, found a room, and a job in his field. Still, he visited most weekends, never empty-handed, always with affection, refusing every offer to stay instead of paying rent. Charlotte rarely visitedonly for the odd loan or to scout the house with wistful eyes, thinking of how she and Leo might spread out in real rooms one day.

George grew frail, feeling his heart falter, time slipping away in a haze of tablets and advice from neighbours he barely remembered. Oliver, seeing this, scolded gently, You must let the doctors look at you, please. But George would only chuckle, Its only old bones, lad.

One evening, the pain stabbed so fiercely that George struggled to breathe. He rang Charlotte, barely whispering, Love, my heart’s failing…

She sighed. Take a pill or call for an ambulance. I cant rush over now. And rang off.

With a shudder, George dialled Oliver instead.

Ollie, Im sorry lad, but I think somethings badly wrong.

Im coming now, George. Hang on.

Oliver arrived, bringing with him his fiancée, Elliea calm, kind-hearted nurse. After examining George, she called the ambulance herself, neither fussing nor panicking. Together, they accompanied him to hospital, visiting every dayEllie bringing soup, Oliver telling stories.

Soon, George was ready to come home and, again, it was Oliver and Ellie who collected himnot Charlotte, who suggested, Just get a taxi. Ellie settled George on the sofa, filled the larder, and left instructions for dinner.

Just rest up, Mr. GeorgeIll cook enough for a couple of days.

He grinned; how comforting it was, being fussed over. Charlotte visited the next day, flitting about, making comments.

Charlotte, you didnt even visit me at hospital, George broke down.

Oh, Dad, stop making a fuss. Would it really have helped? Youre always after sympathy.

Dont raise your voice to me. Your mum was dying and you never came. Now mesame again. Sometimes I wonder if youre even our daughter at all.

Charlotte erupted, Im sick of your whining! When will you die already? Were crammed into a shoebox while you rattle around in this mansion. Really, its shameful. Youre a wasted old man.

So that was it. George, oddly calm, expected nothing less at this stage. He waited for the night, hoping to dream of Janetshed visited his dreams often lately.

When morning came, George called Oliver. Ollie, think you could find a solicitor who does house visits?

Of course, George. Everything all right?

Oh, yes. Just sorting a few things.

By three, the solicitor arrived, assisted George with his wishes, raising a brow now and then but working quietly and efficiently.

When the business was done, George sat down to pen a letter.

Ollie, if youre reading this, Im probably with Janet at last. Dont fret, ladI only wish you and Ellie every happiness. I think of you as my son. This house is yours, for you and your bride, a wedding presentso dont argue. After all, your hands have built these walls, and you have cared for me as any son would. Janet and I agreedthis is yours.

Feeling curiously light, George tucked the letter and a photo of him and Janet in an envelope, lay down on the sofa, and drifted off, running his hand over the faded image, remembering walks under blossom trees, and laughter in rain.

When Oliver and Ellie arrived the next afternoon, the house was silent. For the first time, George wasnt waiting at the garden gate. The door was unlocked; inside, George lay peacefully, the photograph clasped in his hands. Ellie shook her head gently. Oliver dropped the bag of groceries, apples and oranges rolling away, and sank to his knees, tears streaming from his face.

The world blurred. Later, as Charlotte and Leo prowled the house with a tape measure, Oliver found the letter. He read it, eyes wet, then passed it to Ellie, who urged Charlotte to read as well.

Charlotte glanced through, face reddening. Senile old fool! Hes lost his wits, leaving the house to you. Well see about this. She stormed out the door, her curses bitter as gale-winds across the moors.