Mother: The Heart and Soul of Our Lives

Andrew Barker married at twentyfour. His wife, Mabel, was twentytwo. She was the only childborn lateto a professor and a schoolmistress. Within a year they welcomed two rambunctious boys, and a little girl followed shortly after.

Mabels mother, Margaret Sinclair, had retired and taken charge of the grandchildren. Andrews relationship with her was peculiar; he called her Mrs. Sinclair, and she answered with a courteous but distant you, always using his full name. They never quarreled, yet in her presence Andrew felt a cold, uncomfortable chill. Still, Margaret never meddled, speaking to him with marked respect and keeping a firm, neutral stance between him and his wife.

A month earlier the firm where Andrew worked went bust, and he was made redundant. Over dinner Mabel dropped, With Mums pension and my wages we wont get far, Andy. You need to find work. Easy to sayfind work! He spent thirty days knocking on doors and got nothing.

In a fit of irritation Andrew kicked an empty beer crate. Thank heavens Margaret stayed quiet, but she shot him a meaningful glance.

Before the wedding he had overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.

Darling, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your whole life with?
Mum, of course!
I think you dont grasp the full responsibility. If my husband were still alive
Mum, enough! We love each other and everything will be fine!
Will the children be provided for? Can you afford them?
Ill manage, Mum.
Its not too late to rethink, Mabel. Think about his family
Mum, I love him!
Oh, youd better not be left holding the bag!

The time has come to bite the bullet, Andrew muttered, a sour smile on his lips. Margaret stared as if looking into water.

He didnt feel like going home. He imagined his wife pretending to comfort him, saying Dont worry, tomorrow will be better, while his motherinlaw sighed and judged silently, and the kids asked with a grin, Dad, found a job yet? Hearing that over and over was unbearable.

He walked along the Thames promenade, sat on a bench in a park, and later, as night fell, drove out to the family cottage they used from May to September. One window in the bedroom glowed Margarets. He crept along the pathway, the curtain flickered, and Andrew sat down, landing squarely on a stump.

Margaret peeked out: Andrews been gone a long time. Did you call, Mabel?
Yes, Mum, but the line was dead. He probably still hasnt found work and is wandering somewhere.
Her voice turned to ice: Mabel, dont you dare speak of the father of your children that way!
Oh, Mum, come off it! I just think Andy is being a fool and not really looking for work. Hes been at home on my back for a month!

For the first time in six years, Andrew heard his motherinlaw slam her fist on the table and raise her voice: Dont you dare speak of your husband like that! What did you promise when you got married? through sickness and sorrow! to stand by his side!

His wife murmured apologetically: Mum, Im sorry. Please dont worry, alright? Im just exhausted. Forgive me, dear.
Fine, go to bed, Margaret Sinclair waved wearily.

The lights went out. She paced the room, pulled the curtain aside, stared into the darkness, then lifted her eyes to the ceiling, crossed herself fervently: Lord Almighty, merciful Father, protect my grandsons father, my daughters husband! Do not let him lose faith in himself! Help him, Lord, my dear boy!

She whispered and crossed herself, tears streaming down her cheeks.

A hot knot grew in Andrews chest. No one had ever prayed for himneither his stern mother, a lifelong civil servant, nor his fatherwho had vanished when Andrew was about five. Hed grown up in creches and afterschool clubs, then school, then university, where he immediately got a jobhis mother would not tolerate idleness and believed he could fend for himself.

The heat rose, swelling until it burst, spilling unwanted, stingy tears. He recalled how, in the mornings, Margaret rose before anyone else and baked pies he loved, simmered hearty stews, and her dumplings and crumpets were simply divine. She tended the children, kept the house tidy, planted in the garden, made jams, pickled cucumbers and cabbage for winter, and other preserves

Why had he never noticed? Why never praised? He and Mabel simply worked and raised children, assuming that was enough. Or perhaps he thought that. He remembered a night when the whole family watched a documentary about Australia, and Margaret sighed, saying shed always dreamed of seeing that distant continent. He chuckled that it was too hot there and no one would let a lady in an icy armor through

Andrew sat under the window for a long time, clutching his head.

In the morning he and his wife came down to breakfast on the veranda, surveyed the tablepies, jam, tea, milk, smiling children with bright eyes. He lifted his gaze and said softly, Good morning, Mum.
Margaret shivered, paused, then replied, Good morning, Andy dear!

Two weeks later Andrew secured a job, and a year after that he sent Margaret Sinclair on a holiday to Australia, despite her fierce objections.