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Isn’t it a pleasant day for this time of year, my dear? I thought we’d seen the last of sunshine like this. Of course, I’ve brought my coat out with me because if the weather turns, the temperature will drop. I can’t say I’m in the mood for much hard labour today. There may appear to be so much to do, but nature hasn’t finished with the season yet, and sometimes it’s best to wait it out, see what it’s got left. The second showings are still in force, I cannot imagine they’ll last much longer so I’ll let it finish in its own time. Then, if we start with the big stuff like that purple buddleia, if we chop it low to create some space and let other things die back naturally, then we can see what we’re left with. Somehow, that buddleia is still flowering. Not a lot, because I didn’t prune it after its first flowering, and so it’s covered in seed-heads, but it has still managed to find a little more space for a few more flowers. And there’s a butterfly on that one. It looks bedraggled, doesn’t it? As if someone has pulled the brightly coloured scales from its sides. No one tells you that butterflies lose their colour if they live long enough, do they? Ageing, one more thing that no one likes to talk about.
Autumn is misunderstood, if you ask me. Too many people focus on the passing of summer, feeling the loss of youth and joy, and dreading the coming darkness, the cold, the end of the year. But that’s only one way to think of it. For me, it’s about reaping the rewards of our labour, harvesting the crop, gaining the bounty we’ve earned and admiring our achievements, knowing they’ll sustain us through the harder times to come. Life is largely about perspective, my dear. You can see getting older as a bad thing, as decaying or disintegrating, or you can see it as a solace, as a prize for getting this far. Learn to accept what you have, be careful what you wish for.
*******
There are traditions which everybody keeps to, like Christmas, and then there are customs which are more particular to some than others. In our family, it was harvest festival that was unusually important to us. Gran had celebrated every year, the only time she’d willingly enter a church. Nature was her god, she’d said, and harvest was its special day. It used to be a locally arranged ritual, depending upon how late the season ran and how swiftly the farmers brought their crops in. No one rejoiced while there was still work to be done, but then they had an almighty party. Of course, it had changed a little by the time Mother started taking me to Gran’s for the harvest festival. It was a trip we made together every year, whether I wanted to or not. She never took the boys, it was something she and I did, she said it helped bond us together.
Without Gran, our tradition passed into our history. I found traveling with twins to be difficult, and Mother didn’t want to start caring for my children just as her own were becoming adults. She had other ideas for the second showing of her life. The older my children became, the more I understood her stance. But she was not as close with her granddaughters as I had been with my grandmother. Time builds connections, tradition builds longevity into our relationships and so, I was always seeking to convince Mother to spend more time with us, as a family.
The tenant in Gran’s house left a few weeks before the harvest festival, and it was too perfect an opportunity to allow to pass. We would be together for a long weekend, all four of us. We weren’t to know it would be the first and last time we would do this. I didn’t know I would be arrested in a few months’ time. Lucy didn’t know she’d be having a baby the following year. But this was October 1980, my girls weren’t children anymore, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before they both moved on to the next phases of their life. It was time for me to think about my own transition, and Mother was the perfect person to discuss this with.
Mother arrived first, so the house was well aired when I arrived with the girls, the fire was roaring, the kettle was boiling. Mother made hot chocolate while we admired the ‘improvements’ she’d made since our last visit. It was a simple house still, but an extension contained a modern bathroom which, I admit, was a welcome addition. I took my mug outside, blowing to cool it while standing in the rear yard, allowing my memories to flood back. The herb bed had been poorly maintained by the gardener, I was glad I had removed all the plants I wanted and built my own bed on the allotment. The shed where chickens once lived was now derelict but had yet to be torn down. I remembered the clucking hens, Gran and her poker, the feel of the cockerel’s feathers as I stroked him. I set off in search of the apple tree which had consumed the spirit of the murderous fox. Nature takes everything it wants, it’ll have its way and give back what it chooses. We were fortunate that it had delivered for us that year. The pumpkin patch promised a good crop and the sunflowers were standing tall. I was pleased, we had everything we needed to celebrate Harvest, the way Gran would have done.
I was grateful for a weekend away to think things through. I knew I was ready for a change. I had settled into my life as a single mother with teenaged girls, and I thought I had done this well, all things considered. But my girls were ready to fly from my nest, neither would be living at home for much longer. What would I do then? It was a big question, one which had started troubling me as long as two years before, and which had only grown in the meantime. Gran had made this place her home for her later years, Mother had become political when her boys left home. What sort of life did I want when my girls flew away? I hadn’t found myself another husband, I didn’t want to have more children. I wanted some independence, a life no one could take away from me. As I wandered Gran’s patch and mourned the passing of her life and her legacy, I felt my own ideas slot into place. The tenant leaving Gran’s house provided me with the excuse I needed, to make some firm plans to claim my rightful inheritance.
*******
Long gone were the days when I would wait for the girls to go to sleep before chatting about adult matters. Their teenager body clocks didn’t work like that. They stayed up with the owls, long after Mother and I were able to keep our eyes open. We yawned away in front of the fire, before leaving them watching television and turning in early. The beauty of this arrangement was that Mother and I were awake at dawn, though this wasn’t as impressive as it sounds as this was mid-October, only two weeks before the clocks went back. But this was our private time, as the girls could be relied upon to sleep until lunch if I allowed, and I was inclined to do so. They would be better company for lying in, and as this weekend was their treat as well, I saw no reason to hustle them out of bed.
I made us a pot of porridge and encouraged Mother outside onto the new patio. The slabs were one of Mother’s ‘improvements’, running along the side of the house and reaching a small lawn which had replaced Gran’s raspberry canes. There was a small table with two chairs, positioned perfectly to bask in the morning rays. Although we needed to wrap up warm, the feeling of the sun on our faces as we ate our breakfast and drank our tea was heavenly.
“I could do this every day,” I said, “don’t you love it here? The air smells different, I swear it does.”
“True. It’s a lovely getaway, you know, I think people might pay to come here for a holiday. I never understood how Ma could stand to live here, though. No one else for miles around, can you imagine? Who did she speak to all day?”
“I think that was the point, Mother. For Gran, it was about her connection with the land rather than with other people. Besides, you’re never alone if you have a cat.” We shared a smile over one of Gran’s favourite sayings, and consumed our breakfast in reflective peace for a few moments.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my future, you see, what I’m going to do when the girls move out.”
“Well, they do seem to be taking their time, don’t they? You were married to Frank by the time you were as old as they are now, and look at them, they’re lounging around like over-sized kids. Are they ever planning on leaving home?”
“You say that now, but they’re nineteen next month. Carol will marry Joel next year I’m sure, and Lucy... Oh, who knows where Lucy will be, but I know where she won’t be and that’s staying at home with me. It won’t be long before I’m at home alone with Frieda.” Frieda was my cat at that time. “I think it’s time to plan what I’m going to do, once they’ve gone.”
“Maureen, if what you’re asking is whether I’ll hold true to my end of our bargain, then of course I will. This house is yours as soon as you’re ready to move into it.”
I nodded along, never really doubting her but pleased nonetheless to hear her confirm it.
“Gives me a good excuse to let it short-term for a while, make some money out of it while I can.”
I laughed along with her, then paused for a dramatic deep breath before continuing.
“It would be so lovely to be here, to smell this fresh air each day, look out over the fields, watch the birds. Delightful,” I said, dreamily swaying over my cup of tea, “I could re-create Gran’s herb bed, re-plant some raspberries, get myself a few hens.”
“Don’t go getting ahead of yourself just yet. If you want to do this, you’ll have to face up to the mess your paperwork is in. Your house is still in Frank’s name, I presume?”
“It is.” It was normal in the 1960s for wives not to be added to the house deeds, and mine were no different. “I know, it won’t be pleasant, but it is time, I think.”
“More than time. Eight years, is it? Plenty long enough for an abandonment divorce. Or are you thinking about trying to declare him dead? Might be simpler, you know, in the long run.”
“Not sure yet Mother, I’ll have to think about it.” As I’m sure she knew, I’d thought a lot about it over the years, I just hadn’t made a decision yet.
Mother was smart enough to understand I was at a turning point in my life, she’d had a few of those herself over the years. So she was down to business with me, and before the porridge had congealed, and long before the girls were up, I had a plan. Not a particularly detailed one, but simple enough that it might work. The hardest part of it would be telling the girls about it. Mother and I couldn’t decide on the best approach, and so I left her sunning herself in the weak sunshine, and I went to do some digging and some thinking.
*******
Mother never said she knew Frank was dead, and she certainly never said she knew I’d buried him on the allotment. But she never seemed curious as to what had happened to him, and she never seemed surprised. Not when we had this chat, not when I was arrested, not when I refused to answer any questions about Frank’s death. All she ever gave me was a knowing half-smile and she’d change the subject. It would be projecting too much to say she knew everything, maybe one of my girls had let something slip, perhaps she preferred not to know. Either way, she didn’t ask me to explain myself to her, and she didn’t judge me for the choices I’d made. Not for marrying Frank, not for wanting to move on with my life, not for killing him. She understood far better than my girls ever could.
My girls could not comprehend how much the world had changed in the space of a few decades, could not appreciate how different their choices were to mine. The situation I had with the house was a perfect example of this. Declaring Frank dead, or filing for divorce, they were my options, things I’d known I’d need to do some day. Was there a better way? I’m sure there was. But sometimes, you have to accept the inevitable is coming. I couldn’t keep living as I was, I didn’t want to, I wanted to live at Gran’s, amongst the fields and the trees, with my land outside my door, not miles away like the allotment was. It was the girls I worried about. Our pact had held until now, but this would be its first test for years. I was not daft enough to believe they wouldn’t be upset over this. They were young when Frank died, they’d have their own ideas about what happened, have a settled memory of it. When I disturbed that, they would see their dad’s death through young-adult eyes, ones which did not yet appreciate how much more there was for them to learn.
I generally think life has its way with you, and you have to take the rough with the smooth. You can’t keep all your good decisions and all your good luck, and swap out all the bad. You get what you get. So I don’t spend much time thinking, what if? But of all the moments in my life, this is the one which seems to be the least inevitable, and which would make the greatest difference if I could change it. Perhaps I’m being simple now, but I think this was the moment when my ambition and my greed got the better of me, and I ended up paying for that. I was nearly forty years old, and I was as confident as my daughters were that I knew everything there was to know, that I hadn’t anything left to learn about life. What a fool I was.
*******
Saturday’s dinner was our main celebration together. We planned to eat lots of food, share a few glasses of wine, and prepare our offering for the church’s festival in the morning. Gran’s pumpkin pie was legendary, and Mother had not only inherited her recipe but her baking skills, as well. Both had been successfully passed to me, but my children were hopeless. When I admitted they didn’t know how to make Gran’s pumpkin pie, Mother was determined to teach my girls how it was done. I thought it would be a good bonding opportunity for them. I put myself in charge of the wine, topping everyone’s glass regularly so that I could indulge myself without scrutiny. Wine had become an occasional treat for me since Frank died, and I returned to it with pleasure.
“Now, you want to knead the pastry a little, girls, but not too much. You need to build up its strength, get some air into its lungs, but not allow it to get too big for its boots.”
I had no idea what Mother was talking about, and from the look on her face, neither did Carol.
“Oh yes, Lily, I see, what a wonderful way to think about it,” gushed Lucy. She faced me across the table, flour up to her elbows, hair falling from her bun into her eyes, smiling, eager to please.
“That’s good, Lucy, you’ve got the knack for it, I think, I’m not surprised of course, born baker you are. No, Carol. Not like that. You aren’t angry with the pastry, you’re rubbing some love into it. Like this.”
“What are you going on about Nan? How ridiculous.” Carol turned away to wash her hands, her way of announcing she was finished with the pastry, and finished with Mother. She didn’t see the tightening of Mother’s brow or the deep breath she took to still her tongue, but Carol knew what she was doing. ‘Rubbing some love into it,’ truth be told, I saw her point, who knows what it meant. But it didn’t bode well for our weekend away that Carol had sniped at Mother in this way.
“Not ridiculous, Carol, why not come and try again? I’m sure Lily will help you get it right.” One day, of course, Lucy would lose her patience but for now, she played the peacekeeper.
The four of us were together in a small house for three days and there’s nothing like spending time together to show the bonds and the fractures within a family. I poured more wine, proposed a toast to Gran and, as the glasses clinked and our heads tipped, the notion struck me – we represented alternative strains of Gran. We were her descendants, close links in a chain. Apart, the family resemblance was apparent but together, all I noticed were our differences. It was a feeling as much as a thought, and not one I attempted to share.
“While the pie is in the oven, we need to finish everything else up, ready for tomorrow. I’d like to be done and settled,” I said. I’d started clearing up from the pie-making, but I wasn’t about to be the one who did everything. “Has anyone picked the sunflowers yet?”
“I don’t understand why we’re doing this stupid thing.” Carol knocked back the rest of her wine, and her pink cheeks caused me to wonder how much she’d had. “Who cares about harvest anyway?”
“Now, Carol, don’t be so selfish and short sighted.” Mother had spied her opportunity and she was off before I could interject. “Don’t you care about your great-grandmother, and what this celebration meant to her?”
“You forget, I never even met the woman.”
Yes, I thought, I’ve had help draining three bottles of wine, this is not going to end well.
“Lucy might be willing to play along with all this maudlin behaviour, but I don’t see why I should.”
“Now, Carol, don’t be rude,” I said. “This weekend away is for all of us, and–”
“I didn’t want to come here, to stay in this old, draughty shack, to share a bed with Lucy, to scrape the ice off the window in the morning, who would want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere like this?”
She was exaggerating of course, it wasn’t that cold, there hadn’t even been the first frost yet.
“I used to think that too, Carol, but you know what, I changed my mind the more time I spent out here, and I’m sure you will too.”
I should have been on my guard, I should have noticed Mother’s smile and Carol’s quizzical look. But I’d taken myself back to my first stay out here at Gran’s, that long summer all those years ago. I’d felt the same way when I’d first come, and I’d changed my mind with time. I was so sure my girls would too, that I focused on that and not on the danger that was growing under my nose.
*******
“Pass me that bottle, Mum, I’m almost dry here.” Carol waved her arm across the table at me while propping up her head with the other.
“This one’s empty, my dear, I’m not sure there’s any more.” I busied myself with the dishes, trying not to show my face as I lied, aware I always gave myself away somehow. “Ask Mother when she comes back.”
“Ask me what?”
Lucy followed Mother into the kitchen, her arms loaded with freshly cut sunflowers.
“We were just in time, Maureen, there’s a storm blowing in, can’t you tell how dark it’s become in here?”
“There wasn’t one forecast, are you sure?” I peeked out of the window, seeking confirmation. “I haven’t brought our brollies, I didn’t think we’d need them. I hope it clears up by tomorrow or we’ll all get drenched.”
“Definitely going to rain tonight, but maybe we’ll be lucky in the morning,” replied Mother.
Carol’s comment was lost in a crack of thunder so loud I was sure it should be shaking the house. The flash followed swiftly, the storm’s intensity taking us all by surprise.
“I said, I won’t be going anywhere if it means getting wet. I mean it. I don’t want to be here anyway, I hate this place.”
Mother sniped back. “You’ll have to get used to it, Carol, you’ll be here much more often once your Mum moves here.”
“What?”
A chorus from the twins, Lucy looking as startled as Carol, but recovering quicker to start asking questions. “What do you mean? What’s going on, Mum?”
Mother had the good grace to look embarrassed, gesturing her apology to me before occupying herself in a cupboard, leaving me to face my girls.
“Nothing to worry about, my dears, I was only having some early discussions with Mother about possibly taking Gran’s house for myself, that’s all, perhaps not getting another tenant in.”
“You cannot be serious, why would you do such a thing, Mum?” Carol may have phrased that differently, she may have been more direct in her anger, but the sentiment was the same.
“Calm down, everyone, sit down, let me find us another bottle, and we can chat it through like the adults we all are.”
I tried to catch Mother’s eye to discourage her, but she had the corkscrew ready to plunge. Rain hammered at the kitchen window in droves as the storm drew closer, only two beats now between crack and flash. The weather didn’t lower the tension in the room, and nor would wine, I was sure.
“Well, come on then Mum, why don’t you tell us all about it,” said Carol, sounding strained to my ear, but Mother didn’t seem to pick up on it. She poured four generous glasses of wine before plonking herself down to hold court.
“Girls, you can’t live with your Mum forever, it’s time for you to move on, and it’s time she made plans for her second life, it’s her turn to be happy.”
“What do you know about anything.” Carol dismissed her and returned her attention to me. “What about our house?”
“Nothing is certain, my dear, and there are some challenges. The house is in your dad’s name, and it will take months to sort the paperwork out, I’m sure. So there’s plenty of time to talk this through, and to come up with a plan that suits everyone.”
“I see,” said Carol, nodding along as she glared at me, another flash spot-lighting her so that, in my mind, I can picture the exact moment my downfall was devised, as she said, “a plan.”
“Exactly. You girls know you mean everything to me, don’t you?”
“Oh Mum, of course we do,” Lucy said, grinning at me while squeezing my hand, bursting with love. “We’ll help all we can.”
The storm hovered overhead, the wind howled down the chimney, and the time for talking had passed. I made cocoa on the stove and handed out mugs as we watched the lightning streak across the sky. The display was awe-inspiring, strobing the whole garden with each strike, accompanied by the rumbling boom. As we huddled together, no one speaking, I felt something settle over us all. There would be no more arguing tonight. This may not have been how I’d envisioned telling my girls that they’d have to move out of the only home they’d ever known, but I was glad it was done.
*******
There was nothing more that could be done, my dear. The following morning the storm had passed, we went off to church and no one got wet, and to look at us, you wouldn’t have known we were masquerading as a happy family. Mother was there, laden with pie, flirting with the reverend, reminiscing about Gran with some of the choir singers. The girls were quiet, and Mother let them be, unconcerned about how they may be feeling or what their reactions might have been. Of course, Mother didn’t know our secrets. She didn’t know what Carol knew, or what Lucy knew, and none of us were aware how fragile our charade had become. I thought I understood how much damage had been caused, but I had yet to grasp how deep the fear penetrated, and how much effort would be expended to make life safer, at least, safer from one person’s perspective. I’m sure Mother thought she was helping things along, speaking as she did. On such a tiny balanced top do such things spin.
Of course, I assured myself I’d be a great grandmother. Great at being a grandmother, I mean, rather than live to see a third generation. Some things you have to leave to fate, other things you have some influence over, and I took it for granted this was one of those things. I always assumed I’d be a better grandmother than I was a mother, I suppose because I felt closer with Gran than Mother, and I believed that this was as much to do with the roles they played in my life, as it was to do with their personalities. And so, when I was not too impressed with my own parenting skills, I’d reassure myself that this was what being a mother was like, and that it’d be different when it became my time to be a grandmother. If I had paid more attention to my own mother and her relationship with my girls, I wouldn’t have been so cocky.
*******
Oh my, while I’ve been ruminating on that thunder-filled night, it seems a storm has been gathering here too, how’s that for a coincidence? We can only see it if we change our perspective, though. Look over to the right, past the vegetable patch and over the fields, and it is bright and sunny, a pleasant day. But turn around and see what’s coming up fast behind us, my dear. Those ominous clouds seem to be mugging the buildings, sinking as low as the fences. I was alerted by the wind that blows ahead, it has a sharper smell, and the temperature has dropped, do you sense it now? Even if not, the birds know what’s coming before we do, can you hear a single one? I think it is time we made our way in, don’t you?
The clocks change tonight, backwards they go, ready for winter. Every year I find it unsettling, it makes me feel out of sorts, wonky, as if I’m not quite right but I’m not sure what’s wrong. It passes, but that feeling of dread, of the coming cold and bleakness, that hangs around a while longer. I remind myself that the clocks only go back for five months, you know, I was in my forties before I realised that it wasn’t half the year. I work hard, try not to let it pull my mood down too low, but winter’s harshness seeps into everything. There are some darker times coming and some brutal stories left to tell, but let’s promise ourselves to remember that spring will return and, with luck, we shall both be here to see it.