April 12th
I sit by the kitchen window, the rain tapping a steady rhythm on the panes, and let my thoughts wander back through the tangled years of my life. My mother, Margaret Hawthorne, never missed an opportunity to hurl a sharp proverb over my head, If youre not careful, youll tumble over the doorstep and end up in the gutter. She seemed delighted to remind me of the shame that clung to our family like a second skin.
From the moment I could understand, I heard whispers that my mother had once been a wandering spirit, a girl whod flitted from town to town. We lived with Michael for five years, childless, the old woman would say, and then she went off to a seaside resort and came back with a bag full of trouble. I tried to argue that shed only travelled a few months before I was born, that shed gone with my aunt, Nancy, but the old woman would not be swayed. To her, I was the product of a loose mother, a stain on the family name.
Father, Thomas, watched his wife with a wolfs gaze, as if the world could not be endured without an enemy to fight. He did his duty, caring for his aging parents, but the house felt like a battlefield. My stepmother, Eleanor, despised me, calling me a nuisance whenever I entered a room. Shes no match for you, she would mutter, a proper wife never stirs such trouble. Yet my brother, James, stood by her, shouting, I love her, and thats that.
When my own daughter, Elsie, was born, the bitterness seemed to rebound. Some called her a bright spark, a darling little thing, while others whispered that she was a wild goose, a creature that would bring nothing but heartache. Elsie would toddle over, calling me Gran, and my mother would look at us both with a cold, detached stare, as if we were strangers in our own home.
One afternoon she offered me cucumbers. Dont want them, theyre bitter, I replied. She agreed, Bitter things are what you are, you lazy wretch. She shouted, Mary, feed the child, let the little one have something! When she finally presented a plate of biscuits, I complained, These biscuits are as hard as stones. She snapped back, Hard as stone they are, Mary! You cant expect softer. The argument spiraled, and my mother threatened that I would be left homeless, that I should learn to fend for myself.
It was then that I decided to leave the village and head for London, to study at university. My mothers warning lingered in my ears: Dont let the city swallow you whole. I took to my studies with a bright spirit, eager for the bustling streets, the women in elegant dresses, the men in polished suits. I wanted to show my mother the world beyond the thatched roofs, but my father and grandmother clung to me like a vine, refusing to let me go. It felt as though an old serpent had wrapped itself around my throat.
In the halls of the dormitory I met the matron, Mrs. Anne Andrews, a stern but kind woman who ran the residence with a firm hand. She spoke of my mother being called to a parentteacher meeting, urging me to return home for a brief visit. The suggestion seemed absurd; I was already a year into my studies, and yet they wanted to pull me back to the countryside. My father complained, my grandmother muttered that I was flirting with boys instead of learning.
Our teachers praised me; the headmistress even called me bright as a new penny. I was grateful, yet the tension at home grew. My mother, once resigned, began to swell with pride, hoping I would bring the citys light into the old house.
One evening, after a long day of lectures, Anne invited me for tea. We talked over steaming cups, and she confessed that she had spent most of her life as a housemaid, never having children of her own. Ive always wanted more, she said, eyes distant. I dreamed of a library, of books, but destiny had other plans. She sighed, Thank you, dear, for letting me see a glimpse of the world beyond my garden.
Our conversation turned to my own family. Anne asked, What do you do, Elsie? I laughed, Im a clerk at the municipal office now, handling accounts. She chuckled, A proper girl, then.
Back home, the atmosphere grew darker. Michael, my brotherinlaw, whose temper had always been simmering, finally erupted. He beat Mary, my sisterinlaw, so fiercely that the old woman herself was frightenednot for Mary, but for Michaels savage outburst. He stormed into the village police station, hurling curses and demanding that Mary be taken away. The village gossip swirled, describing him as a wolf among sheep, a man who would devour anyone who crossed him.
Mary gathered what little she could and fled, filing a complaint that left the authorities bewildered. She left a note, I cannot stay where I am not wanted, and walked out of the house we had shared for twentyfive years. I watched her go, my heart aching for the life she had lost.
Later, as I stood on the cramped balcony of my dorm, I felt a sudden surge of hope. Mother, is that you? I whispered to the night. My voice trembled, I have no strength left, but I will try to keep my body upright, even if bruises mark it. My mother, though distant, replied, Its alright, dear. Anne will help you. I asked, Will you ever come back? She answered, No, love. For your sake, I must stay away.
Eventually I found work at a textile mill, still keeping the books, and was given a small room in the dormitory. My evenings were spent strolling through Hyde Park with Lucy, a neighbour from the same floor. We talked of the citys charms, of how they seemed to both heal and wound.
One night Michael returned, angry as ever, drunk with cheap gin, shouting, Mother! Mother! He clutched a letter, its seal bearing my name, but I could not read the words through my tears. He stumbled home, stumbling into drunken stupor, and for a time the house was filled with his bellowing and the smell of spilled ale.
Weeks later, Michael introduced a new woman, Katya, who moved in like a storm, rearranging everything as if she owned the place. She was sharptongued, a vixen the village women warned about. My grandmother feared her, whispering that she would tear the family apart. Katya seemed to rule over Michael, and I saw the light fade from the old house.
Elsie, now a sprightly tenyearold, still called me Gran with affection, though she never invited my mother to her birthday parties. It seemed the new generation had already begun to distance itself from the old grudges.
Sometimes I imagine the village, with its thatched roofs and winding lanes, as a place stuck in time, while London pulses with the promise of new beginnings. Perhaps one day I will return, not as the frightened girl who fled, but as a woman who has learned to carry her own heart, bruises and all.
For now, I write these thoughts down, hoping that by recording them I can make sense of the tangled threads that have bound my family for so long. The rain continues, soft and unhurried, and I sip my tea, feeling the warmth spread through my hands. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will bring a little more light.
