I remember it as if it were whispered to me by the old stone walls of my childhood cottage in a Yorkshire hamlet. My greataunt Agnes, a blunt woman with a tongue like a windchapped rope, would often warn my mother, Listen, girl, if you go out in a flimsy skirt youll be swept right over the doorstep and never return. Weve already had enough shame in this house. Those words were never meant to be kind, but they were the only counsel she ever gave.
From the earliest days Emmamy motherknew that her mother, Ethel, had been a wandering soul. We lived five years with James and had no children. Then she went off to a seaside resort and brought back a baby, Agnes would say, never hiding her contempt. The fact that Ethel had travelled three years before Emmas birth, accompanied not by her own husband but by her sisters daughter, Aunt Nancy, meant nothing to the old woman; she kept repeating that Emma was a careless child.
Father looked at mother like a wolf eyeing its prey; what else could he do when each day he heard gossip that his wife was raising a new brood? He stayed, as was expected of a younger son who married, to tend to his aging parents. The mother despised her daughterinlaw, constantly telling the son to get rid of her, and muttering that she could not stand the way she moved or sat. Shes not the match for you, shed sneer, though the son clung to his love for his wife.
Thus the granddaughter, Emmas own daughter, grew up under a cold stare. Although she was bright, pretty, and dear to my heart, the old woman saw her as a rascal, a misfit who sprayed venom like a wolf pup. When the little one, called Lucy, would run into the cottage, calling her Nan, Agnes would watch her with narrowed eyes, as if she were a strangers blood.
What about cucumbers, love? Lucy would ask one afternoon. I dont want them, theyre bitter, she replied. Exactly, Agnes agreed, bitter, just like you, Emma, a lazy, cursed thing that waters the garden with nothing but rot. She chanted, Mary, Mary, feed the starving child. Here, dear, some cream with rolls, she offered. The rolls are hard, Lucy complained. Hard, indeed. Your rolls are as solid as stones, Mary retorted, unable to hide her scowl.
The house will be yours, Lucy, my only grandchild, Agnes said, or shall I leave you a homeless soul? Let your own parents look after you, or fend for yourself. And so Emma lived under that roof, dreaming of the day she would leave for the city, for school, carrying with her the parting words of her greataunt.
Emma studied with ease, curiosity, and a lively spirit. The citys bustling streets, the ladies in elegant dresses and men in crisp jackets, all fascinated her. She longed to show her mother the splendors she saw, but the old woman and her father would not let her go; they clutched at her like a venomous snake, drinking from its fangs. Only through her mothers thin allowance could Emma arrive.
In the university dorm she befriended the matron, Mrs. Anne Andrews, whose grown son lived up north with his own two grandchildren. Your mother is called to a parent meeting, Anne would say, but the girl has already studied a year. Surely you can bring her to the town. Father growled, Agnes sniped, Shes seen the boys, not the books. Mother feared the scolding would begin, yet teachers praised Emma, lifting her mothers spirits.
Emma introduced her mother to Anne, and the women instantly clicked. Dont be shy, Mrs. Mary Whitfield, they coaxed. All night they lingered over tea, sharing stories. Mary confessed, Ive spent my whole life in service, never had children beyond Emmas. Father and mother are fine, but we all need someone, even without kids. She added, I studied hard, earned top marks, wanted to live in the city, visit the library, but fate denied me. She thanked Emma for showing her the city, saying she had never ventured beyond the village.
Anne asked, What do you do, Mary? Im an accountant now, for the electricity board, Mary replied, laughing. So youre educated, Mary? Forgive my bluntness. Of course, Mary laughed, I learned in the district, dreamed of the city, oh Anne Anne simply said, Move, Mary, move. Mary sighed, Anne, Id love to teach Emma”
Later, Mary returned home, her husband treating her like a wolf, once even striking her. She rushed to work, habitually covering bruises with a smile, though her thoughts drifted elsewhere. The following month she again travelled to the meeting at Emmas place. The girl isnt studying, shes been out with boys, looking for a lover, they complained. Shell bring a boy home on the doorstep, they said. And Mary, shes found a man too; I keep her in my sights, but she keeps quiet, and I watch her slip awayshameful.
One night James, the village blacksmith, beat Mary terribly, so violently that even the old woman trembled, fearing not for Mary but for James. She fled to the constable, carrying a sack of bloodstained sausages and a slab of pork. James prowled around his wife, circling like a vulture. Mary, exhausted, gathered a few meagre possessions, filed a complaint, and, without serving her notice period, was released from the marriage.
Emma leapt as if toward the heavens. Mother, is that you? she cried. Im weak, my child, my body riddled with bruises, her mother whispered. Mother, please, Emma sobbed. Its alright, dear, Anne will help. Will you ever come back? Mary asked, her lips pressed tight. No, she said, for your sake Ill stay away.
Mary found work in a textile mill as an accountant, was given a room in a dormitory, and began to bloom again. She and Emma walked together in the evenings. Someone from the village saw them and warned James. He arrived, angry, demanding, Mary, Im coming for you. I wont go with you, she snapped. Enough is enough. James snarled, Youre a wolf that fell for a sheep, she retorted, You are to blame. He shouted, Leave! She replied, Ill go, but you wont see me again.
Later James, drunk, burst into the house, shouted at his mother, bought more whisky, and sank deeper into his misery. He asked, Mother, did you receive my letter? She could only mutter, I dont know, James, something. For a week he drank, then brought home a woman named Catherine Yarrow, a flirt who quickly took over the household. The new daughterinlaw, bold and brash, bullied the old woman, who now seemed invisible.
Lucy, the sweet granddaughter, was left without fortune. A scoundrel had deceived the honest girl; had he not, she would have been spared. Rumours spread that Mary lived in the town, that she had taken a husband, that she was a good woman despite the gossip. Some said Mary had married, that Lucys fate was bleak, that shed left the village for the city hoping to find happiness.
Through it all, Emmamy own motherwatched this tangled web of love, betrayal, and survival. The village elders whispered, the streets echoed with cries, and the old stones remembered every insult and every tear. While the world changed, the memory of those days remains, a testament to the stubborn endurance of women who, even when bruised and broken, found a way to keep moving forward.
