Watch yourself, child, if you linger in the doorway youll be swept beyond the threshold and never return, croaked Grandma Maud, eyes narrowing like the last winter light over the Yorkshire moors. Weve had enough shame already. Ethel didnt expect such a weight from her grandmother, whose voice always seemed to echo from a time before she was born.
Since she could remember, Ethel heard whispers that her mother had been a wandering spirit, a girl who roamed the countryside with no children for five long years until, one day, she returned from a seaside resort clutching a bundle of promises. We lived with Mick for five years and had no bairns, then she came back with a suitcase full of dreams, Maud would say, choosing every word with the bluntness of a stonecobbled lane. No argument could soothe herwhether the mother had travelled three years before Ethels birth, or had gone with Mauds own daughter Nadine, the aunt, it mattered little. Maud kept insisting Ethel was a wanderer, a restless soul.
Father Arthur stared at his wife like a wolf at the moon, and what else could he do but listen to the endless chatter that his daughter was being raised by an errant mother? The house was large, the kind that seemed to breathe with the sighs of generations, and Arthur, being the younger son, felt bound to care for his parents. The matriarch despised her daughterinlaw, stepping on the sons foot and demanding, Remove her. I cannot stand the way she moves, the way she sitsshes no match for you. The son would cling to his love, muttering, I love her, its all the same.
Thus the grandmothers scorn fell on the daughterinlaws child, though the girl grew before her eyes, forever feeling like a stranger in her own home. Yet the granddaughter, bright and beautiful, was praised as a darling, a sweetheart, while the motherinlaw was dismissed as a cold, bitelike wolf pup, spitting venom that made hearts recoil. When the beloved granddaughter arrived, calling Maud dear grandma, the old woman merely glared, foreign blood stains this house.
What shall I give her, love? Maud asked, holding out a handful of cucumbers. I dont want bitter ones, the girl replied. Bitter it shall be, Maud agreed, just like the lazy, cursed lass who watered the garden with sorrow. Marian, Marian, feed the starving child, she muttered, offering a dollop of cream with stale rolls. The rolls are hard, the girl whined. Hard as stone, my dear, Maud snapped, her eyes never leaving the granddaughters trembling shoulders. Your home will be ready for you, my only grandchild, or shall I leave you a wretched soul without a roof?
Ethel lived under those strange edicts. When she decided to go to the city to study, Maud handed her a flurry of cryptic blessings. School came easy to Ethelbright, lively, full of curiosity. The city dazzled her: women in flowing gowns, gentlemen in sharp frocks, bustling markets humming with pence and clinking tea cups. She longed to show her mother the beauty of it all, but the old wolflike grandmother and stern father clutched at her, No, youll not leave. Ethels mother, too, feared the scorn that might follow, yet teachers praised Ethel, and her mother swelled with pride.
In the students hall, Ethel befriended the matron, Annabelle Anderson, whose grown son lived up north with two grandchildren. Your mothers been called to the parent meeting, Annabelle whispered, though youve barely spent a year here, theyll drag her into the city. They did just that; Arthur grumbled, Maud sneered, Shes out with boys, not books. The mother, trembling, heard gratitude for her daughter from every teacher, feeling her spirit lift for the first time.
One night the women of the hall gathered over tea, and MarianEthels friendspilled her story. Ive spent my life as a servant, never had children, and my heart aches for a child of my own, though the world says Im too old. She smiled, I studied hard, wanted to live in the city, to walk the libraries, but perhaps its not meant to be. Still, Im grateful to Ethel for showing me the citys wonders. Annabelle laughed, Dont be shy, Marian, were all sisters here.
The next month, a town meeting called Ethels mother to account. The girl is misbehaving, chasing after men, not studying, they declared, recalling the same old warning about Mick bringing a girl into the doorway. Mick, the husband, struck Marian hardso hard that even Maud gasped, not for Marian but for Micks cruelty. He ran to the constable, clutching a slab of cold pork and a chunk of cheese, pleading for justice. He roamed the house like a wolf circling his pack, and Marian, bruised, fled to the kitchen, her eyes seeing a world beyond the walls.
She gathered a few belongings, wrote a petition, and without a full job she was released, the towns shock palpable. Ethel leapt as if to touch the sky. Mother, is that you? she shouted. Im just a child, my strength is gone, my body a canvas of bruises, Maud whispered. Dont worry, dear, Annabelle will help. Will you ever come back? the girl sobbed. No, Maud said, tightening her lips, for your sake, I must stay away.
Marian found work at a textile mill, becoming an accountant, and was given a room in the dormitory. She began to bloom, strolling evenings with Ethel through cobbled lanes, laughing under lantern light. Rumours spread like ivy: Mick, furious, stormed home, Marian, Im coming for you. I wont go with you, she snapped, Ive had enough. Mick snarled, his teeth grind, but Marian no longer feared; she was another creature now, forged in fire.
Dont tempt fate, Marian, Mick hissed, Ill call the police. The police? On my own husband? Marian laughed, We were fooled a month ago. What do you mean? he asked, bewildered. Didnt you get the letter? No, Marian muttered, then Im sorry, Mick. I love you still. Youre like the wolf who fell for a sheep, Mick growled, youre the cause of my ruin. Your fault, he spat, and the words hung heavy in the stale air.
Mick stormed out, drowning his sorrows in whisky, shouting, Mother, Mother What is it, Mick? she asked. Did the letter come with a seal? He stared, chewing his lip, hands trembling. I dont know, Mick, somethingsomething. For a week he drank, then brought home Katya Yarrow, a new bride with a sharp tongue that cut through the house like a blade. She rearranged everything, a whirlwind that left Maud trembling in the doorway.
Katya, the schemer, whispered to the village that Marian lived in the city, a witch who had tangled herself with Micks fate. Some said Marian had married, others that shed fled with a boy named Ned, chasing happiness like a moth to a streetlamp. The gossip twisted, casting Marian as the serpent that poisoned the household.
Ethel, now called Lena by the old folk, was summoned to a wedding she never attended; even her grandmothers name was left off the guest list. The city folk, swapping tea for gin, whispered that Maud had traded her blood for a wild gooses tail, that no matter how kind Marian seemed, Katya held the reins. Nadine, the aunt, tried to intervene, but time was a thin veil.
In the end, the whole village seemed to spin in a dream: a girl named Ethel wandering through fogfilled lanes, a grandmother with eyes like stone, a mother torn between shame and pride, a husband who beat his own heart, and a new bride who ruled with a smile. The story lingered like a halfremembered lullaby, the scent of tea and stale rolls drifting through the mist, leaving the dreamer to wonder which part of the tale was truth and which was the nights own fancy.
