Tabitha never fancied her boys. To her they were dimwitted, narrowminded, rough and completely unpolished just like their father.
Mum, whats for dinner? shouted George, the eldest, his voice already deep enough to rattle a teapot. A thin patch of fuzz was sprouting on his chin, and his hands, inherited from his dad, were long, wiry, and ended in massive, clumsy fingers that could crush a walnut into dust.
Tabitha was certain George was already flitting from one older lady to another, the sort of widows whod lost a husbands affection and now stared at young men with a sort of brazen, cheeky hunger. She whispered to one of them, Dasha, Dont get cosy with George hes barely fifteen. Dasha laughed outright, a laugh that made Tabithas eyes cloud over like a foggy London morning.
From that moment on Tabitha stopped caring for George. He began to remind her of his father gruff, perpetually smelling of bacon, garlic and homebrewed gin, and always poking his filthy hands wherever he could.
Shed tried every widow in the village, and when none of them wanted to marry her son, she even tried to force one. The old crone who lived at the end of the lane would sigh, Whats the use, love? Look at Peter hes a dashing lad; all the girls swoon over him. You, youll never get any luck.
What am I to do? sobbed little Tabitha, Ill go to the city, find work in a factory, get an education, and make something of myself.
The city, you say? the crone croaked, You shouldve thought of that before you let him wander off. She beat Tabitha with words as though she were a sack of potatoes, insisting the boy would grow a belly bigger than his chin. Tabitha finally understood something was terribly amiss.
She had to take Peter home. He was older, moved her into his house, and at first his mother complained that Tabitha had chosen the wrong daughterinlaw. Eventually she gave in, even feeling sorry for Tabitha when Peter tormented her at night.
Shed always warned that the girls were delicate, that theyd break under the weight of a bad marriage. One by one, the boys fell in like peas from a pod all of them, each a little lad.
Tabitha loved them fiercely, until they grew up and turned into miniPeteres. Then she became the kind of mother who reminded them of the old war stories, the ones that had chewed Peter up and spat him out, leaving a handful of scarred soldiers who never quite returned home.
Three of her sons went off to the front, and when they came back there were five more scruffy lads roaming the village, their eyes the colour of blackcurrants. Tabitha had three more boys and no daughters to speak of. No chance of escaping the chaos if you were home late, a hand would grab you, a pinch here, a squeeze there, just to keep you on your toes.
Every time Peter announced he was off to see his widowed comrades wife, Lydia Barlow, Tabitha let out a sigh that could have moved a London bus. George finally got into a fight with his own father; Tabitha bandaged his wound, patted his head, and muttered, Let the lad go on his way. No point in stopping him.
Dont worry, Mum, George strained, well manage. Im getting married soon. Tabitha tried not to think of the fragile, bigeyed girl hed soon be with a mirror of the Lydia shed once known.
All her children seemed to turn into carbon copies of Peter, which made Tabitha shake her head. Its like the universe is playing a joke, shed mutter, watching each son grow a chinstubble and a glint in his eye, just like the old lads.
She blamed herself for not loving them enough, for being a bad mother, and for never having a daughter. Then one of her youngest, Sanjay, finally found a girl Lily, a lithe, sprightly thing who flitted about the kitchen like a vine in spring.
What’s this? Tabitha gasped when Lily slipped out of the bedroom and clung to Sanjays chest like a calf to its mother. He brushed her hair, kissed her forehead softly, and Tabitha felt a strange, warm flutter, as if shed just seen a newborn.
From then on she kept a hawkeyed watch over her sons, making sure none of them treated their wives like Peter had. No, no, no! shed shout, Not like that! Her eyes widened as if shed suddenly gone blind to the worlds cruelty.
One day George, now a grown man, knocked on the kitchen door.
Everything alright, love? Tabitha asked, peeking over her spectacles.
Fine, Mum. Anything wrong? Any new wife causing trouble? George replied, his voice a little rough around the edges.
The wife? Oh, it’s Kat, Georges missus, Tabitha said, trying not to let the tremor show. Shes a good girl, loves the tea and the scones.
Dont be shy, love, if you need anything she urged Kat, who laughed and poured a cup of tea with a biscuit on the side.
Later, after rounding up all her boys, Tabitha trudged home, her feet as heavy as a sack of coal. She thought about the daughters she never had, muttering, Six boys, no girls maybe Im not such a terrible mum after all.
In the kitchen Lily was turning a batch of crumpets, their buttery scent filling the air. Tabithas eyes twinkled she couldnt possibly turn them away.
Lily, dear, could you perhaps bless us with a grandchild? she asked hopeful.
Ill try, Mum, Lily giggled, and look Ive already had two little girls, Olivia and Yvonne! Theyre the applepie sweeties, the very pride of this old house.
Tabithas heart swelled. She loved her granddaughters, even if they reminded her a little of that old Peter. Ill raise them right, teach them not to end up like those blasted lads, she vowed, and kept her promise. The girls grew up, became clever, successful, and always remembered their dear granny with a warm word and a slice of crumpet.
So, did Tabitha ever truly dislike her sons? Of course she loved them otherwise they wouldnt have turned out the way they did. And as for Peter? He was forgiven long ago, and even a tiny spot of love lingered in her heart for him, like a faint scent of rosemary on a summer night.
