No, Mother, I wont come back, I said, my voice steady. Whatever I need, Ill buy it at the shop.
Buthow will we keep our stores? The vitamins! she pleaded.
My mother, you love those stores yourself, she replied, eyes bright.
My own supplies arent for you, I answered calmly. And those who truly need them can waste their own time and effort on them.
Just twenty more jars of pickles, and thatll be all for today, declared Mrs. Agnes Whitaker, wiping her hands on her apron.
I ran a palm over my forehead, smearing away the beads of sweat that had gathered. My shirt was soaked through, clinging to my skin. The kitchen was stifling, the air thick with the sharp tang of vinegar and dill.
Eleanor glanced across the table, a mountain of jars, lids, and vegetables sprawling before her. In the cellar, tomatoes waited their turn, cabbage lay ready for fermentation, and a dozen different salads loomed on the horizon. There was still a weeks work ahead.
Very well, Mother, I sighed, reaching for the next jar.
My hands moved of their own accord: cucumbers into the jar, brine poured over, lid twisted shut. Again and again. I kept at it, refusing to dwell on how much remained undone.
Look, Mrs. Whitaker said, satisfaction in her voice as she surveyed the rows of ready jars, soon our family will be set for winter.
I set the jar down and turned to my mother.
Mother, wheres Ethel? Why isnt she helping?
Mrs. Whitaker averted her gaze, her hands already smoothing the nowclean surface of the table.
Ethels just started a new job. She cant take leave yet, you see. Its a responsible post, the boss is strict.
I pressed my lips together. Of course. Ethel always found excuses. Last year shed caught a cold the very week we needed to seal the jars. The year before that a work trip had coincided perfectly with the preserving season. As for me, I never seemed to have a free day. Mother, in a tone bordering on command, had insisted I ask for time off and come home.
Dont look so sour, dear, Mrs. Whitaker whispered, noticing the crease on my brow. At least well have our own provisions all winter. Vitamins! Nothing healthier than that.
I nodded. That was the only bright spot in the whole ordeal. The pickles at least turned out splendidly.
The days blurred into one endless whirl. I sealed tomatoes, mixed salads, fermented cabbage. I heaved heavy crates of jars up to the larder, climbing the steep stairwell dozens of times. I swept up after each batch, mopped the floor, wiped the tables, hauled the rubbish out. My hands ached, my back throbbed. By nightfall I would collapse onto the bed, utterly spent.
When the work finally ceased, I returned to my flat. I was drained. Only one day of holiday remained, and I longed for quiet and peace. The house was empty. The fridge held halfempty shelves, but Mother was pleased, and that mattered most. Yet Ethel never called, never inquired about how things were going, never offered a hand.
Time passed and winter settled over the fields. I would occasionally ride over to Mothers cottage to collect a few jarspickles, tomatoes, saladseach one homemade and tasty. Mrs. Whitaker greeted my visits with a smile, tea steaming between us, conversation flowing.
At the end of January I came again. Mother welcomed me, set the table, and I sat down, looking around. There were bought sausages, cheese, a loaf of bread, but no jars of her own making.
A frown crept over my face. It was odd; Mother always made a point of laying out something from her stores. The table looked rather scant.
We chatted about everythingnews, my workand I almost forgot the strange absence of the preserves. When it was time to leave, I rose and slipped on my coat.
Mother, Ill pop into the larder and fetch three jars of cabbage with carrots, I said, heading for the door.
No, dont! Mrs. Whitaker snapped, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.
Why? I was just planning to make something this week
Just dont, Eleanor. Dont go into the larder.
She looked away, tension tightening the room. I tossed my coat onto the chair.
Mother, whats happened? Why cant I take a couple of jars?
I I simply cant give you any of the preserves, she muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
I squinted, irritation bubbling under my skin.
Ive spent a whole week preserving, remember? And now I cant even take a few jars? Explain, please.
Eleanor, its best not to discuss it now I just cant give them to you, thats all.
I spun and hurried toward the larder. Behind me my mothers voice rang out, Eleanor! Dont touch, I told you!
But I had already opened the door and was descending the stairs. I flicked the light switch; a harsh glow flooded the small room. The shelves stared back, empty. Where neat rows of jars had stood only a short while before, now less than half remained. I could swear the shelves had been full not long ago. Where had everything gone?
I climbed back upstairs, my heart pounding. In the kitchen I saw Mother, head bowed, cheeks flushed with shame.
Mother! I gasped. Youre short of money? Are you selling the preserves? You should have told me! I could have sent you what you needed. You shouldnt be out in the cold, selling your own pickles!
I reached for her hands, but she wriggled away. A cold knot settled inside me.
It isnt that, she whispered. Theyre not for sale.
Silence fell. She sighed, running a hand over her face.
Its all gone to Ethel, she admitted softly. Shes met a lad from the citybig family, influential. She told them she was building up winter stores, and now his whole clan keeps asking for jars.
So thats why, I breathed, the pieces clicking into place. You kept the jars from me so Ethel would have enough?
She nodded, eyes downcast. I sank into a chair, meeting her gaze.
Tell me everything
The room was heavy with unspoken words. She confessed, Ethel wants to marry him. His family is wealthy, and theyve been taking the jars.
I stared at her, fury and hurt warring within. You stopped me from taking jars so Ethel would have enough? And what about me? Who sealed all those jars? Who was there while I toiled all week? Now Ethel, as if nothing happened, empties the shelves!
Eleanor, understand, she began, pleading, Ethels at a crucial point in her life. She must impress his family. It isnt about you.
I shook my head, stood, grabbed my coat.
I see it now. Im done.
I walked out without a backward glance, slipped into the drivers seat, and gripped the steering wheel until my fingers whitened. Anger, bitterness, and sorrow roiled inside; tears threatened to spill. I turned the engine over and drove away.
Months slipped by. Ethel moved in with her city boyfriend. My visits to Mother became rare, and I no longer asked for jars. Mrs. Whitaker never raised the subject again. We spoke of weather, work, neighboursyet an invisible wall had risen between us.
Then the next preserving season arrived. One evening the phone rang. I glanced at the screenMothers name. I answered.
Eleanor, dear, I need you next week. We must make more stores for winter, more than ever, so everyone has enough.
I froze. Everyone? That meant Ethel would again be handing out jars left and right, and I would be expected to work like a maniac.
I wont come, Mother.
What? A heavy silence lingered on the line. Eleanor, what are you saying? Of course youll come. I cant manage alone.
No, Mother. I wont. Ill buy what I need from the shop.
Buthow will we store the vitamins? You love those, dont you?
My mothers supplies arent for me, I said calmly. And those who truly need them can waste their own time and effort on them.
Eleanor! You cant do this! What about Ethel? Im your mother! You must
I hung up. I would no longer be the dutiful mule bearing everyones burdens. I was done. I owed nothing to anyone.
