We hated her the instant she crossed the threshold of our cottage in a mistshrouded lane outside Oxford.
Her coat was plain, but her hands were different from Mothers. The fingers were stubby and thick, clenched as if holding an invisible latch. Her legs were slimmer than Mothers, and her feet seemed oddly elongated.
We sat with my brother Harry, who was seven, and I, nine, and we hurled electric bolts of spite at her. Long Blythe, we muttered, she stretches a mile, not a mile at all! Father sensed our contempt and snapped, Behave yourselves! Are you uncouth?
Harry, with his small, inquisitive voice, asked, Is she staying with us forever? He could speak that way; after all, he was just a boy. Forever, Father replied, his tone hardening.
A low growl of irritation could be heard from him, and we knew that if he lost his temper, we would be in real trouble. Better not to provoke him.
An hour later Blythe announced she would go home. She slipped on her shoes, and as she stepped toward the door, Harry, scheming, tried to trip her. She nearly tumbled into the stairwell. Fathers face tightened. What happened? he demanded.
I just caught my foot on another shoe, Blythe said, not looking at Harry. Everythings a mess. Ill tidy it up! he promised eagerly.
And then we understood: he loved her.
We could not erase her from our lives, no matter how hard we tried.
One afternoon, when Blythe was alone with us and Father was away, she announced in a flat, eerie tone, Your mother is dead. It happens, sadly. She now sits on a cloud and watches everything. I doubt she approves of what youre doing. She sees that you act out of spite, preserving her memory in a twisted way. We grew wary.
Harry, Emily, youre supposed to be good kids! Do you really need to guard mums memory like that? A good person shows kindness through deeds. I cant believe youre both as prickly as hedgehogs! Her words dulled our urge to be cruel.
Later, I helped her unload groceries from the market. Blythe praised me, gently rubbing my back. Her fingers werent Mothers, yet the gesture felt warm. Harrys jealousy flared.
She arranged the clean mugs on the shelf, and Blythe praised both of us. That evening she told Father, with a bright voice, how helpful we were; he smiled.
Her foreignness lingered, keeping us on edge. We wanted to let her into our hearts, but the door stayed shut. Not mother, then, we muttered.
A year passed, and we could no longer recall life without her. After a single incident, we fell for Blythe as completely as Father had.
In seventh form, Harrys days grew sour. A boy named Victor Hargreave, equally tall but far more brazen, tormented him. Victors family was welloff; his father shouted, Youre a man, ladhit anyone who bothers you. Dont wait for them to trample you. Victor chose Harry as an easy target.
Victor began to assault Harry openly, landing blows on his shoulder whenever he passed. I managed to pull this information from Harry after seeing bruises. He believed men shouldn’t burden sisters with their troubles, even older ones. Unbeknownst to us, Blythe stood behind the door, listening.
Harry begged me not to tell Father, fearing worse consequences. He also pleaded that I not go after Victors face right then, though I was itching to protect my brotherI’d kill for him. Involving Father seemed unwise; a clash with Victors father could end in prison.
The next day was a Friday.
Blythe, pretending to head to the shop, escorted us to school and, in secret, asked me to show Victor where she was. I did, muttering, Let him know who hes dealing with. What followed was surreal.
Harrys English lesson began. Blythe, with a tidy hairdo, manicured nails, and a sweet voice, entered the classroom and asked Victor Hargreave to step out, saying she had business with him. The teacher, none the wiser, consented. Victor left calmly, assuming Blythe was a new organiser. She seized him by the chest, lifted him off the ground, and hissed, What do you want from my son?
What son? Victor stammered, bewildered.
My son, Harry Raby! she shouted. If you touch him again, come any closer, or look at him the wrong way, Ill ruin you, you wretch!
Please, auntie, let me go, Victor whined. I wont bother him again!
She thrust him back into his seat, Out of here! And if you speak of me again, Ill have your father locked up for corrupting a minor! Got that? Tell the teacher Im just your neighbour who needed a key! After school youll apologise to Harry! Ill see to it myself.
Victor scurried back to his desk, muttering about the neighbour. From then on he never gave Harry a hard look; he avoided him entirely, apologising later that day with a short, jerky apology.
Dont tell Father, Blythe whispered, but we couldnt hold back and spilled everything. He was impressed.
At some point she guided me onto the right path. At sixteen I fell into a reckless love where hormones blinded reason and everything felt forbidden.
Its embarrassing to recall, but Ill say it. I got involved with an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist, oblivious to the obvious. He whispered to my naïve ears that I was his muse, and I melted in his arms like wax. It was my first encounter with a man.
My mother once visited the pianist and asked two questions: Does he ever sober up, and what will we live on? With a solid life plan, she said she might consider nurturing our relationshipprovided the pianist took responsibility for my upkeep. A single smoky flat was insufficient proof of serious intent.
He was five years younger than Blythe, and I was twentyfive years older than him. Blythe didnt bother with formalities. I wont repeat the pianists answers here, but Ive never felt as ashamed before my mother, especially when she said, I thought you were smarter.
Thus my love story ended both ugly and untidy, yet never reached prisonfor the pianist nor for Fatherbecause Blythe intervened just in time.
Years have since slipped away. Harry and I now have families built on love, respect, and a stubborn care for those we hold dear, values Blythe instilled in us.
No woman could have done for my brother and me what she did. Father is happy, wellkept, and loved.
Once, a family tragedy struck Blythe; we knew nothing of it. Father never mentioned it. Blythe had loved our father and left her husband. She once had a son who died because of her husbands cruelty, a wound she could never forgive.
We like to think we eased some of Blythes pain. Her immense role in our upbringing was never, and could never be, diminished.
Our whole clan gathers around her. We never quite know how to please Blythe, which slippers fit her feet, but we cherish and protect her. Because true mothers, even when a cruel foot steps in their way, never truly stumble.
