A late-night call revealed my daughters voice.
One evening, long ago, the telephone rang well past midnight. I picked up the receiver and heard my daughters frantic tone.
“Mum, its me, Eleanor. Ive got a problem! My husbands thrown me out. Ill come to Dads in the morning and stay with you.”
“Listen, Eleanor,” I replied calmly, “you no longer have parents or a home.”
“What?” she interrupted. “What do you mean? How can there be no home? Im your only daughter. I have a right to this flat!” she shrieked into the phone.
“Thats how it is,” I said. “You have no flat. We gave it to Beatrice. She owns it now, and your father and I want nothing more to do with you. Youre not our daughter. Dont call againyouve lost everything!” I ended the call sharply. After what Eleanor had done, I had every right to say it.
Gazing out the window, I suddenly remembered how it all began with another phone call, years earlier.
That dreadful call had come early one morning. I leaped from bed and hurried to the landline.
“Hello?”
A stifled sob echoed down the line.
“Yes, hello? Who is this?”
“Margaret, its me, Elizabeth.”
“Lizzie, why are you frightening me like this? Do you know what time it is?”
“I do. Margaret, I’m being admitted to hospital today for surgery, and I’m terrified for my daughter. Please, I beg you and Arthur, dont abandon Beatrice. Shes still so little. Dont send her to an orphanage.”
My sister Elizabeth had always been eccentric, full of wild ideas and impulsive actions. But this time, shed crossed a line.
My fingers twisted the phone cord nervously. Something was gravely wrong, though I couldnt yet grasp how deep it went. Fear prickled along my skin.
“Elizabeth, why tell me now? Whats happened? Where are they taking you?”
Shed been ill for years but never made much of it. The last month, the pain had worsened. Shed grown thin, her face gaunt. The diagnosis was grim. She needed urgent surgery but had hesitated to tell me.
Id always helped hersent money, acted as her guardian. And now she was burdening me again, dumping her troublesand her childon me.
“Margaret, they cant guarantee the outcome. Please, dont turn Beatrice away.”
An hour later, we were at the hospital, but they wouldnt let us see Elizabeth. In the corridor, little Beatrice sat curled up, trembling. I knelt and hugged her.
“Will they hurt Mummy?” she whispered, tears in her eyes.
“No, darling. She wont feel a thing. Shell be asleep.”
Four hours later, the surgeon emerged to tell us my younger sister had died.
We took Beatrice home. That evening, I entered my daughters room and told her Beatrices mother had passed and that the girl would now share her room. Eleanor shot me a venomous look but stayed silent.
Ten days later, Eleanor hurled Beatrices belongings into the hallway and forbade her return. Reasoning with my daughter was useless. She swore shed toss Beatrices things out every time we tried.
To keep peace, we gave Beatrice our room and moved to the parlour.
Beatrice was an orphan. Elizabeth had never revealed who her father was. Now the girls fate rested with us, so we treated her no differently than Eleanor. Both were our daughters.
Years passed. Eleanor finished university and married an older, wealthy man. Neither his age nor money bothered her. She packed her bags and moved in with Reginald without a second thought.
A month later, she announced their wedding.
“Mum, I dont want that little favourite of yoursthe flattererat my wedding. I refuse to see her.”
“Eleanor, you cant do this. Beatrice is your sister. Excluding her insults us.”
“She wont be there!” Eleanor snapped.
“Then neither will we.”
“Fine! Suits me!”
I wept, but steadying myself, I resolved to escape to Brighton instead.
“What about Eleanors wedding?” Arthur asked, baffled.
“Nothing. Were uninvited. Beatrice, help me find a seaside retreat.”
“Are we going on holiday?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes, love. We can afford it.”
“Hurrah!” she cheered, spinning around the room.
The three of us stayed together. Beatrice finished school brilliantly and studied architecture at university. Her mother had been a talented painter, well-known in artistic circles. Beatrice inherited her skillor perhaps her fathers, Arthur often mused, suspecting a certain prominent figure in town. I paid no mind. Beatrice was ours.
A year later, we celebrated Beatrices eighteenth birthday. That same evening, Arthur collapsed, pale and unconscious. An ambulance rushed him to hospital.
The doctor delivered grim news. Only an expensive imported medicine could save him. It would take three days to arrive. The cost was staggering. Desperate, I called Eleanor, knowing Reginald could lend the money.
“Eleanor, darling, your fathers ill. He needs this medicine urgently. The price its unthinkable. Could you lend it to us?”
Silence stretched. Just as I prepared to repeat myself, she spoke.
“Alright, Mum. Ill ask Reginald and ring you back.”
The call came an hour later.
“Mum, listen Reginalds promised me a new carhes been meaning to for ages. But theres a condition. Either I get the car, or we give you the money.”
“Eleanor, love, well repay you.”
“Dont be silly. When? Bit by bit? Ill never see that car then.”
“Are you hearing yourself? Your father could die!”
“I cant help. Take out a loan.”
The receiver slipped from my hand. I nearly fainted.
“Aunt Margaret, whats wrong?” Beatrice caught me as I swayed. Sobs wracked my chest.
“Listen,” she said firmly, “well sell Mums flat. I cant bear to live there anyway. Price it lowwell get the advance for the medicine. Please, dont refuse. Uncle Arthurs life matters most.”
I hugged her, overwhelmed. She was right.
We sold the flat that very day. The buyer paid a deposit, and with the funds, we secured the medicine. Two days later, it arrived. The treatment worked. Beatrice had saved Arthur. Within a month, he was restored to health. Our joy knew no bounds.
Once he recovered, we transferred the flat to Beatrices name. The remaining money went into savings.
We lived happilyuntil that late-night call.
Eleanor, cast out by Reginald, demanded to return.
I told her no.
“We have one daughter: Beatrice.”
Two years later, Beatrice married James, a prosperous farmer with a thriving estate. They invited us to live with them, but we preferred visiting weekly instead.
A lovely room always awaited us. Arthur and James often fished together. Beatrice designed a small cannery for the farm. We were a familyhappy, though not always under one roof.
Eleanor crossed our minds only on her wedding day, the same day Arthur and I had fled to Brighton years before. Beatrice arranged our trips now, sometimes joining us.
Every year on that date, I wondered how Id raised such a selfish girl, one who valued a luxury car over our lives. And Beatriceorphaned so youngcherished us above all, willing to give everything for our happiness.
