Long ago, in the quiet countryside of Yorkshire, there came a time when Margaret found herself without work.
“You could always go back to your village,” her husband Thomas said one evening as they sat at the supper table. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor.
“Margaret, love, why so quiet?” Thomas tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl, frowning. “Your stews gone cold.”
She lifted her head slowly, setting aside the telephone. All day shed rung old acquaintances, searched for any work at all, but the answer was always the sameno positions, cutbacks everywhere.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought,” she murmured, picking up her spoon. She had made the stew just as Thomas liked it, with carrots and barley. Now it tasted like wasted effort.
“Whats on your mind, then?” He sipped the hot broth, glancing at her now and then. “Still worrying over work?”
“What else would I be thinking of?” She sighed and pushed her bowl away. “Elizabeth says theyre letting people go at her office. And Susan from the accounts department hasnt found work in three months.”
“Dont fret,” Thomas waved a hand. “Youll find something. Theres no rush.”
“Thomas, Im forty-three. Who wants a woman my age? Theyre all hiring young folk, with degrees and computer skills. What do I know? Ive stood behind a counter my whole life.”
“Whats wrong with that? Honest work,” he said, reaching for the bread. “Speaking ofthis loafs gone stale. When did you buy it?”
Margaret said nothing. Shed bought the bread two days ago, saving where she could. Since losing her job at the grocers, money had been tight. Thomas wages from the building site were modest, and often late.
“Maybe you should visit your sister?” he suggested suddenly. “Spend a week or two in London, take your mind off things. Ill manage here.”
Her younger sister, Catherine, lived in the city, working as a manager for some grand company. She seldom rang, only on holidays.
“Why would I go to her? Shes her own life, her own family. And we havent the money for train fare.”
“Well sort the money,” Thomas stood, walking to the window. “Listenwhy not go to your mothers? Back to the village. At least theres your own potatoes there, fresh milk. You wont starve.”
Margaret froze, the spoon heavy in her hand. Her mother lived in the tiny hamlet of Ashford, miles from the city. She hadnt been back in years, not since her uncles funeral. The place was dying, only pensioners left.
“Youre serious? The village?” She stared at him, disbelieving. “And what about you?”
“What about me? Ive work here. Cant just drop everything and go with you. Im the only wage earner now.”
“For now,” she said softly.
“Must you pick at every word?” Thomas turned sharply. “Im not saying forever. Stay a month, maybe two. Something might turn up here. Better than sitting around fretting.”
“Sitting around?” Margaret stood, gathering the dishes. “Who keeps the house clean? Who cooks, who washes? Who stood in queue at the surgery for hours when your back was bad?”
“Well, thats just how it is,” Thomas shrugged. “I didnt mean it like that. Its just” He hesitated, scratching his head. “You could go back to your village if you like. Itll be quieter there. No need to fret over work every day.”
The words struck her like a slap. *Go back to your village.* As if the city hadnt been her home for twenty years. As if she were some temporary thing.
“My village?” she repeated slowly. “And this houseis it not mine? Have I been a guest here all these years?”
“Whats got into you, Margaret?” Thomas looked startled by her tone. “I didnt mean it like that. Its just”
“Youre ashamed, is that it? A wife without work, bringing in no money. Best send her away where she wont be a bother.”
“Dont talk nonsense!” He sank onto the sofa, turning on the telly. “Im tired after work, and now youre making a scene.”
Margaret washed the dishes in silence, drying her hands on the old linen towel. His words echoed in her mind. *You could go back to your village.* And the way hed said itcold, almost relieved.
That night, Thomas fell asleep in front of the telly, while Margaret lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She thought of how theyd met. Shed been twenty-three, fresh from the country, renting a room in a shared house, working as a shopgirl. Thomas had been a labourer there, young, handsome, attentive. Hed courted her for months, brought flowers, taken her to the pictures. After they married, they rented a flat, then took out a mortgage. Margaret moved to a larger grocers, became senior clerk, then supervisor.
And now? He wanted to send her away, like an unwanted thing.
“Mum, why are you calling so late?” Her daughter Emilys sleepy voice came through the phone.
“Emily, love, Im sorryI didnt think of the time. How are you?”
“Fine. Whats wrong? You sound odd.”
Emily lived in the next town over, worked at a bank, had married recently. They seldom spoke, once a week at most.
“Nothings wrong. Just missed you. Hows James?”
“Hes well. Mum, are you sure youre all right? Your voice isnt right.”
Margaret wanted to tell her about the job, about Thomas words, but held back. Why trouble the young? They had burdens enough.
“Everythings fine, love. Go back to sleep.”
“Mum, why dont you come visit? Its been ages.”
“Maybe. Sleep now.”
In the morning, Thomas was unusually tender. He brought her tea in bed, kissed her cheek.
“Sorry if I spoke wrong last night. I only want whats best for you.”
“I know,” she said stiffly.
“ListenI talked to the lads at the site. Jack says his wifes office is looking for a bookkeeper. Might suit you.”
“Im not a bookkeeper,” Margaret reminded him.
“You could learn. Take a course. Its the wanting that matters.”
“Courses cost money. A lot of money.”
“Well manage,” Thomas waved a hand. “If youve the will.”
She had the will. The strength, too. But every morning, scanning the job listings, she felt more and more useless. *”Shop assistant wanted, under thirty.” “Office manager with experience in Excel.” “Sales specialist, under forty.”*
“Anne, hello,” she called her old friend from the grocers. “How are you? Any news?”
“Margaret!” Anne brightened. “Thought youd forgotten us. Found anything yet?”
“Not yet. And you?”
“Its grim. Two more let go last week. Lucy from produce and Sarah from dairy. They say therell be more cuts.”
“And Mrs. Wilkins?”
“The manager? Sat in her office pretending alls well. But she knowsthe shops closing. New owner wants to change everything.”
Margaret hung up and sat by the window. Children played in the courtyard, young mothers gossiped on benches. Life went on, and she felt outside it.
“Ill go to Mums,” she told Thomas at supper.
“For long?” He didnt look up from his plate.
“I dont know. A week. Maybe more.”
“Right. Youll have a rest. Ill finish the shed while youre gone.”
“The shed?” She was surprised. “Youve been meaning to for half a year.”
“Well, nows the time. Be quicker without you fussing over it.”
Margaret said nothing. *Without you fussing.* Another barb lodged in her heart.
She packed quicklyjust jeans, a few blouses, a warm coat. Thomas walked her to the bus stop, kissed her goodbye.
“Ring me,” he said. “Soon as you arrive.”
“I will.”
“And give your mum my regards. Say Ill come soon.”
She nodded, though she knew he wouldnt. Thomas hated the village, called it dull and full of midges.
The bus to Ashford took two hours. Margaret watched the fields roll by, the scattered cottages. The farther from the city, the quieter her mind grew. Maybe Thomas was right. Maybe she needed to leave, just for a while.
“Margaret, love!” Her mother met her at the door, embracing her tight. “What a surprise! Why didnt you say? Id have made soup, baked a pie.”
“Decided last minute, Mum. I missed you.”
Her mother studied her face. Beatrice Hawthorne had always been sharp, quick to read people.
“Wheres Thomas? Didnt come with you?”
“Hes busy. Hell visit later.”
“I see,” Beatrice said, asking no more.
The house was just as Margaret rememberedcracked wallpaper, creaky floors, the old stove in the corner. Only smaller now. And it smelled of hay, of fresh milk, of woodsmoke.
“You know where everything is,” her mother said. “Make yourself at home. Ill pluck a chicken for supper, celebrate your visit.”
“Mum, dont trouble yourself. Im not hungry.”
“Not hungry, not hungrybut youre thin as a rail. Doesnt Thomas feed you?”
“He does. Its justIm tired, Mum.”
Beatrice stroked her hair.
“Tell me when youre ready.”
The first days, Margaret rested. Slept late, helped in the garden, visited old neighbors. Many were gone now, cottages standing empty. The village was fading.
“Remember Alice Thatcher?” her mother asked over tea. “You went to school with her.”
“Of course. What of her?”
“Went to the city ten years back, to her sons. He put her in a home. Can you imagine? His own mother!”
“Why?”
“Said he hadnt the time. Wife works, he works, the children. And the old woman just got in the way.”
Margaret shivered, as if someone walked over her grave.
“And her house? Her things?”
“Sold the lot. Needed the money, he said, for some loan.”
“And Alice agreed?”
“What choice had she? Too much for one. Big garden, cow, chickens. Shes seventy-five now.”
That evening, Margaret walked through the village. She met Miss Pembroke, her old schoolmistress, sitting on her porch, knitting.
“Margaret, dear!” the old woman brightened. “How grown you are! I still think of you as a girl. Remember reciting at the school play? ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’?”
“I remember, Miss Pembroke. You havent changed.”
“Oh, nonsense! Im old as the hills. Eighty next year. Still manage alone, though.”
“Your family?”
“In the city. Son in London, daughter in Bristol. Visit once a year, if that.”
“They dont call?”
“Oh, now and then. Ask if Im still breathing.” Miss Pembroke smiled sadly. “Want me to move, but I cant. My whole lifes here. Every stones familiar.”
Walking home, Margaret thought of Miss Pembroke, of Alice, of her mother. Once, theyd been young, needed. Raised children, worked, dreamed. Then the children left. And they stayed, with their memories.
“Mum, have you thought of moving to the city?” she asked at supper.
“I have. Especially in winter, when the lanes snowed in. But where would I go? To you? What if Thomas minds? Your flats small, and Ive my ways…”
“Mum, Thomas doesnt decide. Youre my mother. Youd always be welcome.”
“I know, love. But best not test it. I manage.”
“And if youre ill? If something happens?”
“Well, if it happens, it happens. Im not the first, wont be the last.”
Margaret wanted to argue, but stayed quiet. Thomas words echoed again. *You could go back to your village.* And she realizedshe was afraid for her mother. Afraid that one day, she too might hear such words from her own child.
On the fourth day, Thomas rang.
“How is it? Your mum well?”
“Well enough. Were managing.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I dont know. Might stay a while longer.”
“What? Seriously? What about the house? What about me?”
“Youll manage. You said youd work quicker without me.”
“Margaret, I didnt mean”
“What did you mean?”
A long silence.
“Fine, stay a bit. Just not too long. I miss you.”
“Miss me,” she repeated after he hung up.
“Was that Thomas?” her mother asked.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He misses me, he says.”
“Do you miss him?”
Margaret thought. Strangely, she didnt. For the first time in years, she felt at peace. No supper to fret over, no washing, no cleaning. No listening to Thomas grumble about work, about the foreman, about life.
“I dont know, Mum. Not yet.”
“I see,” Beatrice nodded.
“Mum, did you and Dad ever quarrel?”
“Of course. But we made up. He never belittled me, never made me feel unwanted. Respected me.”
“What if he had?”
“I dont know. He didnt.”
That evening, Margaret visited Miss Pembroke. The old woman sat knitting on the porch.
“Ive been thinking on what we spoke of,” Miss Pembroke said. “About children. You know what Ive realized? We raised them to take from us. Never to give back.”
“How so?”
“We gave them everythingthe best of us. Kept the scraps for ourselves. They grew up expecting it. That Mum would always sacrifice. That she had no wants of her own.”
“Should we have done differently?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps if wed thought of ourselves more, theyd value us more.”
Walking home, Margaret turned the words over. Shed given everythingto her parents, to Thomas, to Emily. And what had she in return? When she was no longer needed, theyd sent her away. Gently, but sent her all the same.
“Mum, what if I stayed?” she asked at breakfast.
“How do you mean?”
“Here. With you. Help with the house.”
“And Thomas?”
“Thomas can manage. He said so.”
Beatrice was quiet a long while. Then, softly:
“Do you want to stay? Or is it just hurt talking?”
“I dont know, Mum. But Im happy here. No one calls me a burden.”
“Love, the village isnt running away. Its a hard life here. Lonely. Think carefully.”
“I am. Every day.”
Two days later, Thomas came. Margaret saw him at the gate, hesitant. She went out.
“Hello,” he said awkwardly. “You all right?”
“Well enough. Whyve you come?”
“To fetch you. Time to come home.”
“Whose home?”
“Margaret, enough! Youve had your holiday. Theres work at home.”
“Your work, you mean.”
“Our work! Were a family!”
“Family?” She laughed coldly. “When you told me to go to the village, was that family?”
“I didnt send you away! I thought you needed a rest!”
*”You could go back to your village”*thats a rest?”
Thomas faltered. Knew hed spoken wrong.
“I didnt mean to hurt you.”
“What did you mean?”
“I wanted… I wanted you not to fret over work.”
“And now?”
“Now I want you home. Its not the same without you.”
“And if I dont find work? Will you send me away again?”
“I wont.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Margaret looked at him and knew she didnt believe it. Couldnt. Something between them had broken.
“Thomas, if youd lost your job, would I have told you to leave?”
“Thats different.”
“Why?”
“Because Im the man. The breadwinner.”
“And what am I?”
“Youre… youre my wife. My support.”
“Support,” she repeated. “Needed when you want it. A burden when you dont.”
“Dont be daft!” Thomas snapped. “What burden? Are you ill?”
“No. Just unemployed. Another mouth to feed. A burden.”
“Stop this!”
“Then why send me away?”
Thomas had no answer. He didnt know why hed suggested it. Only that it seemed easier. Fewer sighs, fewer sad eyes, fewer talks of work.
“All right, I was wrong. Im sorry. Come home?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Im not ready.”
“At all?”
“I dont know. Im happy here. Mum needs help. You said youd manage.”
“Margaret, Ive apologized! What more do you want?”
“Nothing. I just need time. To think. About us. About myself. About what comes next.”
Thomas stayed the night, left in the morninghurt, confused. He didnt understand his wife. Shed always yielded before. Now she stood firm.
“Love,” her mother said as the bus vanished down the lane. “Think again. Maybe he truly sees his mistake?”
“Maybe. But Im not ready to go back. I need time, Mum. To know who I am without him. To see if I can stand alone. Or if Ive forgotten how.”
“Will you look for work here?”
“I will. The school in the next town needs a cleaner. The pays small, but enough. And in summer, Ill help in the garden.”
“Of course you will.”
Margaret hugged her mother, rested her head on her shoulder. For the first time in years, she felt at home. Truly home.
