James married at twenty-four. His wife, Emily, was twenty-two. She was the only child, born later in life to a university professor and a schoolteacher. Soon after the wedding, they had two boys close in age, followed by a daughter.
Emilys mother retired and devoted herself to the grandchildren.
James had a peculiar relationship with herhe always addressed her formally as “Margaret Elizabeth,” and she replied with a reserved “Mr. Thompson,” never shortening his name. They never argued, but her presence left him uneasy. Still, she never interfered, speaking to him with stiff politeness and staying strictly neutral in his marriage.
A month ago, the company James worked for went under, and he was let go. Over dinner, Emily remarked,
“We cant survive long on Mums pension and my salary, Jim. Youd better find work.”
Easier said than done. Thirty days of pounding the pavement, and nothing!
Frustrated, James kicked a beer can lying in his path. Thank goodness Margaret hadnt said anything yet, but her pointed looks spoke volumes.
Before the wedding, hed overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.
“Emily, are you sure hes the one you want to spend your life with?”
“Mum, of course!”
“I dont think you grasp the responsibility. If your father were alive…”
“Oh, Mum, stop! We love each otheritll be fine!”
“And children? Can he provide for them?”
“He will, Mum!”
“Its not too late to reconsider, Emily. His background…”
“Mum, I love him!”
“Fine. Just dont come crying to me later.”
“Well, nows the time for crying,” James thought grimly. Margaret had seen right through him.
He didnt want to go home. He could picture itEmilys hollow reassurances (“Dont worry, tomorrows another day!”), Margarets silent disapproval, the children smirking, “Dad, found a job yet?” He couldnt face it again.
He wandered along the Thames, sat on a bench in the park, and as night fell, headed to the cottage where his family stayed from spring till autumn. A single light glowed in Margarets bedroom. Treading softly, he crept up the path. The curtain twitched, and James ducked, landing squarely on a tree stump.
Margaret peered out.
“James is late. Did you call him, Emily?”
“Yes, Mum. His phones off. Probably still job huntingor moping somewhere.”
Her voice turned to ice.
“Emily! Dont you dare speak of your husband like that!”
“Oh, Mum, really? I just think Jims slacking. A whole month on my back!”
For the first time in six years, James heard Margaret slam her fist on the table.
“You will not! You vowed to stand by himfor better or worse! In sickness and in hardship!”
Emily mumbled hastily,
“Sorry, Mum. Dont upset yourself. Im just tired.”
“Go to bed,” Margaret sighed, waving her off.
The light went out. James heard her pacing, then the curtain shifted again. She peered blindly into the night before raising her eyes to the sky, crossing herself fervently.
“Dear Lord, full of mercy, protect the father of my grandchildren, the husband of my child! Keep his faith strong. Help him, Lordmy dear boy!”
Her whispered prayers were broken by tears.
A warmth swelled in Jamess chest. No one had ever prayed for himnot his strict mother, a career-driven civil servant, nor his father, whod vanished when he was five. Hed grown up in nurseries, after-school clubs, then university, where hed worked straightawayhis mother loathed idleness and expected him to fend for himself.
The heat spread, rising until it spilled over in quiet tears. He remembered Margaret rising before dawn to bake his favourite pies, simmering rich stews, her dumplings a small miracle. She tended the children, kept the house, grew vegetables, made jams, pickled cucumbers and chutneys…
Why had he never noticed? Never thanked her? He and Emily had just worked and raised children, assuming it was how things ought to be. Or was that just him? He recalled once, watching a documentary on Australia, Margaret had murmured, “Ive always dreamed of going there.” Hed joked that the heat wouldnt suit hershed melt her icy shell…
James sat there long into the night, head in his hands.
At breakfast on the veranda, he took in the spreadfresh scones, jam, tea, milk. The children, bright-eyed and laughing. He looked up gently.
“Good morning, Mum.”
Margaret startled, then softly replied,
“Good morning, Jimmy.”
Two weeks later, James found work. A year after that, he sent Margaret Elizabeth to Australiadespite her protests.
