The Secret of Her Work
The door swung open before Emily could clear the printouts from the table. She barely had time to snap her laptop shut and turn around before the familiar sound of shopping bags clattered in the hall, accompanied by a voice I knew all too well.
James, honestly, I keep telling you, you need to move to the ground floor. Fifth floor, no lift, its sheer madness.
My mum, Margaret Edwards, marched into the kitchen still bundled in her coat, clutching two hefty carrier bags. Round-faced and solidly built, with a short chestnut bob, she surveyed the place as if shed come for an inspection rather than a visit.
Mum, let me help. I came out of the bedroom in joggers and a t-shirt, kissed her on the cheek, and took the bags from her. Wheres all this from?
The allotment, of course. Cucumbers, courgettes, spring onions, new potatoes. I wanted to bring tomatoes, but theyre not ripe yet. Margaret finally shrugged off her coat, hung it by the door, and returned to the kitchen. She clocked Emily, standing by the table with a mug of tea. Afternoon, Emily.
Hello, Margaret. How was your journey?
Alright. Train was rammed, as always. Everyones carting something homeat least I have bags, one lady had pots of bedding plants strewn everywhere. She started unpacking: cucumbers swaddled in newspaper, bouquets of dill, knots of onions. You working today or just at home, as usual?
Emily sipped her tea. Im at home, she replied, level as you like.
I see.
She crammed so much into those two words, youd be forgiven for assuming shed delivered a whole speech. I started transferring cucumbers to a salad bowl, not meeting anyones eye.
Mum, are you hungry? We could rustle something up.
Is your fridge even working? Margaret popped it open before Emily could answer. Inside: a carton of milk, a wedge of cheddar, three eggs, half a pack of butter and a bag of leftover couscous. Emily, when did you last do the shopping?
The other day, Emily said.
The other day. Margaret closed the fridge with a thud. Three eggs and a splash of milk. Thats your other day?
Mum. I set the bowl down a bit more forcefully than necessary.
What? Its a fair question. If youre at home all day, you might as well sort the groceries. Youre not working, so at least keep things running here.
I am working, Emily said quietly, not rising to the bait.
Oh, love, come on. Margaret waved her hand, lowering herself onto a kitchen stool. Three years youve been out of a proper job. Three! I get itmaternity leave, illness, whatever, but youre not ill and there are no children. You sit at home fiddling on your computer, while James is slogging away for the both of you. Thats not right, is it?
Mum, please, this is our business, I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
Im just saying, she insisted. Remember Helen, Tamaras daughter from my old office? Shes running a whole department at thirty-two! Did it all herself, no man, no help. Brilliant girl. And you, Emilyyoure bright, youre clever, what stopped you staying in the editorial office? You quit, and that was that.
I didnt abandon my work, Emily answered, and there was something in her voice that made me finally look up.
Oh, its just the format thats changed, is it? Margaret tried the word, clearly unimpressed. I did accountancy for thirty-six years. No formats, just eight-to-five, bills paid, forms filled, reports done on time. Back in 92, when they didnt pay us for six months, did I complain? No, I showed up. Because work is work, its not about convenience.
I understand, Emily said quietly.
All Im saying is, you ought to get back out there. Doesnt have to be managementassistant, part-time, anything. So youve got your own money, a bit of self-respect.
I slipped out of the kitchennothing dramatic, just needed space. Both women noticed. Emily put her mug down, rubbed her temple, then smiled with that gentle, unreadable smile of hers.
Margaret, shall I make you an omelette? Weve fresh dill, and you brought cucumbers.
She gave Emily a long, appraising stare. Alright, she said eventually. Dont be stingy with the butter, I dont like a dry omelette.
While Emily cooked, Margaret repacked the cucumbers, muttering about fertiliser prices, the neighbours sticky fingers on the strawberries, and how the trains had got worse. She filled the space with talk, the way she always didbecause silence meant thinking about things best left unthought.
Emily listened, flipped the omelette, sliced cucumber. Behind her closed laptop lay printouts marked up with red pen, scanned yellowed letters, photographs from the early twentieth century. She had a deadline in four days; shed not done the groceries because last night she was up till three cross-referencing names and dates in a tangle of postwar archives.
Margaret didnt know. And Emily wasnt about to explain.
My mum left just before half-past seven, carting her empty bags and her certainty that her daughter-in-law was wasting her life. She said something to me in the stairwell, too quiet for Emily to catch. I nodded, then came back up and loitered in the hall, not sure where to put myself.
You shouldnt have kept quiet, I said at last.
I didnt keep quiet, Emily called from the kitchen. I was making an omelette.
You know what I mean.
I do. She came to stand beside me. James, it matters more that you understand. Mum is just herself. You cant change her.
But shes not being fair.
Its not malice, Emily said. Its just how she sees the world: those who go out to workand everyone else. Thats her reality.
I hugged her, resting my chin on her head.
Tired?
A bit. Still got some work to do.
Go on then, I said. Ill tidy up.
She went back to her laptop; the screen came to life with the draft shed rewritten six times already, hunting for that elusive rhythm that brings old tales to life. The commission was tricky: a wealthy London businessman wanted a book about his family, complete with archive photos and letters, real biographies. Not some shiny brochure, but living memory. These were the jobs Emily Forster took on.
The name on the future book covers was always the same: Emily Forster, family archive editor and restorer. Her real surname, Taylor, appeared nowhere. That was Emilys decisionnot from shame or necessity, but because when she left magazine publishing three years ago to strike out on her own, she realised she needed space. No awkward questions, no endless explanations. Forster was free; Taylor was the housebound daughter-in-law.
Both names for the same woman, just living in different rooms.
The money Forster earned went into a separate account. I knew about itwe called it our safety fund, half-joking, half-serious. That fund gave us a sense of security, allowed us to avoid desperation if life threw us a curveball. My salary wasnt bad, but we werent exactly living large. Emilys income gave us breathing space.
Margaret didnt know about that account.
A year ago, my dad Roy was diagnosed with heart issues. Not life-threatening, but needing attention. The NHS waiting list was endless, and time wasnt on our side. I started scraping together the cost for a private operationovertime, no holidaysbut it wasnt enough. Emily quietly drew the money from the safety fund. No fuss or announcements. I knew. Margaret assumed Id found the money somewhere, borrowed, or saved.
It was easier that way. For everyone.
Dad had his operation in October, in a good private clinic. Now he went out for morning walks, grumbling only about the doctors banning salt from his diet.
Great Uncle Arthurs eightieth birthday fell at the start of August. He was a gentle man in corduroy and cardigans, soft-spoken and quick to laugh at his own jokes. Arthur had taught history all his life; even at his own birthday, he somehow steered the conversation to a little-known battle near York.
The family gathered in force: second-cousins, half-remembered unclesa familiar blur at every rare reunion. Margaret arrived in her new blue dress and a fresh perm, all smiles, until she was seated by Stans wife Lily, who she considered flighty.
Emily sat with me opposite, quietly observing the table, the way she did after years working with other peoples storiesfaces, voices, small moments. She listened so well that people didnt notice her listening.
Midway through the meal, just after the last of the toast speeches, in strode Uncle Hugha round, bearded man straight out of a Victorian photograph, a collector of vintage documents and postcards. Hed come from York, instantly the centre of attention.
Arthur, old chap, Ive got something for you, he declared, fishing out a weighty, hard-backed booka dark green cover with gold lettering: The Ogden Family A History 18122024. Arthur accepted it with both hands, as if Hugh had handed him something fragile.
Hugh, whats this?
Our story, Hugh said with obvious pride. Two years collecting archives, chasing documents, talking to all sorts. And I found a miracle editorEmily Forster. Anyone heard the name?
Heads shook. Margaret leant forward.
No, someone said.
And no wonder. She works quietly, by recommendation only. I found her through a friendshe made a book about his father. Says he rereads it every year, not just lines his shelf with it. Thats what I call real work.
Arthur opened the book, and people crowded round.
There are photographs, he marvelled. Where on earth did these come from?
She found them. I gave her a handful of letters, a couple of papers. She did the rest: scoured the archives, wrote to local museums, dug up material I never imagined existed. Look, theres your great-grandfather, Timothy Ogden, born 1882. Never even seen his photo before. How she does it, Ive no idea. Witchcraft, I swear.
Margaret craned over shoulders, face lit with the thrill of a new topic. Beautifully done, she said. I suppose a book like that costs a fortune?
Not for dinner-table talk, Hugh smiled. But worth every penny. Some things are beyond price.
Arthur nodded, lost in the pages. This is extraordinary. Whole biographies, and the letterslook, there are all the letters!
Theyre transcribed and annotated, Hugh said. Some scrawls were impossible, but she managed it. She explained what was happening at the time, why people used certain words, why it mattered. Not just documentscontext and understanding. Very bright woman, really.
Margarets eyes flicked to Emily, and she looked at her in that waya moment of calculation, a pivot before commentary.
Emily, you hear that? Now theres proper workediting archives. You should see if this Forster woman needs any assistants. Youre at home anyway. Could learn something useful. Even helping out is better than nothing.
The conversation dipped, as everyone half-listened in that way gatherings do when real interest sparks elsewhere. I set my glass down.
Emily waited a moment. Then asked Hugh, Uncle Hugh, do you remember the agency you sent your materials through?
He raised his eyebrows. No agency. All done directly. She works under a pseudonym, not a secretshe said so herself. Her real surname is different.
Yes, said Emily. It is.
There was something in her tone no one could quite articulate. The table went silent. Hugh looked from me to Emily, then back again.
Hold on, he said.
Im Forster, Emily told him. As if she were repeating her postcode.
Hugh froze, napkin in hand.
Silence stuck to the tablecloth. Arthur looked helplessly from Hugh to Emily, while distant cousins murmured questions to their neighbours.
Margaret sat very still. Her face first blanked, then shifted, like sunlight slowly emerging from behind a cloud. Redness crept to her cheeks.
What do you mean? she began, her voice oddly small. Youre youre the one Hughs?
Yes, said Emily.
Why didnt you ever
Mum, I said, and my voice found its backbone at last, Not now.
Hugh was the first to recover, the sort you cant keep down for long. Emily, he said, with fresh and genuine respect. Two years of email and I never saw it. Though you go by Taylor with James, and Taylors are ten-a-penny in our family.
I didnt think it would happen, Emily said.
What wouldnt? asked Arthur.
That youd turn out to be Jamess family. I wasnt really up on his extended relatives when I took the job. Realised halfway through and didnt mention itfelt it didnt matter for the work.
It didnt, Hugh grinned. Though it changed this He gestured round the table.
Margaret said nothing, head bowed. Someone tried to draw her into conversation; she didnt respond.
In time, chatter resumed. The book passed from hand to hand, turned over and admired. Hugh regaled Arthur with archive-hunting tales. Arthur clung to a page mentioning his own father, just sitting with it in his hands.
Emily drank her tea, mostly silent.
Margaret rose awkwardly, bumping a glass, murmured an apology and slipped onto the wooden veranda.
Emily nodded to me; I briskly followed.
Outside, Margaret stood by the rails, staring out at the garden: unkempt apple trees, long neglected, laden with fruit. The evening was warm, the air green and earthy.
Emily joined her at arms length.
They stood for a while in silence.
I didnt know, Margaret said at last, her voice stripped of its usual certainty, left with simple discomfort.
I know you didnt.
I said all sorts to you today, other days
You said what you believed.
But what I thought it wasnt true. For once, she looked tired, her composure gone. Emily, where did the money for Roys operation come from?
Emily waited, then said, James found it.
James couldnt have raised that sum. I know what were like. It was you, wasnt it?
It was both of us.
But your money.
Margaret
Dont interrupt. Her tone was weary, not sharp. I want to understand. Three years youve worked, earned, savednot a word. I nagged you to your face, called you lazy, and you stayed quiet. And for Roys operation
She stopped, out of breath, not in tears, just empty of air.
Hes family, Emily said. What more reason do you need?
Margaret searched her face. Then turned back to the apple trees.
Why didnt you tell me? Her voice wavered. Why keep your work a secret?
I didnt mean to. You never really asked.
I accused you of doing nothing, she said.
Yes.
And you stayed silent.
Yes.
Margaret ran her hand along the rail and winced at a splinter.
I see. You kept quiet to avoid arguing, avoid explaining. To just work.
In part.
And the other part?
Emily gazed at the apples.
Because some things are hard to explain, unless you feel them too. What I doits not just editing. Im dealing with other peoples memories. Their pain, their joy, things they keep in drawers and dont dare throw away. When it comes alive in a book, it feels personal. I cant make small talk about it, not between omelettes and cucumber chat.
Margaret listened in silence.
I was unfair to you, she said eventually. I see that now. I didnt before.
You had no reason to see it before.
Thats no excuse.
No, Emily agreed. But its an explanation.
They stood quietly. Laughter drifted through the window, the clink of glasses.
Emily, Margaret began, carefully, searching for words foreign to her tongue. I want to apologise. Not just out of duty. Im ashamed. Genuinely. I saw only what I wanted to seenot what was real.
Emily didnt reply.
Will you accept it?
Margaret, youre my mother-in-law. Were stuck with each other. So, we move forward.
Thats not a proper answer.
Its the one I have. Emily managed a small smile. Of course I accept.
Margaret nodded, rubbing her arms as if cold despite the warmth.
I actually wanted to ask something, she said after a pause, hesitant. I know its late, maybe odd. But at home, we have letterswartime ones. I kept them all my life, cant throw them away, but dont know what to do with them. Theyre from my grandmothers fatherfought in the war. Dozens, over about five years. Could you have a look?
Emily looked up. Something in the question was disarmingly sincerenot asking a favour, just passing on something deeply important.
Of course I can.
Margaret nodded, face shifting into something less tense.
Ill bring them round. Whens best?
Any day. You know Im always home.
Margaret gave a short, wry bark. Home, yes. You are at home.
The letters arrived a week laterin a battered shoe box tied with string, inside yellowed envelopes, a few loose pages and one framed photograph. Emily set the box on the table near the window, deliberately gentle. Margaret watched with the tension you get when you hand over something precious.
I wont change a thing, Emily promised. Just preserve them, transcribe and put in order. Theyre yourstheyll stay yours.
I know, Margaret said.
They sat side by side. Emily opened the box, pulled out the first envelope, read the 1942 field postmark. She slit it open.
The handwriting was strong and neatletters shaped carefully, almost beautiful, as if the writer had been taught penmanship in school.
Emily read quietly. Then paused.
One minute, she said, scanning a line: In our team is a woman, Barbara, from Somerset. Shes a teacher, writes well, helps compile lists. Together we pack away papers, documents you cant burnbecause memory is too precious, even with fire all around.
Margaret stared as Emily read on, lips moving. After a moment, she looked up, thoughtful.
Somerset My great-grandmother was from Somerset. Barbara was her name too, a teacher, and she helped save local records during the war. Mum always told me, but I never thought of it as more than a family story.
Margaret said nothing, processing.
She saved registers, parish books, school logbooks, Emily continued. Mum said my great-gran always used to say: If documents burn, a little of the truth about the people goes with them. Thats family historyIve heard it since I was little.
And my great-grandfather wrote about Barbara from Somerset, whispered Margaret.
Yes.
They looked at one another across the box.
It could have been a coincidence. Barbara was a common name for women working with records in the war. Somerset is a large county. But the synchronicity was too heavy, too meaningful to brush awaynot because it proved anything objective, but because it simply mattered, to both of them.
I could try to check, Emily offered. There are military archives, records on civilians attached to army units. If I can get a name and year
Youd do that? Margaret asked.
Ill try.
Margaret traced the boxs edge with her finger.
I always thought these were just relics. Kept them because you cant throw them, but never thought they might be alive.
They always are, Emily said. Thats why I do this. As long as you read, theyre alive.
Margaret nodded. Then softly:
Could I help? Not work on it, I wouldnt know how. But maybe listen while you read. See if I can help with questions.
Emily looked at her, weighing the sincerity.
Of course.
So thats how it started. Not with an official truce, not with grand speeches. Two women at a table, one reading, one listening, the distance between them crossed by old letters their ancestors had written and receivedtrying to preserve what must not be lost.
Autumn slipped by with quiet industry. Margaret visited two or three times a week. At first she watched, then she began bringing things shed unearthed from her own family archivesphotos, birth certificates, old reports. She had a sharp memory for dateswho was whose cousin, which year someone moved or married. A living memory, not just a documented one.
Emily began taking notes.
I watched the whole thing with a disbelief that gradually gave way to respect.
Mums been here three hours today, I remarked one evening. Heard her telling you about some remote village where your great-gran was born.
She remembers a lot, Emily would say.
She doesnt pester you?
No. Shes helping.
I hesitated. You remember what she used to say, a year ago.
I do.
Doesnt that?
James. Emily smiled gently. Back then, she didnt know. Now she does. People change if you let them.
So youre defending her?
I understand her. Thats different.
In November, Emily made the link to Barbara. Among digitalised army records, she found a listing of civilians attached to the evacuation squad in 1942. Barbara Anne Holloway, teacher, born Somerset, worked salvaging vital documents under shellfire. Age and initials matched. Unlikely to be anyone else.
Emily showed Margaret the printout. Margaret read it twice, hands trembling a little, though the words were few.
So they were in the same unit.
It looks like it.
So they would have known each other.
Yes.
She looked at Emily, eyes bright. What does it mean? That we, you and I have been connected all along?
It means, Emily said, our families have already worked togetheronce before. Maybe its a coincidence, maybe not. It matters for ushowever you see it.
I feel better for knowing, Margaret replied quietly.
The museum idea came from Dad. One day, seeing the shelves loaded with family folders, photographs, a hand-drawn family tree pinned to the wall, he remarked: Looks a bit like a museum here now.
They laughedthen fell silent, sharing a glance.
The room was small, in Margaret and Dads flatformerly a dumping ground for bric-a-brac. They cleared it out, painted the walls, put up a cheap set of shelves. Emily framed a few photos, labelled names and years. Margaret found a box of rings and a pair of war medals. Dad produced an old leather satchel from the garage, which turned out to contain a notebook full of jottings.
They spent three evenings deciphering it.
No official opening, just one December Saturday when I walked into the flat and saw the room ready: framed photos, archive folders, the medal box, the satchel.
Mum I started.
What? She came from the kitchen, tea towel in hand.
Its beautiful.
She shrugged, but she looked pleased.
Its Emilys doing. I just helped.
You did it together, I said.
She paused. Together. Yes.
That day, Emily turned down a business proposal: a local entrepreneur wanted her to start a publishing company devoted to family memory booksdedicated staff, offices, expansion. The pay was tempting.
She wrote a polite refusal that evening. I asked her why.
If I became a company, Id have to take any job, not just the ones that move me. Id have to manage staff, count profits, chase trends. Thats decent work, but not my work. I need to feel a book matters, that its worth remembering. Without that, its just another business. Anyone can do business.
I nodded. No regrets?
None. I only ever regret what I didnt do, not what I did.
Margaret found out about the declined offer afterwards and said nothingjust moved a photo frame so it caught the light better.
Late December, on a short winter day, Emily arrived to the little museum room early. She ran her fingertips along the file spines. The archive now included not just other peoples stories, but our ownunfinished, living.
Margaret came a few minutes later with tea and two mugs on a tray, setting them by the window looking onto the estate. Outside, everything was grey and quiet, the window ledge frosted white.
I found a few more letters, Margaret said as she sat. In my mothers old chest of drawersnever really emptied it after she died. Theres an envelope at the bottom.
How many?
A handful. Different handwriting. Not Peters.
Whose, then?
Im not sure. Margaret cradled her crumbly mug. Maybe someone wrote to Mums mumher name was Mary.
Will you bring them?
I will. She watched snow drift past the window. Emily, I cant pretend I fully understand your work, but I see now that its important. Someone has to do it.
Thats enough, Emily said.
Perhaps it is. Margaret sipped her tea. All my life, I thought the main thing was visible workthe report handed in, the numbers balancing, approval from the boss. Work you can see. But you work in a way that looks invisiblejust you at the computer, at home. But inside somethings alive.
Emily watched her.
It took me this long to notice, Margaret continued simply. Years, really, and it needed something dramatic to show me.
At least you saw, said Emily.
Thats what matters. Margaret set her mug down. If Hugh hadn’t turned up with that book at Arthurs birthday, if not for all that, would we have ever?
I dont know, Emily admitted. Maybe something else would have happened. Maybe not.
Lifes unpredictable, Margaret mused.
Outside, the snow fell quietlyslow and steady, blanketing the estate in white, everything hushed in the way only snow can bring.
Got your next project lined up? Margaret asked.
There is one. Family near Manchester wants a book about three generations. The grandfather was a painter, then everyone became engineers, now the grandchildren are artists again.
A circle, then.
Yes. Those are my favourite stories.
Margaret nodded, then hesitated as if crossing into delicate territory.
When you start our book, someday youll let me know what you need?
I will, Emily said.
Ill remember. I always do. Margaret straightened a frame on the shelfa young man in army uniform, Peter Nichols, 1942, field post. Next to it, a blurred woman with a bookBarbara Holloway, probably the late 1930s.
They stood together on the shelf, perhaps once together in some freezing shelter, sealing up documents that must never burn.
Lovely tea, Margaret commented, returning to her seat.
I got it from a little local shoponly loose leaves, no bags.
Jot down the address for me.
Will do.
Outside, the snow kept fallingpatient, even, and the world below turned white, quiet as only a snowfall can make it.
