From my earliest days Eleanor Whitby grew up gentle and kind. Mother often reminded her,
Your temperament is the gift of your father, George Whitbyhe was a man who would give a penny for anyone in need, though his time among us was brief. Now Eleanor carries on his good works, even as a child she rescued every little creature she saw.
Eleanor grew, completed her schooling, took a job, and moved into the modest council flat that her grandfather, George, had left her. She remained ever courteous and fair, helping both people and animals, though some neighbours muttered that she was a touch oddalmost not of this world.
One rainy autumn afternoon, as she was returning from the market, Eleanor spotted an elderly woman struggling with two halffilled shopping bags.
Lord, see how her hands tremble, how her back bows under the weight of years, Eleanor thought with sympathy. She has carried a lifetime on those shoulders.
She hurried to the womans side and recognized her as Mrs. Martha Irving from the same block.
Good afternoon, let me help you with those, Eleanor offered, taking the bags from Marthas grasp.
At first Mrs. Irving flinched, frightened, then managed a tentative smile.
Thank you, dear, but I live on the fourth floor
Im aware, I live on the second, Eleanor replied warmly.
When Eleanor carried the bags up to the flat, she glanced around and saw the place was in disarray, long neglected.
Mrs. Irving, may I stay and tidy the flat for you? I see its a heavy task. Ill return a little later after I drop my own groceries home, she suggested.
Oh, youre too kind, dear, do not waste your time on me, Martha protested.
Its no trouble, Im alone and today is my day off, Eleanor insisted.
From then on Eleanor visited Martha regularly, sometimes sharing tea in the evenings. She loved listening to the old piano that Marthas late husband had bought when their son was born. Eleanor herself had studied at the conservatory, though she never pursued a musical career, having been steered into teaching by her mothers wishes.
One morning Eleanor saw on the communal bench the frail Agnes Seymour, a neighbour from the fifth floor.
Eleanor, I see youve taken Martha under your wing. Youre doing right. Its a pity about her sonhe and his wife live in Berlin, welloff, and their children are in London, yet they come only rarely, whispering that they await their mothers death to inherit, Agnes remarked.
Eleanor nodded and entered the lift.
Lord, what riches could Martha hold? Just a piano and sturdy furniture, she mused, shaking her head at the gossip.
That evening Eleanor arrived at Marthas with a fresh apple pie.
Lets have tea; Ill set the kettle, she chirped, moving to the kitchen.
Why do you trouble yourself, dear? Marthas eyes glimmered.
Just thought it would bring you some comfort, Eleanor replied with a smile.
As they sipped tea, Martha spoke of her childhood during the war, of her husband who had long since passed, and of her son who had settled abroad. She lamented how seldom her children visited, as if she had been forgotten.
But you still have grandchildren, Eleanor prompted.
Grandchildren Marthas voice quivered. They think me a feeble old thing. Last year my grandson Gary came, roughhanded, but he brought fruit. As he left he muttered, Old woman, youre a bother, its time you went to your rest. Thats the sort of grandson we havemy granddaughter never appears, waiting only for my death
Winter came, and Martha fell ill. Eleanor began visiting each evening after work, bringing meals, medicines, and groceries. One night Martha asked, Dear, could you play the piano? I long to hear it.
Eleanor sat at the instrument, her fingers gently brushing the keys, and music filled the room. She saw Martha close her eyes, savoring each note, perhaps recalling days gone by.
That became their ritual: Martha would tell a simple story, then Eleanor would play soft melodies.
Time wore on, and Martha grew weaker. She called the local doctor, and Eleanor helped administer the prescriptions. One afternoon, after sweeping the floor and dusting, Eleanor sat beside Martha, who whispered, You know, dear, I have written my will. The flat will go to my grandchildrenthough they hardly wait for it. But I wish the piano to belong to you.
Eleanor was taken aback. I am nothing to you, and I do not wish your grandchildren to think Ive taken advantage, she replied.
No matter, dear. I have arranged everything as I see fit, Martha assured.
Spring arrived, and Martha could hardly rise. She called for the doctor often, but was never taken to hospital. One night she slipped away alone. The evening before, as Eleanor sat beside her, Martha murmured, Remember the piano, love. It is yours, dont forget I want that.
The next morning Eleanor hurried to work, but the flat was silent; Martha had passed. She called Gary on Marthas old telephone.
At the funeral Eleanor wept as though she had lost a mother. Later the grandchildren arrived to sort out the estate and summoned Eleanor. She entered the empty flat and saw the piano standing alone in the centre of the room.
While the removers bring the piano to your new home, instructed Gary, a tall, selfsatisfied young man with a condescending smile, remember our mothershe wanted the piano for you. Take it, as a token for looking after her. He added, Well thank you for your care, even if we think youre a bit odd, just like our mother.
Eleanor felt a mixture of gratitude and bewilderment. She took the piano to her own flat, dusted it gently, and whispered, Thank you, Martha Irving, for your kindness.
For several days she could not sit at the instrument; something held her back. On a quiet evening, after dinner, she lifted the lid, brushed the keys, and discovered a small bundle wrapped in fine cloth among the strings. Inside lay a tiny jewellery box, its lid slightly ajar.
She opened it and found sparkling piecesrings, earrings, bracelets, two delicate necklacesand a photograph of a young Martha. A note was tucked beside them:
Eleanor, dear, these are for you. For a soul as gentle as yours. Thank you for the last year of my life; it was happy because you were there. Be joyful. If you wish to sell, do so, but keep at least one ring as a memory of me.
Eleanors eyes filled with tears as she examined the treasure. She chose a single simple gold band, slipped it onto her finger, and placed her hands on the piano once more, coaxing a tender melody.
The jewellery box lay open on the table. After some contemplation, she decided to take the valuables to the pawnshop on Saturday. The appraiser stared, These are family heirlooms, are you sure?
Yes, they are valuable, Eleanor answered.
When the money was in her hands, she bought a modest sum and drove to the outskirts of town, where an abandoned, twostorey house with a spacious garden stood, its plaster peeling to reveal sturdy brickwork. The structure, though neglected, was sound.
She imagined the piano in that space and, after a moments thought, approached a local estate agent. I wish to purchase this house, she said.
Youre serious? It needs a massive renovation, the agent replied.
This is the one, Eleanor confirmed.
Eight months later, after the restoration, the house reopened as a small residential home for solitary seniors. In the bright sittingroom the piano stood, surrounded by comfortable sofas and armchairs. The first residents arrived: Mr. Ivan Sampson, a retired gardener, and two widows, Anna and Gladys, sisters who had lost their home in a fire. More followed.
Often Eleanor would sit at the piano and play classical pieces when the residents asked, Eleanor Whitby, could you play something for us?
She played with devotion, feeling Marthas unseen presence between the notes, a soft approving whisper: Well done, love.
Eleanor became the matriarch of this warm haven, affectionately called The Whitby House by its occupants. Journalists visited, writing articles about the home and its unique origins.
Sold the jewellery and opened a home for the elderlyfew would dare such a venture. No regrets? a reporter asked.
Not a shred, Eleanor smiled. Its a blessing to watch these elders find peace. Look thereGladys knits socks, and Ivan sits over a chessboard waiting for his old friend, Ignatius, to join. I know Martha would be proud of how I used her legacy. I received far more than goldlove and kindness.
Two years later Eleanor married Stephen Clarke, a goodnatured man who gladly helped run the house. Together they tended to the home, their lives intertwined with the gentle rhythm of the piano and the quiet gratitude of those who found a second home within its walls.
