Hey love, its me, just wanted to catch you up on Valeries latest youll get a giggle out of it, I promise.
So, in the dead of winter Valerie finally decided shed had enough of her old cottage up in a tiny Cotswold village and sold it to move in with her son, James. Shed been having a stroke a while back, and even after shed recovered as best as she could, she realised living alone was getting risky, especially since the nearest GP was miles away. She handed over almost everything to the new owner, packed up, and joined James and his wife, Emma.
By summer, Jamess crew had left their cramped flat on the ninth floor of a city building and settled into a brandnew twostorey cottage theyd just built on a plot near the Thames. James designed it himself, bragging, I grew up in a house built into the land, so thats the kind of home Im putting up now. It turned out just like that bright, airy rooms, a sprawling kitchen, and a bathroom that looked like a slice of the North Sea, all that blue. Valerie laughed, Feels like weve landed on a beach, doesnt it?
Only one thing James hadnt thought through: he put Valeries and her granddaughter Rosies bedrooms on the top floor. Every night the old lady had to trudge down the steep stairs just to get to the loo. Hope I dont tumble in my sleep, she muttered each time, gripping the banister like a lifeline.
She settled in quickly, getting on famously with Emma. Rosie never bothered anyone shes glued to her tablet, the internet doing all the talking for her. Valerie decided the best policy was to keep her mouth shut, stay quiet, and watch from the sidelines.
Mornings were a quiet orchestra: everyone off to work or school, and Valerie was left with the chowchow, Rex, and the cat, Murray, while a little turtle perched on the edge of a round aquarium, craning its neck at her like it was trying to escape. After feeding the fish and the turtle, shed call Rex over for tea. The dog was a gentle giant, eyes halfclosed, waiting for the biscuit box shed pull out of the cupboard. He adored those biscuits the ones meant for toddlers that Emma would sneak him, because a chowchow supposedly needs a very specific diet. Valerie felt sorry for him, so she kept buying the kiddie biscuits and treating Rex like a spoiled pet.
Once lunch was cleared and the house tidied, Valerie headed out to the garden. Shed always loved a bit of soil under her nails, so she kept at it. While pruning her lettuce beds she spotted a high wooden fence bordering the neighbours plot. In one spot behind the house there was no fence at all just a low decorative rail James had put up, saying it didnt need a proper barrier. She didnt know the owners, only that an old man in a worn hat sometimes appeared, looking grim and withdrawn. Whenever he saw her, hed shuffle back into his outbuilding.
A few days earlier shed seen something that made her pause. Shed gone upstairs to straighten Rosies room the little girl was always late getting up, never making her bed. Valerie pulled back the curtains, reached for the window, and there, slowly shuffling, was the old neighbour with his head down. He settled on a bucket by the raspberry bushes, wearing a faded, longsleeved shirt of indeterminate colour. It was early September, a chilly morning, and he kept coughing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
Coughing and still out in the cold, Valerie thought, and then realized the old man was actually weeping.
Her heart gave a little thump. Are you alright? Do you need help? she called, hurrying to the doorway, but a sharp female shout from the kitchen stopped her in her tracks.
So hes not alone, she reasoned, glancing back at the window. The man didnt answer when she called his name; he just sat there, his shoulders hunched, grey hair fluttering in the breeze. There was something terribly hopeless about his whole demeanour. Valerie felt a pang of pity she knew all too well how crushing loneliness could be.
What must one do to make a man cry like that? she wondered, the image stuck in her mind. From then on she kept an eye on the neighbours little patch of garden through that low rail. She saw him out there most of the day, sometimes sawing something in the shed, sometimes just wandering among the rows.
Today she heard him talking to someone, his voice low.
Ah, you poor birds, he sighed, you get to roam while its warm. When the cold comes youre locked up and forgotten. Im the same stuck in a cage. Whats left for us in old age? Who wants us?
His words hit her hard. How does anyone live when theyre talking to their own shadows? she muttered, heading back inside.
At dinner she asked Emma about the neighbours.
Used to be a family there. The lady passed, and the bloke, Peter Smith, stayed on with his son. A few years back his son got married and brought his wife home. No drama while the old man worked the garden. But when he retired, the shouting started. Emma never worked for him. He does all the gardening himself, goes to the shop, looks after the grandchildren, drops Rosie off at school. Now the girls sixteen and in the same class as Rosie, so the old mans pretty much useless.
What about his son? Valerie pressed.
The sons quiet, proper, cant argue. Thats how they were raised, Emma replied.
Valerie sighed, I always envied those who had husbands whod defend their wives at the drop of a hat.
Yeah, not just the bully, but the wife too, if anything, Peters son had retorted when theyd overheard the argument.
That night Valerie couldnt sleep. The evening chat had stirred a longstanding ache. She forced herself not to dwell on the past, but whenever a memory flooded back shed grab a sheet of paper and sketch a door on a lakes shore an iron, heavy door that held all her history behind it, its key tossed to the deepest part of the water. No one will ever retrieve it, she whispered to herself.
She also remembered the nightmare of her late husband, the one whod once threatened to bury her under an apple tree, saying no one would ever look for her. The fear was still a cold, heavy weight in her chest. She tied a sheet to the door handle and a bed leg, wedged a metal poker in the handle, just in case he ever tried to open it. She wasnt scared for herself, but for little Rosie, who lived with her. One night she woke to a scraping sound, saw the neighbour trying to pry the latch with a large knife. She shoved the child out the window and scrambled out herself.
The doors shut, she told herself. The past is past, thank God.
The next morning was crisp and clear. After sorting her errands, Valerie decided to pop into the local bakery for a loaf. In this village, fresh bread is a daily ritual. As she stepped onto the shops porch, the baker was shouting at a customer, trying to prove his loaf was freshbaked last night. The customer complained, pointing out the crust was hard as a boot. Valerie walked over, lifted the loaf, and said, Thats yesterdays loaf, not fresh. Fresh bread has a little dent from the ovens steam, this ones completely dry.
The baker swapped it out, took the money, and hurried off. Valerie bought a fresh loaf from the next counter. An elderly man standing nearby smiled and said, Thanks for backing me up. I never know how to stand up to cheeky customers. That was her new neighbour, Peter Smith a gauntfaced man with a surprisingly warm smile.
Fancy a walk? Were practically neighbours, Valerie said.
Really? You live with James and Emma? he asked, surprised. I know Kates parents they often work the garden here.
Yes, Im Jamess mum. I moved out here after a long time alone.
Hes told me youre up in the North, in Scotland, Peter replied.
Lived there, Valerie corrected. Living alone gets hard when youre not healthy any more.
The fresh loaf smells lovely, he chuckled, breaking off a piece. Want a bite?
No, thank you. Im on a diet for my ulcer, so Ill stick to yesterdays loaf for the kids, she replied, laughing. Whats yours? Digging your potatoes yet?
Theyll start on Saturday, he said, taking another bite.
Feeling bold, she added, Lets get to know each other properly. Im Valerie, and you are Peter Smith, right? How about tea at my place?
He hesitated, Im not sure thats proper
Whats improper? My dog stays at home, and Im just brewing a fresh pot. No rush. Come through the gate onto the garden, she said, catching the wary flicker in his eyes.
She invited him in, whisked up a pot of tea, and set out some homemade scones. Peter perched on the edge of the sofa, taking in the modest but cozy interior embroidered pictures on the walls, flower boxes on the windowsills, knitted sofa cushions. He thought to himself, These people value simple comfort, not extravagance. Money cant buy a warm hearth.
They sipped tea, she kept topping his plate, wanting to offer a hearty bowl of stew but holding back so as not to offend. Rex lay at the doorway, eyes steady on the newcomer. Normally the dog would bark at strangers, but Peter gave off no threatening vibe. Still, the dogs low growl reminded Valerie of the occasional gypsy caravans that passed the lane; shed always slam the gate shut when she heard that sound.
Their chat drifted to neutral ground the gardens yield, the weather, the price of apples at the market. Valerie wanted to ask why Peter seemed so down, what was weighing him, but that would have meant admitting shed been spying from the upstairs window.
Eventually Peter glanced at the clock, sighed, and rose. The cottage felt warm, but as he stepped out, he lingered, as if the memory of his late wife was still in the air. He thought about the fight the day before when his daughterinlaw had tossed a piece of bread at his face, demanding he sign over the house. A heavy sigh escaped him.
—
From then on, Valeries days took on a new rhythm. Mornings shed hustle the kids out, make a quick breakfast, then head to the garden. Peter was already out, waving cheerfully, and shed hand him a basket of fresh tomatoes. Hed blush, accepting the gesture, grateful for the kindness. Their spot behind the house was tucked away from prying eyes, and they talked openly, without fearing Emmas sharp tongue.
The day before a planned holiday, Peter mentioned that Jamess family were off to Cornwall for a break, and hed be staying alone in the little outbuilding. Better you come in then, its getting chilly, Valerie said, noticing his unease.
She woke to the sound of a car engine. Dawn was breaking, and a taxi pulled up at the gate. Neighbours shuffled out, slamming the gate behind them. The driver lifted the boot and helped load bags. The car rolled away.
Did Peter not see them off? she wondered, a knot forming in her stomach.
Sleep eluded her; thoughts tangled, each more unsettling than the last.
Why do children cling to their parents all their lives, only to discard them when theyre old? she mused. They get educated, become successful, and then the parents are left to scrape by. It reminds me of that TV presenter her son never visited before she passed. She built a life, and he forgot her. Peter was once a director of a big factory, now hes left alone. God, dont let it be that way.
She got up early, made breakfast, saw the kids off, fed Rex and Murray, and stepped out. Peters garden was silent. She felt a growing anxiety, so she propped a wooden box against the low fence, peeked over the kitchen light that flickered on the porch. The sight set her nerves on edge. She knocked, waited, then gave the door a gentle shove. It creaked open.
Anyone home? Peter? she called.
Silence answered, thick as fog. She slipped into the hallway, then the entry hall, and let out a startled yelp. There, on the sofa, lay Peter. His left arm dangled lifelessly. Beside him, a spray bottle of Nitrimint and a scattering of white tablets. Lord, help me! she gasped, fumbling for her phone. She dialed James, who answered straight away, his voice trembling. Between sobs she begged him to call an ambulance.
Within fifteen minutes the wail of sirens cut through the air. A greyhaired doctor arrived, checked Peters pulse, pupils, and prepared a syringe. Valerie felt a surge of relief at least the man shed grown to care about was still breathing.
The day unfolded like a surreal dream, everything slipping through her fingers. How could they leave a father like this? she thought, remembering how James had watched his dads collapse and then left town, as if that would make the problem vanish. Was it a family fight that sparked the attack? Did they send him away so hed die without help? The memory of a Sholokhov character, a mother locked in a summer kitchen to starve, flashed in her mind.
God, dont give me children like that, she whispered again.
Peter was discharged a month later. Valerie visited him daily, bringing food, keeping him company. You need to eat to live, shed say, her favourite motto.
One afternoon she learned the bitter truth: Peter owned the house, but Emma was pushing for a deed and a power of attorney over his pension. If I hand over my pension Ill starve, he told her. I already wrote a will naming my son, but he doesnt know about it. In a divorce, any inheritance stays intact. He wont be left without a roof.
Valerie replied, Good, then theyll have to work it out. My kids have a flat, nobody lives there. Rosies still with her parents. We can look after your flat together, keep you safe. No need for you to stress. In old Yorkshire we didnt say I love you that much; we said I feel for you. Thats what I feel for you now a wish for a good life.
And thats where we leave her, love. Valeries world has shifted, but shes found a little peace, a new purpose, and a neighbour whos no longer just a sad silhouette behind a fence. Ill keep you posted on how the gardens shaping up and whether Peter ever manages to smile without that veil of melancholy. Take care, and catch up soon!
