Seven Conditions of a Mother
“Mum, you do realise this isnt just a chat anymore? Nick and I have made up our minds.”
Gillian Bennett stood by the window, gazing out at the garden. Beneath the old apple tree hung a length of rope, once part of the swings theyd taken down long ago. Her daughter was still talking, but the words reached her as though muffled.
“Mum, are you even listening?”
“I hear you, Sarah. I do.”
“Then can you turn around?”
She turned. Sarah stood in the middle of the kitchen, still wearing her city coat, clutching her phone. Shed probably already prepared figures, arguments. She always did: turned up ready with answers to questions Gillian hadnt yet asked.
“Weve found a good place,” said Sarah. “Not some grim institution, dont worry. Its smallthere are private rooms, your own furniture, you can bring your things. Theres a garden.”
“I have a garden.”
“Mum.”
“What? Im saying I already have a garden. There.” Gillian nodded toward the window. “I’ve worked in it for forty years.”
Sarah put her phone down on the table. A peace offering, Gillian knew. Her daughter sat across from her and folded her hands.
“Please, Mum. Youre seventy-two. Youre in this house alone. Last winter you slipped on the porch and lay there two hours before Mrs Jones saw you.”
“My leg sorted itself out.”
“Mum, you could have got hypothermia.”
“But I didnt.”
Sarah stared at her for a long time. Then she stood, put the kettle onanother familiar gesture. When talk stalled, Sarah always found something to do with her hands.
“Nick says we could rent out the house. The money would cover the home, and a bit more besides.”
“Rent out my house.”
“Or sell it. If you want.”
Gillian glanced out the window again. The apple tree was old; this year, barely any fruit. She had no intention of chopping it down.
“Sarah,” she said quietly, “Do you remember when your dad planted that apple tree?”
“Mum, please.”
“You were four. Stuck your little hands into the earth while your dad laughed.”
“I do remember.”
“No, you think you do, but its just because I told you.”
The kettle boiled. Sarah poured tea and set a mug in front of her mother. They sat in silence. Outside, Mrs Joness tabby crept past the window, paused, then wandered on.
“Im not going anywhere,” Gillian said at last.
“Okay,” Sarah replied. From her tone, Gillian knew: the conversation wasnt over.
Sarah left that same evening, as usual saying goodbye at the front gate. She paused, looking back at the house as if memorising it, measuring. Gillian noticed, but said nothing.
That night, she struggled to sleep, staring at the old ceiling, cracked in one corner since the 1970s. It had never changed, nor the house. Things just stayed as they were.
She wondered why Sarah had brought this up now. After all, the fall had been eight months agowhy wait until autumn? Clearly, there was something more, something Sarah wasnt saying.
Sarahs always been like that, Gillian thought. Engineered arguments, numbers, practicalities first. Only when Mum refused did the truth rise to the surface.
She got up, threw on her dressing gown, and went into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. The small light above the cooker was enough to make the kitchen feel alive.
On the table was Sarahs phone. Shed left it behind. Gillian picked it up, thumbed its blank, black screen, said nothing, and put it back.
Sarah would be back for it tomorrow. Theyd talk again.
Sarah didnt return the next day, but two days later. Gillian began to suspect her daughter was delaying on purpose, probably borrowing Nicks phone. But on Thursday morning, a car pulled up at the gatenot just Sarah, but Nick too.
Nick was tall, neat, with that polite reserve Gillian never could see through. He carried a Sainsburys shopping bag.
“Brought you a little something,” he said instead of hello. “Sarah said you like that bread from the Corner Bakery.”
“I do,” Gillian agreed. “Come in.”
They sat together at the table. Nick unpacked bread, cheese, some spread in a jar. Sarah poured tea. It was all very civilenough to make Gillian suspicious.
“Gillian,” Nick began, “lets be totally up front.”
“I welcome honesty.”
“Were worried. Really worriedits not about getting rid of you, I hope you know.”
“Its not how it soundsyoure saying just that.”
Nick sighed quietly.
“Its your safety. Big house, yes, one level, but still a lot to manage. And you light the fire all winter.”
“Ive been lighting it thirty years.”
“Exactly. Thirty years. But youre alone now. It used to be Victor next door”
“Dont,” Gillian said, putting down her mug. “Lets not bring up Vic.”
“Mum,” Sarah murmured, “no ones trying to hurt you. Dad used to help you. Hes been gone four years and you keep going. It’s a lot.”
“I cope.”
“Yes. But I dont sleep at night,” said Sarahdifferent, this time, no statistics, just truth.
Gillian looked at her. Sarah stared at the table.
“Havent you slept in a long time?” she asked.
“Not since that winter. Since Mrs Jones rang to say shed seen you on the porch. I drove over and kept thinking…” she trailed off.
“I know what you were thinking.”
“You dont. You cant know what its like, being a daughter”
“I can. I was one too.”
Quiet again. Nick stared out at the wind tugging the last leaves from the apple tree.
“Alright,” Gillian said at last. “Show me this place youve found. I want to see it.”
Sarah looked up.
“Youll go and look?”
“Ill look. Not the same as agreeing to move in. You do see the difference?”
“We do,” Nick replied.
“Fine. Next week, then. I need to water the greenhouse first, drop off some jars to Mrs Jones like I promised.”
She stood up and began clearing the table. She could sense them exchanging glances, even with her back turned. She said nothing.
On Sunday, Mrs Jones came round. Theyd been friends for thirty years, ever since both were young mums queuing at the greengrocers. Mrs Jones was three years younger, busier, chattier, with no filter when it came to other peoples livesbut Gillian loved that about her. There was never any guessing what was on her mind.
“Heard Sarahs been round a lot,” Mrs Jones called from the door, tugging off her wellies.
“Come in, kettles just boiled.”
“Something up?”
“Just talking.”
“About what?” Mrs Jones was already sat at the table, expecting an answer.
“They want me to move to a care home. Say its nice.”
Mrs Jones paused, unusually quiet.
“So whatre you going to do?”
“Ill look next week.”
“Well, why not. No harm in seeing, is there.”
“Do you really think I should go?”
“I dont think its my decision.”
“If it were?”
Mrs Jones cradled her mug in both hands.
“Id stay. Idwell, Im not you. Pete lives over the fence, pops round thrice a week, keeps an eye out. Your Sarahs in London.”
“Im not alone. Youre next door.”
“Gilly,” Mrs Jones said softly, “Im three years younger and my knees shot. Dont count on me as your safety netIm just holding on myself.”
That was honest. Gillian nodded.
“So what do I do then?”
“Live,” said Mrs Jones simply. “While you can. The restll sort itself.”
On Wednesday, they went to see the home. Nick drove, Sarah in the front; Gillian in the back, staring out as the city gave way to suburbs, then gradually to countryside. Fields, woods, hedges flashing by.
“Bit of a trek,” she remarked.
“Forty minutes,” Nick replied. “Well visit every weekend.”
She said nothing.
The place was called Harbour View. Gillian made a mental note: always those pretty names hiding something bland, if you ask her.
But the place was alrightshe admitted as much, at least to herself. Low buildings, neat paths, benches. The trees were still young, no more than a decade old. There was a garden, but it was all unfamiliar.
The manager was a smart, watchful woman in her fifties.
“Mrs Bennett, let me show you aroundthe dining room, grounds, everything. Any questions, just ask.”
“I do have a question,” Gillian said.
“Yes?”
“Are pets allowed? I have a cat.”
The manager smiled slightly.
“As long as hes calm, yes. Whats his name?”
“Stephen. Hes twelve and has never scratched anyone.”
“An excellent name.”
They walked for ages. Gillian observed everything: the wide, clean corridors; an elderly woman knitting; two others playing cards; an old gent with a stick, nodding as he passed.
Her sample room had a big window and good light. Bed, wardrobe, a chair by the window, small table.
“May I bring my own things in?” she asked.
“Of course. Many residents bring their paintings, photos, kitchenware even.”
“Can I bring my own curtains? I hate council ones.”
“Absolutely.”
Gillian stared out the window at yet more unfamiliar trees and neat beds covered with mulch for winter.
“Is it possible to work in this garden? As in myself, digging, planting?”
The manager glanced at Sarah.
“You’d need to discuss it with our gardener, but we do involve keen residents.”
“I dont want to be assigned. I want to choose what to plant and where.”
“Mum…” Sarah began softly.
“No, Im not being difficultjust clarifying.”
They drove back in silence. Then Sarah twisted round from the front seat.
“Well? Thoughts?”
“Id say: not bad. For what it is.”
“And that is?”
“A place for people whove nowhere left to go.”
“Mum, thats not fair. Plenty of people choose it.”
“Maybe. I need to think.”
“How much time?”
“As much as I need,” Gillian replied, turning to the window again.
Back home, she went straight to Stephen. The cat was perched on the windowsill, looking out. She lifted him, pressed her cheek against his head. He didnt object.
“Stephen,” she murmured, “they want to relocate us.”
The cat blinked at her, then gazed away.
“They allow cats there. If theyre quiet.”
Stephen yawned and jumped down.
She laughed. Alone, in the empty kitchen.
A week passed. Then another. Sarah rang daily, careful, indirect. Hows your health? Hows the weather? Lit the fire yet? Gillian answered simply: Im fine. Skys greyer. The fires on.
In truth, she was really thinkingthinking in the way you do only when its quiet, in your own house.
She knew this much. The house meant more than just shelter. Shed always sensed itbut now she felt it acutely. Every corner bore some trace of life lived: the hallway wall they painted together in ’94, the wonky sill Victor had fixed a hundred times, the hook in the cloakroom from her mothers old coat.
It wasnt sentiment. It was something else: layer upon layer of lived experience, embedded in the bricks. She wasnt sure you could live without that. Or if shed want to.
But she also remembered lying on the porch, unable to move last winterhow dreadful that had really been. Not because of painit faded quick enoughbut with a different kind of dread. Shed lain there thinking: what if Mrs Jones doesnt look out, nobody comes? It was a long fearnot of dying, but of not being found in time.
And Sarah. Her daughter said she couldnt sleepGillian believed her. Shed done the same, lying awake when Sarah was small and poorly. The same fear, just flipped around.
In November, she got a call from her old friend Irene, who hadnt visited in years.
“Gilly, how are you? Sarah rang me up.”
“Oh, so youre in on it too?”
“No, honestly. Just care about you.”
“Seems like everyone has decided whats best, all very kindly with bread from the Corner Bakery, but still decided.”
“And what do you actually want?”
Gillian hesitated.
“I want it to be my decision. Not anyone elses.”
“Then make it yours.”
“How?”
“I dont know, lovetalk to Sarah just as one grown-up to another.”
After the call, she sat a long time. Then she fetched pen and paperher usual way to clear her head.
She wrote the heading: what Id lose. Started the list. House. Garden. Apple tree. Allotment. Mrs Jones over the fence. Crack in the ceiling. Hook in the cloakroom. Victors handiwork on these walls.
Then she started: what Id gain. Safety. Sarah sleeping again. Medical help nearby. Company. Stephen would come too.
She stared at the two lists a long while. The first felt weightier. But the second was true as well.
Last, she wrote what she was truly afraid of giving up.
There was only one word. Herself.
She was afraid that if she left, something inside her would go, too. Something that clung to these walls, this garden, this silence. A part of her self. Without it, shed just be an old woman in a neat room with someone elses trees outside.
That was the real fear.
In December, her grandson Jack turned up. Sarahs son, twenty-three, working in London, living his own lifenever came often but always with proper affection.
He came alone, ringing from the gate.
“Mum, it’s me,” he called. “Can you let me in?”
“Jack? Well, this is a surprise.”
She let him in and fed him, as she always did. He ate heartily, complimenting everything in that honest, easy way.
“So, what brings you, really?” she asked as he sipped his tea.
“Missed you.”
“Jack.”
“Honestly, I missed you. Andwell, Mum asked me to come, too.”
He didnt deny it.
“She said you two cant agree. That youre being stubborn.”
“Im not stubborn. Im just taking my time.”
“Taking ages, Nan.”
“Important decisions shouldnt be rushed.”
Jack twisted his mug.
“Have you seen the home?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“Its clean. Tidy. The managers alright.”
“But you dont want it.”
“Im not sure if I do or not. Thats the difference.”
He watched her, and Gillian was struck by how much he looked like Victor.
“Can I say something, Nan?”
“You can.”
“Mums scared. Genuinely scared. She keeps ringing me, asks if Ive visited you. Shes not herself lately.”
“I know shes scared.”
“So why?”
“Jack, if youd lived in one house all your life, if your own dad had built the sill and cupboard, every memory tied to these wallscould you just walk away?”
Jack looked down.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Exactly.”
“But youd have memories. Theyd stay with you.”
“Memories without place are just… thoughts. Place is like an anchor. While Im here, I know who I am.”
“And wouldnt you anywhere?”
She didnt answer. She didnt know.
Jack left that evening after a long hug at the gate.
“Ill come more often, Nan. Not just when Mum pesters me.”
“I believe you.”
“Ring me if you need to.”
“If I need what?”
“Helpor just a chat.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
She watched his car disappear. The street lights glowed dully, a dusting of snow below. It was quiet.
Back inside, Stephen sat by the radiator, watching her. She crouched down, scratched him behind the ear.
“Well, Stephen,” she murmured, “thinking doesnt change much, does it?”
The first real argument came in January. Sarah appeared unannounced one Saturday with a tightness about her.
“Mum, just tell me: are you coming or not?”
“Morning, Sarah. In, or are you keeping your coat on?”
“Mum. I need an answer.”
“You slipped round without calling on a Saturday morning for that?”
“Yes.”
Gillian put down her tea towel.
“Has something happened?”
“Nothings happened. I just need to know whats going to happen.”
“You mean you want to control it.”
“Mum!”
“Sarah, Im only saying what I see. You always liked to controlsince you were little. Thats who you are.”
Sarah took off her coat, sat down. Gillian noticed her hands were trembling.
“Sarah. Whats really going on?”
After a long silence, her daughter spoke in barely more than a whisper.
“Nicks got troubles at work. Serious ones. Were not sure how itll end. I just… I cant worry about both you and him at once. Im not made of stone.”
Gillian sat beside her.
“What’s wrong at work?”
“Restructuringthey may close his department.”
“He knows?”
“Since last week.”
“Why didnt you tell me?”
“Because youve got enough on.”
“Sarah. Im your mum. I need to know.”
Her daughter met her gaze.
“Exactly. And Im your daughter. I need to know youre okay, not to lie awake at night for both you and Nick.”
They sat in silence.
“I understand,” Gillian said softly.
“Do you?”
“Youre tired. Its too much.”
Sarah covered her face, then looked out the window.
“Mum, Im not asking you to move for me. But I need to know youre safe. That someones close by if anything happens.”
“Ive got Mrs Jones next door.”
“Shes not a doctor. And she has her own problems.”
“Shes a living person. That placeits efficient, but its not home.”
“Mum. Strange places become familiar.”
“At seventy-two?”
“Any age.”
They sat quietly, drinking tea. Sarah broke the silence.
“Remember when we moved from Rose Lane? I was six, cried for weeks about leaving the swings in the garden.”
“I remember.”
“But I settled. That new garden became mine.”
“You were six, Sarah. Children adapt.”
“And adults dont?”
“Adults get used to things they’ve chosen. Not whats been decided for them.”
Sarah stood, moved to the window.
“Then choose, Mum. Really choose. I wont pressure youbut please choose yourself.”
After that, something in Gillian shifted. Not outside, but within. She started thinking not about what shed losebut what shed pick.
It was a different question.
She rang Harbour Views manager herself.
“Hello. Its Mrs Gillian Bennettwe visited in October.”
“I remember. Hello.”
“Id like to discuss the garden. You said it could be arranged with the gardener.”
“Of course.”
“Could I come alone? Speak with him myself?”
A pause.
“Of course. When would suit you?”
She went that Thursday, asking Mrs Jones to drive her. Mrs Jones didnt ask questionsjust said, “Alright. Ill wait outside.”
The gardener, Tom, was in his thirtiesbit awkward, but warm. He walked her round, pointed out what had been planted, future plans.
“Tom,” Gillian started, “if I moved here, could I have my own patch? Not bigjust somewhere to decide what to plant.”
“Well, officially, its not set up that way…”
“I know, but is it possible?”
He scratched his head.
“One lady, eighty, has a little space behind the second building. No one mindsnobody uses it anyway.”
“Perfect. Id like the same.”
“Not made your mind up yet?”
“No. Just exploring.”
“Fair enough,” Tom smiled, unexpectedly warm. “Reminds me of my nan. Took her three visits to agree.”
“How is she now?”
“Says she wishes shed come sooner.”
Gillian eyed him.
“She says that to keep you happy.”
Tom laughed. “Maybe. But her veg patch is the best here.”
Back home, Mrs Jones asked nothing. Only when they reached the village did she say:
“Well?”
“Good gardener.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s important.”
Mrs Jones nodded.
“Soyoure still thinking.”
“I am.”
February was bitter. Gillian kept the fire going, chopped wood herselfJack had offered to arrange help, but she refused. She liked chopping logs, liked the meaning in it.
One evening, she got out her old album, the one she hadnt opened in years. The pictures had yellowed, some stuck to the paper.
There she was with Sarah at the seaside, Sarah eight, hiding from the sun under a towel. Victor fishing, turned away from the camera. Her own mother, impossibly young in a wartime coat.
She sat there a long time, thinking: I can take all of this.
Not the housebut all this.
Photos. Curtains. Stephen. Victors mug for his morning coffee, her hand-knitted 1998 blanket, the album itself.
You cant take a house. But you arent a house. A house is where you live; its not you. Gillian Bennett, seventy-two, had lived the life; remembered her mothers scent, Victors laugh, Sarah painting the wall with her tongue out.
That was hers. Itd never vanish.
She put away the album and sat a moment in the quiet. Then she called Sarah.
“Mum? Its lateeverything alright?”
“Im fine. I just wanted to say… Ive decided.”
Silence on the other end.
“Mum?”
“Ill move. When the snows gone. I need time to sort thingspack, prep the garden, finalise what happens with the house.”
“Mum” She could hear Sarahs odd voice.
“What?”
“Are you sure its your decision? Not just for me?”
Gillian considered.
“Its mine. But youre part of me. Do you get what I mean?”
“I do.”
“Right, then.”
“Mum… thank you.”
“No need yet. Ive got conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“Youll see. Now go to sleepits late.”
She hung up. Stephen wound around her leg.
“Well, were moving,” she told him.
He blinked and yawned.
In March she invited Sarah round alone; they sat, and Gillian put a list in front of her.
“My conditions. Read them.”
Sarah read it quietly, looked up.
“Mum, there are seven items here.”
“Seven.”
“First: the house isnt to be sold for at least two years.”
“Correct. I need to know I can come back if I want. Rent it, use the money for the care home, but no sale.”
“Agreed. Second: we visit at least twice a month.”
“For me, not you. I need you to come.”
“Deal. Third: Stephen comes with.”
“You bet. Written promise.”
Sarah smiled.
“Fourth: my own patch in the garden.”
“You and Tom sorted that?”
“Tom, yes.”
“Fifth, furniture position is my choice.”
“Obviously!”
“Obvious or not, its going down. Six?”
Sarah looked.
“Six: Jack visits whenever he likes, no warning, any time.”
“Thats my business with my grandson, not the home. I just want it clear hes always welcome.”
Sarah put the list down. Her eyes were shiny.
“Mum. You didnt have to write all these out.”
“I did. It helps.”
“Seventh?”
“Read it out.”
“‘Nobody is to call me a resident, patient, or client. I live there. Its my home.'”
They were quiet.
“We can arrange that,” Sarah said softly.
“Good. Then were agreed.”
Packing took the whole of April. Gillian did it slowly, methodically. Mrs Jones helped most days; sometimes they chatted, sometimes worked in peace. It was comforting.
One day, Mrs Jones asked:
“Gilly, arent you scared?”
“I am.”
“What scares you most?”
“That Ill wake up there and not know where I am.”
“You will, at first.”
“I know.”
“Youll get used to it.”
“Well see.”
“Mind if I visit?”
Gillian studied her.
“Clare, weve been best mates for thirty yearscourse you can visit.”
“Only an hour on the bus.”
“My knees not keen on buses.”
“Phone then. Or beg Pete to drive you sometimes.”
“Petell grumble, but he loves memention your cucumbers.”
Mrs Jones laughed.
“Sorted.”
Among her things, Gillian found an old tin of lettersnot opened for twenty years. She opened them now. Letters from Victor when he was away, from her mother, a few of her own that had been posted back or never sent.
She read them slowly. Victors were always silly and tender: ‘You wouldnt believe how much I miss your hands. Barmy business trip.’ That was 1989.
She packed the tin to take.
Jack came three days before the move, alone, no calling first.
“Nan, need help with boxes?”
“Almost done love. Sit with me.”
They sat until evening, talked about work, books, the winter. Jack asked about Victor, and Gillian told stories she rarely shared, as if knowing it was right to do so now.
“Was he funny?” Jack asked.
“He was. And serious. Funny and stern, side by side.”
“And did you miss him?”
“Every day.”
“What do you do about it?”
“I live.”
He nodded, asked nothing more.
On moving day, Gillian rose before dawn. The house was empty, most of the furniture left to make things easier to let out. Shed only packed her armchair, the craftsman table Victor had made, and her bookshelf.
She walked through each room, slow, unhurried. The bedroom, the cloakroom, her fingers brushing the old hook. In the kitchen, she lingered at the window, gazing at the apple treebare, old, yet enduring.
She went out, pressed her palm to its barkcool and rough.
“You keep going, old thing,” she whispered.
Then she gathered her coat and Stephens carrier.
Sarah arrived at ten, Nick drove, Jack in the back. They loaded up in silence. Gillian appreciated that.
When everything was in, she locked the door and slipped the keys in her bag. She handed the spare to Sarah.
“Youll pop bycheck up? Just now and then.”
“I will.”
“And water the apple tree in June if we have a dry spell.”
“Mum. I know how to water.”
“I know you do.”
They drove away. Gillian didnt look back, just forward, Stephen peering ahead from his carrier.
It took two weeks to settle her new room. The first week felt like a strangers dream: right, but not hers. Shed stare at the plain ceilingno crack. She adjusted.
She brought her own curtains, which made it feel better. Her armchair by the window, Victors table in the corner, her books and letters on the shelf, photos in frames.
Stephen roamed, sniffed, then settled on the chair. Hed accepted it.
On the third day the manager, Mrs Walker, stopped by.
“Settling in, Mrs Bennett?”
“Little by little.”
“Let us know if you need anything. Theres no need to just make do.”
“Thank you.”
“Tomorrows our birthday tea, if youd like to join.”
“Ill see.”
“And Tom says he’ll expect you in the garden at your convenience.”
“Tell him Saturday.”
Mrs Walker smiled.
The neighbour next door was Nina Grant, who delivered a slice of cake on the fourth day.
“Im your neighbour. New, arent you?” she said.
“YesGillian Bennett.”
“Nina Grant. Help yourselffresh-made in the shared kitchen. You can use it if you book ahead.”
“Thanks. Come in, if youve a moment.”
Nina stuck her head in, looked around.
“Made it ever so homely. I’ve got paintings and photos in minecouldnt manage without.”
“Been here long?”
“Three years. First few months were hard, then it got better.”
“Do you miss your house?”
She paused.
“I do. My lot sold itthats how it goes. It was tough on my own.”
“Were you alone?”
“My husband died six years ago,” she said matter-of-factly. “Kids in different cities. Grandchildren titchy. At least here there’s company.”
“And it helps? Having people round?”
“Does. Dont sit listening for things all the time. The silence here is differentquiet, not heavy.”
Gillian nodded.
“Nicely put.”
“Its true. Silence in an empty house weighs on you, but here its restful.”
They finished their tea, chatting about this and that. Nina was an ex-librarian, and book-mad; Gillian loved listening.
After shed left, Gillian thought: so, it starts like this. A person, cake in hand, making a difference.
On Saturday she joined Tom in the back garden, the strip behind the second wingher new patch. It was shady, the ground cold but thawing.
“Will tomatoes grow here?” she asked.
“If you cover them, yes. Shady but doable.”
“And dill?”
“Dillll grow anywhere.”
She smiled. “Dill never gives up.”
Tom laughed out loud.
Sarah visited that weekend, looking round.
“Mum, its really nice. Properly nice.”
“Helped by the curtains.”
“And the armchair. And this photo here.”
“Thats Victor with Jack, Jack aged three.”
“I remember that day. Granddad kept saying ‘look at the camera’and Jack wouldnt.”
“He never did, always off to one side.”
A pause.
“How are you, Mum?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“The first days were hard. Id wake, a second of confusion. Not pleasant.”
“And now?”
“I know where I am. Its just a different place. Im adjusting.”
“Are you glad?”
“Its its alright.”
Sarah perched on the bed.
“Mum, do you regret it?”
Gillian looked out the window; Tom was tending the young trees, a bird on a branch, then gone.
“Ask me in a year.”
“So is that yes or no?”
“It means I dont know yet. But I dont regret making my own choice. That matters more.”
Sarah nodded.
“Yes. Thats what counts.”
On Wednesday Jack dropped by, unannounced, with a book and some apples.
“Nan, our apple trees blossomed. Early this year. Took a photo, want to see?”
“Show me.”
The tree was thick with white flowers, a bit blurredhed been hasty.
“Lovely. Print it for me? I’ll put it up.”
“Of course.”
They strolled the garden. Gillian showed him her little patch.
“Tomatoes here, dill here. Maybe squash if I find more space.”
“Nan, will you really do everything yourself?”
“Who else? Toms lending tools, but Ill plant on my own.”
“Thats brilliant.”
“Are you mocking?”
“Not at all. Its very you.”
“How do you mean?”
“You always find a way to garden, wherever you land.”
She surprised herself by laughing, easily.
A couple of months later, Mrs Jones rang up. Pete had grumbled but brought her for a long afternoon: she nosed around, sampled Ninas cake, discussed cucumbers with Tom, and left satisfied.
“Well,” she said as she was leaving, “its decent here.”
“I know. Better than people think.”
“I thought itd be worse.”
“Everyone did.”
“Do you miss it, Gill?”
“The house? You? The apple tree? Of course.”
“The trees still there, you know. Sarah waters it.”
“She really does?”
“Watched her last time I drove by.”
Gillian was quiet.
“Youre a good friend, Clare.”
“You too. Dont you worryIll be back.”
In autumn, Jack brought the print of the apple blossom, framed. Gillian set it beside the other photos on her shelf: Victor and Jack, the seaside, her mother in her old coat, the apple tree in bloom.
Nina came in that evening, remarked, “Lovely apple tree.”
“Victor planted itit’s over thirty-five years old.”
“Is it still standing?”
“The house is being let, so yesfor now.”
“You miss it.”
“I miss it all. But you know, Nina, Ive been thinking”
“Yes?”
“Missing isnt suffering. Its remembering with love. Bit of a difference.”
Nina nodded.
“Nicely put. Thats well said.”
A year passed. Sarah asked again.
They were sat in Gillians room, eating apples from her own little patchmisshapen but hers.
“Mum, do you regret it?”
Gillian held an apple, inspecting it.
“This ones mine. Grew it myself.”
“I see.”
“On unfamiliar ground. But the earth accepted me.”
“Mumdo you regret it?”
She put her apple down.
“I think about it differently now. I didnt leave my old house. I came to you. Its a different feeling.”
“To me? But I dont live here.”
“To you, to a place where you sleep easy, where Jack can drop by without a worry. Thats nearer to home than that house ever was.”
Sarah gazed at her.
“Mum, I never realised you saw it that way.”
“Neither did I, at first. It came on slowly.”
“Andis it good, for you?”
Gillian looked at her lumpy apple, small but hers.
“Ask something else.”
“What?”
“Ask if Im glad I made my own choice.”
Sarah paused.
“Are you glad, Mum?”
Gillian looked up, met her daughters eyes, and slowly smiled.
“Yes. That I know for certain.”
Outside, the young trees rustled in the autumn breeze. Her garden patch, ready for winter, waited for spring. Stephen dozed on the armchair. On the shelf were her photos: Victor, the sea, her mother, the blossom.
Sarah took an apple, turned it in her hand.
“Bit knobbly, isnt it?”
“But mine.”
“May I?”
“Help yourself.”
Sarah bit into the apple, thoughtful.
“Its good, Mum.”
“I know.”
