That Uncanny Thursday
Margaret Shepherd had just finished her lunch pearl barley porridge with a meatball, stewed fruit compote, the way her mother taught her washed up, wiped the table, checked the kitchen tap was off, and lay down on the settee for a nap. Her husband, Charles, had left earlier that morning to help mend the fence at the cottage of his mate Roger. Wouldnt be back until late Sunday, he said work on Monday and all that. Margaret had retired the year before, fifty-five for her, fifty-eight for Charles. Their grown daughter, Emily, had married and settled in Oxford, expecting her first child. Life was quietly humming along. Or so it seemed.
She closed her eyes, a soft tartan blanket under her cheek, drifting into that gentle half-dream where nothing matters, when the phone shrilled on the nightstanddesperate, sharp, like an ambulance siren on a foggy night. Margaret drowsily frowned; it took a moment to even remember what that noise was. Since shed retired, the days blended, quiet and uneventful, one after another, predictable as the chime of Westminster.
Yes? she answered, her voice rough with sleep, not bothering to look at the screen. Who would ring her, if not her daughter? Emily called every evening, to check in. Charles only rang in emergencies; if all was well, he reasoned, what was there to say? Must be Emily. But that was not her daughter’s voice.
Marge? Were you asleep? asked a woman, low-voiced and gravelly, threaded with a half-cracked, haunting note.
Margaret tensed. Sorry, whos speaking? The timbre clawed somewhere deep in her memorythe faintest sense of an old record, unheard for twenty years, a tune resurrected from shadows.
There was a deliberately loud sigh, the kind people give when being remembered is a slight. Havent you recognised me? How long has it been since we last met?
Claire? Margaret whispered, her heart skipping. How did you get my number?
Is it that important? replied Claire, weary, almost lifeless, but with that wry, mocking lilt that had always been hers. Ran into your mum a few years ago. She gave it. Are you in town?
Memories flickered: yes, her mum had muttered about bumping into Claire at the Co-op, asking after her, pestering for her number. “There was something strange about her, she’s awfully pale. Always wearing black, mum had fretted. Margaret waved it off village gossip as constant as the rain. They said Claire had headed for America, married some foreigner. People would say anything.
Rumour had it youd left for America, Margaret ventured cautiously.
Claires laugh rasped short, torn, splitting into a racking cough and then a groaning, shuddering sigh.
Whats happened? Where are you? Margaret was suddenly wide awake, clutching the phone as though she could squeeze a vision of her caller through its shell.
Hospital. Thats why I phoned. I need to see you… Theres something I want to say.” Claire paused; Margaret could hear every strained, dragging breath. And dont bring anything. No need.
In hospital? Are you ill? All drowsiness had blown away, replaced by a chill crawling up her back.
Its hard to say much. Ill send you the address in a text.
But She was cut off by empty beeps: Claire hung up.
A minute later, a text came through. Margaret read it once, then again. St. Georges Oncology Centre. Her heart blanched cancer, then. Claire has cancer. There it was, a cold stone swelling in her throat.
She looked at the clockhalf five. By the time she reached the hospital, visiting hours would be over. She plodded into the kitchen, rummaged in the freezer for a chicken. Claire said not to bring anything, but how could Margaret turn up at a hospital empty-handed? Homemade broth was not a meal; it was medicine, her gran used to insist, and Margaret, in turn, brought it to her mother in every hospital stay. The chicken sat to thaw in the sink; Margaret propped her chin on her hand at the kitchen table.
Her daughter was twenty-eight; which meant it had been just as long, nearly thirty years, since shed seen Claire. A whole other existence ago. Margaret suddenly felt times stinghow much shed lived, how much had been lost, or hidden, pushed out of sight into some attic in her mind she rarely dared to visit.
With age, Margaret trusted good news less and less. Life had taught her: joy was always followed by sorrow, hope overtaken by disappointment. After Claires call, Margaret couldnt shake an uneasy dread. It grew in her chest like water sloshing in the hull of a sinking barge. And Charles wasnt here. Perhaps it was for the best. Tomorrow, shed make the broth, visit Claire, and all would be revealed. But for now, sleep would not come.
She closed her eyes, and her memory carried her off to that far-off timeshe and Claire, girls together, sharing desks, filching cream buns from the canteen, cribbing each others homework.
Claire had been raised from the age of ten by her paternal grandmother. She barely remembered her father or mother. She knew little warmth, often staying late at Margarets housesupper, homework, her mums pastries, the two of them listening to records. Claires gran brewed home gin in a battered shed, supplying the local tipplers. Naturally, Claires parents drank too, disappearing into the fog of their own mistakes. The wives of the village drunks threatened to torch the old womans still. Maybe someone did, or maybe, as the constable said, Claires father simply fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Whatever happened, her parents never made it out of the blaze. The gran was off somewhere; Claire, as usual, was at Margarets. They survived.
Afterwards, gran and granddaughter were put into a council flat. They banned gin distilling on the communal kitchen stove. The old woman fadedcounting every penny, begrudging every bit her grandchild ate. You eat like the clappers. Ill be bankrupt afore the breadman next comes round! shed grumble, watching Claire wolf down toast. Claire often ate at Margarets. Margarets mum, kind and quiet, always offered her food, poured her tea, tucked an extra scone onto her plate. Claire devoured it hungrily, as though the world might snatch it away, never saying thank you. But Margaret knew she didnt know how. No-one had ever shown her.
Claires gran hated her daughter-in-law, called her a witch, and blamed her for her sons fate and drinking himself into oblivion. Never mind the bootleg gin. Claires mum was beautiful, tall, with a mane of chestnut hair and sly green eyes. Men stared at her wherever she went; her husbands jealousy scalded everythingsometimes, he even lashed out in anger. Claire remembered him smashing a bottle and screaming, Witch! Curse you! Shed been seven, hiding under the bed until dawn, no one bothered searching for her.
As she grew older, Claire came to look like her mothera slim, striking figure with wild copper curls and dark cherry eyes. The freckles only made her more enchanting, a woodland spirit in school uniform. Boys sighed after her; girls whispered jealousy. Claire lived as if unawareher world harsher, more beautiful, where money and men mattered more than friendship or marks.
After leaving school, Claire ran off with a stranger passing through. She takes after her mum, God help her, the gran muttered, heaving sighs and warding off trouble with her cross. Margarets mother, meanwhile, secretly relaxedshe had always feared Claire might lead Margaret astray. What bound them? Margaret never quite knew. With Claire, life was bold and bright, never dull, never fake. But underneath was something elsea wash of nearly maternal tenderness for this clever, lost, endlessly chasing girl.
Margaret went to college, became a council finance clerk, married Charlesa quiet man, steadfast, never one for the pint. Their daughter Emily was born a year later. Margaret only heard word of Claire in snatches: spotted in London with a posh gentleman, seen rolling up to the village in a shiny SUV, later turfed out from a flat over unpaid bills. Margaret scoffed at the gossip. She knew Claire too well for hearsay.
Margarets mum still worked, couldnt help with the baby, and Margaret balanced it all, collapsing into sleep from exhaustion. All she wanted was a good nights rest. Feeding Emily, shed close her eyes for a second before plunging into that deep forgetful slumber interrupted only by her babys cry. Jolting awake, scared shed dropped the infant or that little Emily couldnt breathe under her heavy arms but her daughter, fed, slept on peacefully. After tucking her in, Margaret would express milk, whip up dinner, soak nappies, forcing herself to keep her eyes open.
It was in this untidy, bleary time that Claire reappeared. She looked even more like her mother brilliant, beautiful. She swept into the flat unannounced, surveying it with a thin mouth.
My word, dear, look at you, was her greeting, not bothering with politeness. I always knew marriage and motherhood would ruin a woman. Ill never have children.
Dont be so sure, Margaret smiled, rocking Emily, Lifes nothing if not unpredictable.
I am sure, Claire said flatly, staring at the baby. Ive had more abortions than birthdays. The doctor says its finalI’ll never bear children.
Margaret wanted to ask, Why so many? But she knew. Claire searched for love, found lust, then fear, then loneliness. And every time a new life formed, she destroyed itterrified shed become her mother, terrified of a child she could never love.
Yet, motherhood finds women in the end, be it ever so quietly. Unknowingly happy, Claire delighted in minding Emily, taking her for walks while Margaret snatched sleep, longer, deeperhowever long she could. Claire never woke her, just fed the baby, changed her, read her stories in that low, husky voice. In those moments, she seemed content.
Soon, Claire left the young man for someone oldera silver-haired, well-heeled gent in a crisp suit. He installed her in a flat in the centre of London and visited twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays.
Lived nearly in the lap of luxury, Claire used to sigh, remembering those days. Shed swing by Margarets once a month, drink tea and eat scones, sharing her stories.
Why nearly? Margaret would ask, bored, but making polite conversation.
He was old, awful really, but generousmoney, gold, furs, the lot.
And what of his family?
Oh, thats nothing to do with it. I sleep with him, not them.
But one day Mr Money realised Claire had other men. He threw her outno money, no promises. More followed: an engineer, a businessman, a Norseman from Norway hence the American rumours. Claire never bothered correcting them. She liked the attention, the air of mystery.
One-sided as ever, me talking, she said, one day, fussing with her cup. What happened to you? How did you get stuck here, milk machine? Call that happiness? Wouldnt suit me.
Margaret kept quiet. She couldnt argue with Claire. Couldnt explain that happiness was not gold or furs but a quiet night with your husband, your daughters laughter, the smell of baking.
Charles was wary of Claire. Didn’t know you had a friend like that, hed say, seeing her smoke out of the kitchen window, hair wild, cheeks brightdangerous.
Quiet now, shell hear, Margaret hushed him. Shes staying a few nights. Nowhere else to go. Her grans died. She helps with Emily, you know.
Charles said nothing; he wasnt one to waste breath. And then came the episode Margaret would never forget.
Emily developed a feverhigh as the moon, stubbornly refusing to fall. Margaret tried lukewarm flannels, calpol, cold vinegar bathsnothing worked. On the third day, she called 999. Paramedics came, injected Emily, checked her over. Best take her in, might be meningitis, they said.
Margaret dashed outno bag, no coat, slippers on bare feet. Forgot purse, keys, phone. Charles was at work. Claire stayed behind.
When Charles returned, he found Claire washing dishes. Emily was being treated in hospital; Margaret wouldnt leave her side.
Wheres Margaret?
“At the hospital. Suspect meningitis. Ive packed her things, will take them round. Maybe you should go too, Claire said, drying her hands.
Charles studied her for a long moment. There she wasdazzling, dangerous. He didnt know what he felt, and he was afraidof being alone with her, of leaving.
A week later, Emily was discharged. Margaret came home worn to the bone, thinner, yet happy. She saw the spotless flat, checked the fridgesoup, meatballs, sliced bread; everything tidy.
Did you really cook yourself, and mop the floors? she asked Charles, surprised.
That was Claire, said Charles, looking away.
You called her a tart, Margaret chided, Where is she now?
Gone. Said it was time.
That night, Margaret turned to her husband in need of comfort. But Charles muttered incoherently and turned away. The next night, and the next, the same. After several days, she confronted him.
Charles, whats happened? Have you stopped loving me? she asked, hurt. I’ve never denied you, no matter how exhausted. But now you turn away. Why?
He was silent. Then muttered: he was tired, work was hectic, his head ached. Margaret, unconvinced, let it go. In time things returnedshe lost weight, didnt need much food now. Their closeness returned. And she nearly forgot that odd week when Charles turned his back. Nearly.
Years passed. Emily married, moved. Margaret and Charles lived togetherpeacefully, amicably. Rare arguments about nothing. Weekends on the cottage, skiing in winter, planting in summer. All plain sailing.
And now, this phone call.
Margaret could not imagine Claire, radiant, untamed Claire, mortally ill. Must be a mistake. She lay awake that night, tossing, sipping water, watching the empty street, the lamp-lit wheelie bins. At four in the morning, she gave up and began making broth. The chicken thawed, the air filled with the smell of onion, carrot, parsnipjust as Mum did it. She skimmed the bubbling scum, strained it, filled the thermos.
Next morning, she went to St. Georges hospital before visitors hours. The young security guard hesitated, but Margaret slipped a £10 note in his hand, and he let her by, eyes averted.
In a narrow ward, two beds hugged the walls. On one, a tiny, scarfed woman lay. Margaret almost asked if shed come to the wrong bed, but then the woman opened her eyesand she knew. It was Claire.
But not the blazing, beautiful Claire she remembered; this was a shadow. The face was small, pale, the skin stretched tight like yellowed parchment. Freckles gone, or hidden by that earthy colour. The hands on the blanketgnarled, veined, brittle as twigs. The energy, proud carriage, sly smileall gone. Only the black eyes, once fierce and alive, remained, now emptied, dark as dead windows.
Her own face must have been a storm of grief, for Claire gave the smallest, sardonic smilethe same as twenty years before, only now wasted, like a mask on a skull.
Didnt recognise me, did you? Claire whispered. Her voice was little more than leaves rustling on a cold pavement.
Margaret gathered herself, tried a smile, sat beside the bed.
Whats happened to you? she asked, though frightened of hearing.
What I deserved, replied Claire. Sit, will you?
Margaret perched on the bed. Remembering the broth, she fumbled for the flask.
No use. I wont touch it, said Claire, her feverish stare hard as stone. Dont make me.
Ill just leave it herefreshly made. Maybe later.
Claire said nothing. She stared at the ceiling: at the faded cracks, a fly on the wall. Margaret sat in silencewhat did you talk about? Weather? Politics? The past? She dared not.
How are you really? she managed, hoping not to bruise, offend or stab at old wounds.
For Stage Fourits as well as can be. That flat voice.
Wasnt there an operation?
Too late. Metastasised. Pause. Then Claire turned to look, eyes burning. We havent much time, and I havent much strength. I wanted to tell you something.
What? Margarets heart skipped. She knew what was coming would divide her lifebefore and after.
Dont interrupt, Claire cut her off, then began to cough, body ripped with each breath. She pressed a handkerchief to her lipsMargaret saw blood. I’ve always envied you. All my life. The flat, a good husband, your daughter, your parents, all still with you. Even when you fell asleep on your feet, I envied you. Because you had a reason to be tired. I never did.
Margaret was silent. What could she say? Thank you? Dont be daft, my lifes no picnic? It’s your own doing? Claire didnt seem to want a reply. Each word seemed a weight. She forced them out as if spitting stones.
So many men, so much money; never happy, not a minute. Well, except once. She paused; a single tear slipped down her cheek. Remember when you were with Emily in the hospital?
Of course, Margaret nodded. You brought my things in then.
I thought Id take my secret to the grave, Claires voice barely above a whisper, fighting for air, her eyes wild. But now Im afraid. When you were on the ward, and I was left with Charles
She stopped. The ward was quiet, the IV ticking off someones final seconds. Margaret stared through the windowoutside, spring pressed in; trees budding, blue sky, sunlight glinting from the hospital roofs.
I knew then, Margaret said softly. When you left, when he turned away. I knew. I just didnt admit it to myself.
And why didnt you say? Claire asked, almost inaudibly.
Whod have felt better for it? Margaret turned to her. You’d have gone, wracked with guilt; he’d have left me, Emily would grow up without her dad; Id be alone. Thank you for not shattering our family. Thank you for going away. Thank you for keeping it quiet all these years.
Ive not kept quiet, said Claire, shutting her eyes. Im confessing now, because Im dying. Just want you to know. Want you to forgive me.
Margaret stood and crossed to the window. Behind her, the slow, rattling breath of the dying, the crumple of hospital linen, muffled sobs.
I cant say I forgive you, not really, she admitted, gazing out, But I dont hate you either. Youve paid enough. Dying at our ageits the scariest thing.
It is, came Claires echo, hollow and helpless.
Margaret stood a while, then took the flask and set it close to the pillow.
The broths here. Drink when you can, she said, pausing. Ill come tomorrow.
You will? For a second Claire sounded like a little girlhoping, almost believing.
I will.
Margaret walked out. In the corridor, she leaned into the wall, eyes closed, heart thumping so hard it seemed about to burst. She saw a sign: Chapel and entered, lighting a candle and writing Claires name for prayers. The church wardena round, bespectacled womansmiled gently.
Eighth of April, St. Adas Day. Is she a relative? Perhaps youll request a service. God forgives, all is forgiven
Margaret requested prayers. Not that her faith was anything but misty and uncertain; but she wanted to do something, anything.
She walked home slowly, feeling spring in the airthe smell of thawing earth and new grass. She thought: Claire will die soon. And she, Margaret, will stand by her grave. There is no one else. Claire had no one: no husband, no children, no relatives. Just her. And a lifelong secret, admitted only as she was dying.
Charles came home. Margaret served him supper, then said, I saw Claire at hospital today.
Who? He wouldnt look at her, pushing potatoes around his plate.
You remember, when you came back and I was at the hospital with Emily? Shes dying. Cancer. She rang, asked for me. I brought some broth.
Did he tense, or was it her imagination? He looked straight at her, waiting. But Margaret would not ask. She already knew. And she resolved not to stir the past. What was the use? So much time had passed. They were alive, together, happy. Who was sinless?
So Did you mend Rogers fence in the end? Margaret changed the subject, clearing the dishes.
Charles sighedrelief, or weariness?and began to talk about his friend, the timber, the nails. Margaret listened, nodded, smiled. Everything was as before, but nothing the same. Something had shifted. The weight on her heart lifted.
That night, lying beside Charles in the dark, he said, Shall we buy a little cottage? You can plant dahlias, grow strawberries. Wed take the grandchildren for the summer, go for walks with a spaniel, pick mushrooms in the woods, try a bit of fishing
Margaret smiled in the gloom.
I rather think that would be lovely.
She felt peaceful, light. Why dig up the past? Were a unit. Who hasnt slipped? He didnt leave me, didnt run. And he could have. Didnt lose himbest be grateful.
Two days later, the hospital rang. Claire had died. Alone, in a strange city, in a white-draped hospital bed. No one beside her. Margaret was out at the shops, missed the call.
Are you the next of kin? asked a voice. Will you handle the funeral?
Margaret wanted to scream, No! Were not kin. Shes no one to me! She slept with my husband! But she didnt. She organised a simple English funeral: a pine coffin, a wreath of white chrysanthemums. On the hill at the cemetery she stood alone. The ground was soft and leafy, the scent of spring and fresh-turned earth hung in the air.
She gazed at the mound, the wooden cross, the photo given by the undertakerClaire, young, freckled, black-eyed, laughing as she once did over tea and cakes.
God says to forgive, came Margarets memory of the wardens words. Dont forgive, and you hurt yourself most. Claire had envied Margaret, and perhaps not only her. Yet here she wasalone, in the end. No one mourned her.
And if Id grown up unloved, with a gin-brewing gran, god knows, Id have been a thousand times worse, Margaret thought at the grave. Her mother came to mind, always feeding Claire, always kind. She remembered Claires hungry, furtive eating, her lack of thanks. But perhaps she simply hadnt learnt how.
Grudges burn holes in the soul, Margaret said softly. Attract sorrow and disease. Thats what drew you here. I choose to live.
She picked up a handful of soil and scattered it into the grave.
Thats that, she whispered. I forgive you. And God can sort out the rest.
Margaret turned to head home. The buds on the ash trees had begun to unfurl, green shoots poked through the close-cut grass. Somewhere a blackbird sang, rich and brightas if nothing had happened, as if the grave, this burden, all the old pain had never been.
She walked and thought: Charles would come home soon; time to make dinner. Theyd eat, watch telly, sleep. Tomorrow, shed buy seeds for her windowsills, try some early tomato seedlings. Next month? Theyd view those country cottagesa snug place, a bit of garden for strawberries and listening to nightingales.
Life carried on. That was the main thing.
***
Claire lived a bright, empty lifebeauty, lovers, money, and stories to spare. Love was what she lackedtrue, unselfish love that expects nothing back. She couldnt love; shed never been taught. She didnt know how to ask forgiveness; no one had ever apologised to her. Only as life trickled out and time slipped through her fingers did she dare. Not for herself, but to clear her conscience before the person who mattered most.
Margaret had every right not to forgive. She could have sneered: You slept with my husband. You betrayed me. Die with that. But she didnt. She forgave. Not because she forgot, not because there was no pain. Because she understood: forgiveness isnt a gift you give anotherits a release you give yourself. It lets you turn a new page, not glancing back at all the old scars.
Charles was weak. He gave in, as many do. But he stayed. He chose Margaret, their family. Perhaps out of love, perhaps out of fear of being alone, or because he grasped what so many miss: that bright flames scorch, but a steady hearth warms you through. When Margaret said shed seen Claire, he was afraidafraid of questions. But Margaret questioned nothing. And the quiet said more than words.
There are no pure heroes or villains here; only people fumbling, suffering, loving, failing, forgiving. Life is complicated, muddled, full of both joy and pain, ups and downs. And then there is death, which sets all straight. When it comes, all that truly matters is forgivenessnot for the other, but for yourself. To live, heart unburdened, chest light.
Margaret forgave; felt the weight drop away. She didn’t dig at the past or stir up storms or demand answers. She simply let it go. And let spring into her lifenew and gentle, bright with promise: cottage gardens, strawberries, grandchildren, nightingale song.
Life carried on. Despite everything. Because of everything.
