George Carter married at twentyfour. His wife, Mabel Whitmore, was twentytwo. She was the only child of a university professor and a schoolteacher, the last baby the family ever had. Soon after, they were blessed with two chubby boys and, a little later, a daughter.
Mabels mother, Edith Whitmore, retired and devoted herself to the grandchildren. Georges relationship with her was peculiarly formal: he called her MrsEdith Whitmore, while she replied with a stiff you and always addressed him by his full name. They never argued, but whenever she was in the room George felt a chill, as if hed walked into a pantry full of cold pies. Still, credit where its dueEdith never made a scene, always speaking to him with a veneer of respect, and she kept a perfectly neutral stance in his marriage.
A month ago the firm where George worked went bust, and he was shown the door. Over dinner Mabel sighed, George, Mums pension and my wages wont stretch forever. Find a job. Easy for her to sayfind a job! He spent thirty days knocking on doors and came up emptyhanded. In a fit of irritation he jabbed the stray beer can that lay on the floor. Thank heavens Edith stayed quiet, though her eyes flickered with unspoken commentary.
Before the wedding George had overheard a conversation between motherinlaw and daughter.
Darling, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your whole life with?
Of course, Mum!
I think youre not grasping the full weight of this. If your father were still alive
Mum, thats enough! We love each other and everything will be fine!
What about the kids? Will he be able to provide?
Hell manage, Mum!
Its not too late to reconsider, Mabel. Think about his family
I love him!
Oh, youd save yourself a lot of elbowgnawing then!
Time to bite the bullet, George muttered, a sour smile tugging at his lips. Edith watched him like a gull over a fishpond.
He didnt feel like heading home. It seemed as if Mabels comforting Dont worry, tomorrow will be better was a rehearsed line, her mothers sigh was a silent judgment, and the kids cheeky Dad, got a job yet? was the final nail in his patience. He needed a break.
He strolled along the Brighton promenade, perched on a park bench, and as night fell drove out to the family cottage they used from May to October. The cottages only lit window belonged to Ediths bedroom. He slipped down the garden path, the curtains fluttered, and he plonked himself on a low wall, staring at the dark.
Edith peeked out.
What, has George been missing for ages? Did you call, Mabel?
Yes, Mum, the line was dead. Probably hes still hunting for work and wandering about.
Her voice turned to ice.
Mabel, dont you dare speak of your childrens father in that tone!
Oh, Mum, really? I just think George is being a daft lad and not even looking for a job. Hes been a couchpotato for a month now!
For the first time in six years, George heard Edith slam her fist on the table and raise her voice.
Never speak to your husband like that! What did you promise when you said I do? through sickness and sorrow! to stand by his side and support him!
Mabel mumbled a hurried apology.
Mum, Im sorry. Please dont worry, alright? Im just exhausted.
Fine, go to bed, Edith sighed, waving a weary hand.
The lights dimmed. Edith paced the room, pushed the curtains aside, and stared into the gloom. Then, looking up at the ceiling, she crossed herself solemnly.
Lord Almighty, have mercy on my grandsons father, my daughters husband! Keep his faith in himself, I pray. Help my son!
She whispered and wept, tears streaming down her cheeks.
A hot knot of shame grew in Georges chest. No one had ever prayed for himnot his stern, workfocused mother, nor his father, who vanished when George was five. Hed grown up in crèches, nursery, then school and afterschool clubs. Straight from university hed landed a job because his mother wouldnt tolerate idleness, believing he could fend for himself.
The heat rose, spilling over, and he felt tears on the brink. He remembered Ediths earlymorning pies, her simmering stews, the dumplings that could make a grown man weep, the garden rows she tended, the jars of jam, the crunchy pickles and cabbage she could preserve for winter.
Why had he never taken interest? Why never praised her? He and Mabel had merely trudged through work and childrearing, assuming that was all there was. Or perhaps thats what he believed. He recalled a family night watching a documentary about NewZealand, when Edith confessed shed always dreamed of visiting that distant island. George had chuckled, Its too cold for me; Id need an iceshield to survive!
George lingered under the window, head in his hands, for a long while.
The next morning he and Mabel descended to the breakfast table on the veranda. The spread was a proper British affairscones, jam, tea, milk, and the kids beaming with chocolatestained smiles. He lifted his eyes, smiled, and said, Good morning, Mum!
Edith flinched, then after a pause answered, Good morning, Georgie!
Two weeks later George landed a job, and a year after that he booked a flight for Edith to NewZealand, despite her fierce protests.
Eleanor HardingAs the aircraft roared into the sky, Edith pressed her forehead against the window, whispering a grateful sigh that finally steadied the knot in Georges heart.
