The new flat smelled of damp wallpaper, a scent that somehow felt reassuring. It promised a steady tomorrow, the comfort of ten square metres of our own roof over our heads. After years of drifting from one rented room to another, I, Tom Bennett, finally let the lingering fear of being shown the door fade. Even the weeks of nervous packing could not dim the buoyant mood that settled over me. With that flat, it seemed I had anchored myself on this earth and would never truly be lost.
For our housewarming, Annie baked a fish pie with egg and spring onions, placing it in the centre of the table where the Bennett family gathered: my father, my mother, and our four childrenJack, Lily, Sam and Emma. Annie blushed as she played hostess, pouring tea, cutting slices, teasing the youngsters. The kids clinked spoons against cups, stirring sugar, eyes glued to the golden crust of the pie. I watched my family and felt a surge of happiness, a flash of my mothers kitchen long ago. Then that joy grew hazy, as if a worm had burrowed into a perfect apple. I wondered when I had last written to Mumperhaps on the year our first child was born. Now young Alistair was thirteen. Id seen Mum right after leaving the Army, then vanished off to a construction site far away. Twentyfour years had slipped by since that last meeting.
Come on, lad! Annie called, settling into a chair and taking a sip of tea. The children giggled, exchanged mischievous glances, gulped the amber brew, and plopped down on their stools. The liveliness at the table eased my nerves; I gratefully accepted a generous slice of pie and ate slowly.
Annie, wheres that blue folder with the letters? I asked.
I still have three cardboard boxes unopened. Itll be in one of them, she replied.
Find it for me, please.
Is it urgent?
Very.
The kids polished off their second pieces, Annie kept filling cups, smiling at their chatter. The Bennetts finished the meal, and the first supper in our new home tasted wonderfully, bolstering the sense of contentment.
An hour later I sat at the kitchen table, leafing through the folder. Inside were a handful of letters from former comrades, about twenty army photographs, and a note from Mum. When I left for the Army, Mum was fifty; she sent long letters filled with village gossip, world news, simple jokes, and always signed, Your son Tom, love Mum. Those letters irritated me then; I skimmed them, tore them up, and tossed them away. I preferred the enthusiastic notes from girls, the ones the post office delivered in heaps addressed to the prettiest or the jolliest soldier. Now I regretted having destroyed those scraps. My heart seemed to shrink, a sour feeling squeezing it. I pulled out the only surviving letter from Mum, unfolded it, and read:
Dear Tom, I have just heard that your father, the man who sired you, has passed away. You hardly remember him; you were a child when he left us. He never got to see you grow, and I have not seen you for many years. I do not know if we shall meet again.
Signed, From Mother Martha.
I muttered to myself, Mum changed her little intro again, and set the letter aside.
Annie, will you let me go? I need to visit Mum, I pleaded.
Now? Theres no money for a tripeverythings gone into the move.
What, none at all?
No. My wages wont come for two weeks; your holiday pay went to the renovation, and you wont get a pay packet for a month. Well barely have enough for food until then.
So well have to borrow from the Simms family.
Whats the hurry? After all these years you never mentioned it, and now youre off to see her! Ive got four lads to ferry to school and work to keep up with.
I feel uneasy, Annie. Let me go. Ill ask Lucy Simms to help with the kids. If we must borrow, lets make it a proper one. Right, Annie?
Off you go, you poor soul! Annie hugged me, pressed her cheek to mine, lingered a moment, then slipped away to the other rooms, dreaming of a better home.
The journey took three long days. It felt odd to think I was heading home to Mum after so many years. I travelled by train, then bus, caught a lift, and walked the final stretch to the old cottage. My steps were heavy, my breath deep, as I tried to calm my nerves and take in the surroundings. The village had changed; the cottages were weatherworn and merged into the earth, all the same grey colour. Some neat rows of gardens survived, but most fields lay fallow, bleak and desolate. I recognised the family yard with difficulty, pushed against a warped gate, stepped into the courtyard, paused, then walked to the cottage and crossed the threshold. The door was ajar. I entered the dim hallway and a second door, slipping into the gloom of the bedroom.
Is anyone home? I whispered.
Of course! Im here, answered a voice from the shadowed corner.
My eyes adjusted, and I saw an old woman perched on the edge of a bed.
I set my battered bag down and sat on a bench.
Are you from the workhouse? she asked.
No.
She sighed, Last summer we fetched firewood, and now I wait for someone to bring more. Last winter was harsh; I barely made it, fearing Id freeze in this icy cottage. This winter looks milder, but without wood even a gentle chill will be cruel.
Ill chop wood for you! I sprang up, oddly addressing her with respect.
Sit down. Well manage. Teas coming, though I fear Ill bring bad news about my pension. The officials are pilfering what little I have left.
What do you live on?
The workhouse sends bread and milk once a week, sometimes a little grain and margarine. Its scant, but Im frugal, stretching it till the next delivery.
What do you do all day?
Nothing much. What else is there? And you, sir?
A dog barked outside, a hen clucked, and a distant aircraft droned overhead.
Im your son, Martha Gordon, I said.
My son? I have no son, the old woman replied, bewildered. Hes gone.
How could he be gone? Im right here! Dont you recognise me? Look closely.
Iwhether I look at you or not, it matters little. Im blind.
Blind? I asked.
Yes, I cant see anything. I live in darkness. Ive learned to save electricity; others pay a penny for a light, but I have none. The Lord must have decided it better for an old woman to be blind than to owe the state for power.
May I step outside for a moment?
Go on.
The yard was shabby, the wind chilled the tears on my cheek. I wanted to wail, but held my feelings in. I brushed my teeth, wiped my face, and headed to the shed, where a pile of birch logs lay. I found an axe, chose a larger log, and began splitting firewood.
By evening I had stacked the wood neatly along the wide hall, taken a few logs, and fed the stove.
Who keeps the fire going? I asked, still unsure whether to call her mother.
She does herself. After all these years my fingers are scarred from burns, so if I put my hand in the flame it no longer hurts.
We heated a pot, set a kettle on the hot stove, and Martha ladled porridge onto plates. I watched her thin, grey, toothless form, her smile stretched over sightless eyes, the burnt tips of her fingers. In that moment I felt time rush through me, and her outline began to fade, dissolving into the night. I shook my head, trying to chase away the vision, and asked, May I stay the night?
Of course, dear.
After supper I retreated to a small side room, curled up on an old settee without lighting a lamp, found a blanket in the darkness, and lay facedown, covering my chin. I was not there merely for porridge. I wanted to tell her of my lifehow I toiled at hard jobs, never sparing a penny, saving for a splendid wedding, a fine car, a respectable house. I had worked two or threeshift weeks, paid rent for rented rooms, bought a coat for my young wife, contributed to a coop, taken the family to the seaside many times. I had four sons, each with a savings book for education, and at last bought a spacious home. It had not been easy, far from it. I turned over and over, sighed, coughed, then rose abruptly, feeling my way back to the bedroom. A sliver of light from the window revealed a dark silhouette at the foot of the bed.
Cant you sleep? I whispered.
No, Im awake.
I drew a deep breath, ready to recount my hardships, when a hoarse voice cut through the silence:
I do not know who you are. I do not fear death; I await it daily. The Lord does not hurry to take me, and you should not hasten Him.
Please, I mean you no harm. How can I prove Im your son?
Why prove? Children look after their parents as parents once looked after them. I tended you until you were nineteen and called up. While you were in the service I wrote, thought of you. After you left, I saw you only twice. I know a son of yours was born.
That makes four now, I said.
How do you know?
Mother, I I am your son. Do you remember when I was five and you gave me a puppy? I took it to bed at night, and you scolded me.
No, I dont recall.
Then the scar on my elbow. You were cooking, I ran around, and I leaned on a hot kettle. You rubbed sunflower oil on the burn for days.
No memory of that.
Do you remember my friend Vassily Petrov? He was also fatherless. You never got along with his mother.
No recollection, sir.
My face matches yours. I am your son, and you are my mother. The old womans eyelids fluttered; the darkness hid her expression.
I once fell in love at fourteen; she was twelve. I brought the bride home, you drove her away and slapped me. Do you remember? she asked, bewildered.
I cant, I replied, but Im here now.
She sighed, I am blind, but I know every corner of this cottage. Go to sleep, do not trouble me. In the morning you may depart.
I awoke with a splitting headache, surprised that the meeting had turned out so bleak. I had imagined a joyous reunion, tears of happiness, embraces. Instead, my mother did not recognise me. I left with a weight in my chest, unsure whether I should confess my sins to her; I felt no guilt, so there was little to atone for. I refused the tea she offered, slung my bag over my shoulder, approached her, hesitated, then looked at her lined face as tears threatened.
I must be on my way, I said.
Safe travels, she whispered.
I stepped onto the yard, glanced back at the window where her silhouette lingered, her face tinged with sorrow. I opened the gate and walked briskly toward the road. The further I went from the village, the lighter my heart felt. I imagined slicing a loaf of life with an invisible knife, tossing it onto the path, and felt a calm settle over me. Everyone has their fate. I must raise my own family, I told myself, quickening my pace toward the home where my wife and children waited.
Martha Gordon remained by the window, unmoving. At last she spoke, We have met at last, my son.
