Evelyn drifted in and out of her mothers old cottage, the place always smelling faintly of scorched bread and forgotten tea. Shed set down crackers and a jug of water beside the bed, never lingering longer than necessary, slipping away as the walls whispered in an odd, muffled accent.
My neighbour is named Evelyn. Her mother, Margaret, has lived on her own for ages. Once upon a time, Margaret was a marvel in the kitchenfilling her home with the scent of stews and Victoria sponge for all the family and kindly neighbours. The clatter of her baking pans was as dependable as the chime of Big Ben.
But Evelyn always felt a peculiar shame about her mum, whom she saw as too rustica simple woman from the countryside whod spent her years tending sheep and hedgerows rather than city streets. When Margarets husband vanished from the world, she was left alone amidst the mute garden gnomes and faded photographs. Evelyns visits became rare, and Margaret began misplacing both memories and knitting needles, muttering nonsensical tales about blue rabbits and clouds made of jam.
One afternoon, Evelyn appeared among the shifting shadows. The air stunk of burning. Margaret had left the oven running, its heat swirling through the house like a lingering fog.
What on earth are you up to? Cant you even reheat your lunch? Youll burn the whole place down!Evelyns voice jabbed at the wallpaper.
Darling, I’m awfully sorry! Its never happened before! Margaret protested, her words tumbling like loose buttons.
Bit by bit, Margaret faded. Walking became a labyrinth, each step weighed down by unseen things. One day, she phoned Evelyn with the cord twisting like a garden worm:
Evelyn, dear, Im not feeling myself. My blood pressure feels as if its marching bands inside me. Will you come by?
Do I look like a doctor? Call the ambulance! snapped Evelyn, hanging up, her hand trembling like a leaf.
Eventually, Margaret stopped leaving the househer slippers untouched by grass, her windows uncertain. Evelyn now visited weekly, bringing the cheapest groceries she could find at the village shop, half-heartedly tidying and taking out bins as if they were full of secrets. Every visit ended the same:
I just dont understand! You live alone and this place is an utter tip! Arent you ashamed of yourself?
The door would echo after Evelyn, slamming with a memory of storms. Finally, Margaret could no longer rise from bed. Evelyn arrived every other day, laying food and water by the bedside and then floating out, like a ghost uncertain of the time.
One bleak morning, Evelyn arrived and Margaret was silent, the cottage shrouded in dust and dream. After the funeralmugs of tea and scones not touching the acheEvelyn wandered to the grave often, her words curling in the mist:
Oh, how I miss my dearest, most beloved mum! She was everything to me!
She repeated it, again and again, as if rehearsing for an audience of crows. Was it true she only remembered the soft and lovely things nowthe laughter, the cakes, the flicker of candlelight? Had she forgotten how shed turned away, how shed refused to help, how shed let Margaret sink into lonely afternoons? Was such forgetting possible, in this swirling, surreal English dream?
