My mother lived like a recluse in a tiny, remote village in the Yorkshire Dales, refusing to see either myself or my wife. Our relationship had always been difficult; she resented my preference for the bustle of London over country life, so every attempt I made to keep in touch or help her was met with a closed door. When she died, I didnt even make it to her funeral, but her little cottage was left in my name, as I was her only surviving relative. I suspect she made her will years ago.
It took me and my wife a long time to pull ourselves together and make the tripa good two hundred miles, which isnt a small undertaking. If it hadnt been for my wish to visit her grave and lay some flowers there, I probably would have buried the whole idea deep and never thought of it again.
Our plan was simple: visit the churchyard to pay our respects, then head to Mothers cottage to see what was left. Wed planned to give some things to the neighbours, take a few keepsakes, and perhaps burn the rest just to stop it from gathering dust. We assumed wed have the house to ourselves, so it was quite a shock to walk in and find mens belongings scattered about and a stranger tending to the fire.
He explained that hed worked for my mother for over five yearshelping out in the garden, digging out her cellar, and living in the spare room because, like me, hed had his own troubles with his family. From what I gathered, Mother had thought of him almost as a second son. With nowhere else to go, hed tidied up the place after her passing, but hadnt touched any of her things. To my wife, he handed over all her jewellery, and even gave her his own savings. He then asked if he could stay in the cottage until it was sold.
At first, we were keen to be rid of the housethe journey was long, and our own weekend place was far more comfortable. But when my wife and I talked it over, the thought of this man, who had cared for my mother where I hadnt, suddenly having nothing and nowhere to go seemed wrong. After discussing it with my foster brother, we decided not to sell. Instead, we arranged to sign the cottage over to him. It dawned on me that perhaps my mother had wanted to do this herself, but either never got round to it, or worried Id be greedy and trouble a stranger for it.
And so it ended. Four years have passed now. Not once have we regretted our choicenot for selling the place for pennies, nor for keeping it for ourselves. Truthfully, Id have forgotten the cottage altogether, if not for a programme on television about village life that sparked something in me. Suddenly, I was reminded of that little cottage and my mothers grave. Maybe it was a signa nudge to visit her, or maybe even him, after all this time.
