Cyril married at the age of twenty-four. His wife, Eleanor, was twenty-two, the only and rather late-born child of a university professor and a schoolteacher. Soon after the wedding, two sons arrived in quick succession, followed later by a daughter. His mother-in-law, Margaret, retired and devoted herself to the grandchildren.
Cyrils relationship with her had always been peculiar. He addressed her formally as «Margaret Anne,» and she responded with a cool, distant «you,» always using his full name. They never quarrelled outright, yet her presence left him uneasy, as though standing in a draught. Still, he had to admit she never interferedalways speaking to him with stiff politeness and maintaining strict neutrality in his marriage.
A month ago, the company Cyril worked for went bankrupt, leaving him without employment. Over supper, Eleanor remarked, «We wont last long on Mums pension and my wages, Cyril. You must find work.»
Easier said than done. Thirty days of pounding pavements, and still nothing! Frustrated, he kicked an empty beer can lying in his path. Thank heavens Margaret had yet to say anything, though her pointed looks spoke volumes.
Before the wedding, he had overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.
«Eleanor, are you certain hes the man you want to spend your life with?»
«Mum, of course!»
«I dont think you grasp the responsibility. If only your father were alive…»
«Oh, Mum, stop! We love each other, and everything will be fine!»
«And what of children? Will he provide for them?»
«He will, Mum!»
«Its not too late to reconsider, Eleanor. His family…»
«Mum, I love him!»
«Very wellbut dont come crying to me later!»
Now, Cyril thought grimly, the time for regret had come. Margaret had seen it all, clear as day.
He couldnt face going home. The thought of Eleanors forced cheer»Never mind, tomorrow will be better!»Margarets silent, disapproving sighs, and the childrens teasing»Dad, found a job yet?»was unbearable.
He wandered along the riverbank, sat on a bench in the park, and as night fell, made his way to the cottage where his family spent summers. A single light glowed in Margarets bedroom window. Stealing up the path, he froze as the curtain twitched. Ducking, he stumbled onto a tree stump.
Margaret peered out. «Cyrils late. Have you rung him, Eleanor?»
«Yes, Mum. His phones off. Probably still job-huntingor dawdling somewhere.»
Her voice turned to ice. «Eleanor, do not speak of your husband like that!»
«Oh, Mum, dont fuss! But honestly, I think Cyrils slackingnot even trying. A whole month of loafing on my wages!»
For the first time in six years, Cyril heard Margaret slam her fist on the table, her voice sharp. «Enough! You vowed to stand by himin sickness and hardship! To support him!»
Eleanor muttered hastily, «Sorry, Mum. Dont upset yourself. Im just worn out, thats all.»
«Go to bed,» Margaret sighed, waving her off.
The light went out. She paced, then drew the curtain aside, peering into the dark. Suddenly, she lifted her eyes heavenward and crossed herself fervently.
«Dear Lord, Merciful and Compassionate, protect the father of my grandchildren, the husband of my daughter! Do not let him lose faith in himself. Help him, dear Lordmy dear boy!»
Her whispered prayer was broken by quiet tears.
A warmth swelled in Cyrils chest. No one had ever prayed for himnot his stern mother, who had devoted herself to county council work, nor his father, a vague memory lost by the age of five. He had grown up in nurseries, schools, after-hours clubs. At university, he worked at oncehis mother despised idleness, insisting he provide for himself.
The heat spread, rising until it spilled over in silent, unbidden tears. He remembered Margaret rising before dawn to bake the pies he loved, simmering rich stews, her dumplings a marvel. She tended the children, kept the house, planted vegetables, made jams, pickled cucumbers and cabbage for winter…
Why had he never noticed? Never thanked her? He and Eleanor had simply worked and raised children, assuming it was how things ought to be. Or was that just him? He recalled an evening watching a programme about Australia, when Margaret had murmured how shed always longed to visit that far-off land. Hed joked that the heat would melt her icy demeanour…
Cyril sat long beneath the window, head in hands.
At breakfast the next morning, he joined Eleanor on the veranda. The table was laden with pies, jam, tea, milk. The childrens faces shone with cheer. He looked up and said softly, «Good morning, Mum.»
Margaret started, then after a pause, replied, «Good morning, Cyril.»
Within a fortnight, Cyril found work. A year later, he sent Margaret Anne on a holiday to Australiadespite her protests.
