Cyril married at the age of twenty-four. His wife, Victoria, was twenty-two. She was the only child of a professor and a schoolteacher, born late in their lives. Soon after the wedding, they had two boys in quick succession, followed by a daughter.
Victorias mother retired and devoted herself to the grandchildren.
Cyrils relationship with her was peculiarhe always addressed her formally as «Margaret Elizabeth,» and she responded with a reserved, frosty «you,» using his full name. They never quarrelled openly, but in her presence, Cyril felt uneasy, as though standing in a cold draft. Still, to her credit, Margaret never meddled, spoke to him with deliberate politeness, and maintained strict neutrality in his marriage.
A month ago, the firm where Cyril worked went bankrupt, and he was dismissed. Over supper, Victoria remarked,
«Between Mums pension and my wages, we wont last long, Cyril. You must find work.»
Easier said than done. For thirty days, he had knocked on every doorto no avail.
In frustration, Cyril kicked an empty beer can that lay in his path. At least Margaret had kept silent so far, though her pointed glances spoke volumes.
Before the wedding, he had overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.
«Vicky, are you certain hes the man you wish to spend your life with?»
«Mum, of course!»
«I dont think you grasp the responsibility. If only your father were alive…»
«Oh, Mum, really! We love each other, and everything will be fine!»
«And what of children? Will he provide?»
«He will!»
«Its not too late to reconsider, Vicky. His background…»
«Mum, I love him!»
«Mark my wordsyou may live to regret this.»
Now, that regret had come to pass. Cyril gave a bitter smile. Margaret had seen it all coming.
He couldnt bear to go home. It seemed to him that Victorias reassurances»Dont worry, tomorrow will be better!»were hollow, that her mother sighed in silent judgement, and that the children smirked, asking, «Dad, found a job yet?» He couldnt face it again.
He wandered along the riverbank, sat on a bench in the square, and as night fell, made his way to the cottage where his family stayed from spring to autumn. A single light burned in Margarets bedroom window. Stealthily, he crept up the path. The curtain twitched; Cyril ducked, landing squarely on a tree stump.
Margaret peered out.
«Cyrils late. Have you rung him, Vicky?»
«Yes, Mum. His phones off. Probably still job-huntingor moping somewhere.»
Margarets voice turned icy.
«Victoria, do not speak of your husbandthe father of your childrenin that tone!»
«Oh, Mum, dont fuss! I just think Cyrils slacking. A month without work, living off my wages!»
For the first time in six years, Cyril heard Margaret slam her fist on the table and raise her voice.
«How dare you! What vows did you make? For better, for worseto stand by him, to support him!»
Victoria stammered,
«Mum, Im sorry. Dont upset yourself. Im just tired, thats all.»
«Go to bed,» Margaret sighed, waving her off.
The light went out. She paced the room, drew back the curtain, and peered into the darkness. Then, lifting her eyes to the heavens, she crossed herself fervently.
«Lord, most merciful and kind, protect the father of my grandchildren, the husband of my daughter! Do not let him lose faith in himself. Help him, Lordmy dear boy!»
She whispered prayers, tears streaming down her face.
A warmth swelled in Cyrils chest. No one had ever prayed for himnot his stern mother, who had devoted herself to the council offices, nor his father, whom he barely remembered, vanishing when Cyril was five. He had grown up in nurseries and after-school clubs, then university and workhis mother despised idleness and insisted he provide for himself.
The heat rose, filling him, spilling over in unbidden tears. He remembered how Margaret rose before dawn to bake the pies he loved, simmered hearty stews, and made dumplings so perfect they seemed a miracle. She tended the children, kept the house, planted vegetables, made jam, and pickled cucumbers and cabbage for wintercrunchy, tangy, just as he liked.
Why had he never noticed? Never thanked her? He and Victoria had simply worked and raised children, assuming this was how life ought to be. Or had he alone thought so? He recalled an evening when the family watched a programme about Australia, and Margaret murmured that she had always longed to visit that distant land. He had joked that the heat would melt her icy demeanour…
Cyril sat under the window for a long time, head in his hands.
The next morning, he and Victoria came down to breakfast on the veranda. The table was ladenpies, jam, tea, milk. The childrens faces glowed with joy. He looked up and said softly,
«Good morning, Mum.»
Margaret started, then after a pause, replied,
«Good morning, Cyril, dear.»
Two weeks later, Cyril found work. A year after that, he sent Margaret on a holiday to Australiadespite her protests.
