Quiet happiness
I was only three when my mother died. I watched her flung from a roaring motorcycle that barreled toward us, her red dress catching fire for a heartbeat before darkness and silence swallowed everything. The doctors did all they could, and I eventually opened my eyes, but I kept my mouth shut. No one dared ask when I would call for her, and I stayed silent for a long halfyear. Then, one night I woke with a guttural scream: Mum! The memory rushed back in a blaze of red, and the picture of my mothers dress burned again in my mind.
By then I was living in a childrens home in the outskirts of York, and I couldnt understand why I had been left there. I took to standing at the big sash window that overlooked the main road and the towns high street, staring out as if I could will my mother to appear.
Why are you always on that ledge? grumbled the old caretaker, Mrs. Martha, as she swished the mop across the kitchen floor.
Im waiting for Mum. Shell come for me, I answered.
She chuckled, Oh, love, youll keep a biscuit warm for yourself if you sit there all day. Come, Ill have a cuppa for you.
I nodded, but after she left I returned to that window, flinching whenever a passerby paused at the gate.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and I never left my post, dreaming that one grey, joyless day the red dress would flare again and my mother would stretch out her arms and say, At last Ive found you, my boy! Mrs. Martha wept for me more than for any other child, yet she could do nothing to change my waiting. Doctors, counsellors and volunteers tried to tell me not to linger by the window, that there were games, schoolwork and friends to occupy me. I nodded politely, but as soon as they turned away I was back at the sill. Mrs. Martha saw my silhouette through the glass countless times; she never could count how many farewells she gave as she left for work.
One afternoon the woman who tended the garden beyond the railway bridge turned back, her feet shuffling slow and weary. Few people lingered there, but today a young woman stood at the edge, eyes fixed on the tracks below. She made a sudden, almost invisible motion, and Mrs. Martha understood what she intended.
You daft thing, I called out as I stepped closer.
What did you say? the stranger snapped at the old woman, her eyes clouded with years.
Daft, I say! What are you thinking, you reckless fool? Do you not know its a grievous sin to deny a life its chance? You didnt choose this, nor should you end it, she retorted.
What if I cant go on? the woman shouted, desperation cracking her voice. What if Ive no strength left, no purpose?
Then come with me. I live just beyond the footbridge; we can talk there. No point standing here forever.
Mrs. Martha slipped away without looking back, holding her breath. The womans footsteps faded, and I let out a sigh of relief that she had made it in time.
Whats your name, you foolish thing? I asked.
Emily, she replied.
Emily my own daughter was called that. She died five years ago, a swift illness took her after a year of suffering. It left me alone, no husband, no children, no grandchildren. They call me Martha. Come on in, this isnt a palace but its mine. Ill change and set a table; well have tea and dinner, and things will settle. Emily smiled gratefully at the old woman.
Thank you, Aunt Martha, I said.
Dont mention it, love Poor dear, lifes never easy for a woman. So many tears, so many hardships. But throwing yourself into extremes is the last thing to do, she sighed.
Dont get me wrong, Emily said, warming her hands over a steaming mug, Im usually strong. This feels like madness. I cant explain it myself
Emily had grown up in a small village in Cumbria, sheltered until seven. Her parents adored her; she was their only child. Then everything fell apart. Her father abandoned them, later revealed to have a second family and more children. Her mother, crushed, turned to drink and unleashed her rage on Emily. In revenge against the man she never divorced, the mother began inviting strangers into the house, neglecting chores and leaving everything to the teenage daughter. Soon the mothers drinking companions stripped away whatever remained of the fathers legacy.
Emily took odd jobs for neighbours weeding, cleaning earning food in exchange. She fed her wayward mother, never receiving thanks. Shed stopped expecting kindness, realizing a normal family was beyond reach. Her father never called, never asked how she fared. Rumours said hed moved abroad, and Emily accepted shed never see him again.
She endured humiliation after humiliation, isolated by the villages relative wealth. Boys avoided the daughter of the local drunkard, and she grew up an outcast. One night, a drunken brother of her mother crashed into her room. By sheer luck she escaped through the window, avoiding a terrible fate. She hid in a derelict barn until dawn, then slipped back into the house, gathered her papers, a few coins from a hidden stash, and fled without looking back.
By evening her father, Ivan, arrived in his lorry, hoping to reunite with his girl. The sight of the empty cottage broke him; he searched the village, interrogating anyone, but learned nothing of Emilys life. He wept in his expensive hatchback, cursing his tardiness. Ivan had spent years driving longhaul routes, meeting a wealthy unmarried woman, Gillian, who repeatedly hired his transport company and insisted he be the driver. Gillian liked his steady nature and soon they married. Over a few years she bore two sons, then announced she would leave England.
Come live with us, Ivan. If you wont, return to your wife. I love you, darling, but I cant force you. Choose, she said.
He chose her. He felt guilty leaving his daughter, but he no longer wanted to split his life between two families. Emilys mothers endless complaints and jealousy had worn him thin, as had her reliance on a bottle to dull any bad mood.
One day, while Emily was at school, Ivan came home to find his wife in bed with another man. That was the last straw. When Emily returned, she found only a drunken mother who told her that her father had abandoned them forever. Emily left the village, seeking work in Manchester. A kindly old lady, Mrs. Zinnia, rented her a tiny room, which Emily paid for three months in advance. When the tenancy ended, Zinnia offered her a place as a livein helper, free accommodation in exchange.
For five years Emily tended to Zinnia, and in the last two Zinnia was bedridden. When Zinnia passed, Emily, tears still fresh, discovered she had inherited Zinnias modest flat on the citys edge.
Later Emily met Yuri, a young banker who seemed perfect. Their twoyear marriage crumbled the day she caught him with another woman. He kicked her out, then beat her so badly she ended up in hospital. She never managed to tell him she was pregnant; the baby was lost, and doctors warned she might never carry another child. She was left with no husband, no home, no flat Yuri had sold the inheritance and bought a flashy car. Emily, still in love with the idea of a family, accepted his betrayal, believing they would rebuild together.
After discharge she wandered aimlessly until her boots led her to a railway bridge. Mrs. Martha listened without interrupting, then said, Its not the end. Youve still got life ahead, love. Stay with me for a while; I work all day and only get home at night.
Emily spent two weeks in Marthas modest cottage. A new police constable, Graham, came round to meet the locals. Martha wasnt home, so Graham spoke with Emily, promising to return when the caretaker arrived. He kept his word, visiting several times, and soon became a steady friend to Emily.
One evening Graham phoned Emily. Do you know Ivan Savelyev? he asked.
Yes, hes my father.
Hes been looking for you for years.
Emilys world shifted. Her father, overjoyed to have found his daughter, bought her a decent flat, opened a solid savings account, helped her secure a respectable job, and vowed to visit more often.
Emily decided to visit Martha with some treats. She arrived on time to find the old woman feverish and weak.
Somethings got me down, dear Emily! Im scared I wont pull through, Martha whispered.
Dont say that, Aunt Martha. Ive called an ambulance; theyll be here soon, and everything will be alright. Trust me, Emily replied.
Martha nodded. Listen. You know I work at the childrens home, right? Theres a lad there, Victor. He just turned five. I want to leave my flat to him Ive written a will, and Id like you to keep it safe.
What boy is that? How will I recognise him?
Youll know. Hes the one whos been at the secondfloor window for two years, waiting for his mother in a red dress, saying shell come for him
The ambulance whisked Martha to the hospital, then a rehab centre, all costs covered by Emily. When Martha returned to work, the window was empty Victor had been adopted.
Rumours swirled that his mother had finally come. One crisp morning, as Victor stood at his post, a woman in a flowing red dress appeared on the footpath. He clutched his heart and shouted, Mum! The lady looked straight at him, waved, and ran toward him.
Mum! he cried, fearing she would vanish. She opened her arms, meeting him halfway.
Emily held the thin boy close, tears streaming, vowing she would shield him from any more sorrow. Time passed. Emily and Graham settled into a comfortable house, raising Victor, who was now preparing for school and hoping for a little brother. Martha, ever grateful, lived with them, and the quiet happiness of their little family stemmed from the love they gave each other every day.
