«Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind.»
«Those are my grandchildren, and if theyre such a bother to you»
«Lucy, wait! I invited you. Just you. I thought we could stroll along the quay, maybe catch a playremember? How could we possibly do that with children? Ive only got a one-bed flat. Four children Where on earth would we all fit?»
«Oh, youd have managed if youd wanted to. But I see nowyou dont.»
«Lucy At my age, hosting a nursery is too much,» sighed Margaret. «I can barely keep up with one child, let alone a pack of them. I imagined wed chat over tea, reminisce about the old days. Instead, Id be cooking by the potful and, forgive me, enduring the din. If youre set on bringing them, I can help you find a proper let nearby.»
«Right. Well, Margaret, where my grandchildren arent welcome, neither am I,» declared Lucy. «Seems weve each our own path now. Happy New Year.»
The line went dead. Margaret sighed, pressing a hand to her brow. When had Lucy become such a mother hen? Though, if she thought about it, theyd always been different.
Margaret and Lucy had met at sixteen through mutual friends. Three years later, theyd married within months of each other. Margaret had been Lucys maid of honour, and Lucy had stood beside Margaret at her wedding. Theyd godmothered each others firstborns, and then Lucy had gone on to have a second child.
Margaret, though, had stopped at one daughter. She was an introvert by nature, while Polly had grown up a boisterous whirlwind, always craving attention. Nursery school had been her respitethose few hours when she could breathe, cook supper, tidy the flat. Sick days were dark times indeed; not only did she fret over Polly, but the girl became impossibly fussy, whining and never settling on what she wanted.
Margaret had always marvelled at Lucy. She handled two children as if it were nothing, never complained of weariness, always seemed bright-eyed.
«How do you manage? Isnt it exhausting? Im at my wits end with just the one.»
«Oh, it was tricky at first,» Lucy would say, waving a hand. «But you learn to let things go. Muddy hands? Good for the immune system. Clothes on backwards? Developing their own style. Ate the cats food? The cats problem. And they keep each other busygives me a moments peace. Well, youve still got to mind they dont wreck the place, but its easier with two.»
Margaret could only raise her brows and shake her head. Shed never manage that. She bundled her daughter in layers against the cold, held her hand tightly everywhere. At least, she tried to. Maybe Lucys way had meritbut Margaret was made differently.
It was the same with grandchildren. Margaret had just one, little Ellen. Lucy had a battalion of four boys.
Ellen took after her motherneedy, demanding attention. While her husband was alive, Margaret had scraped by; after he passed, the strain grew unbearable. Ellen refused to play alone. If she toyed with her dolls, she needed a partner. If she pieced together jigsaws or building blocks, Margaret was roped in.
And the questionsendless, rapid-fire, switching topics before Margaret could even answer. By the third hour, her head would fog, her temples throb, and all shed want was to retreat under the covers for ten minutes of silence.
Lucy was cut from different cloth. Noise and chaos were her element, her summers filled with photos of children trampling flowerbeds, eating strawberries straight from the patch, dousing each other with the garden hose.
Margaret, as ever, couldnt fathom how Lucy coped.
«Oh, the eldest is nine nowhe keeps an eye on the others,» Lucy would say, shrugging. «Theyre quite self-sufficient, really.»
Once, Margaret saw just how self-sufficient they were.
Life had scattered them. Lucy stayed in their hometown, while Margaret moved to London with her husband when Polly was eight. Over the years, theyd met only in passing.
«Listen, youve no little ones underfoot nowPollys grown. Come visit! Youve only seen my cottage in pictures,» Lucy had urged.
Margaret agreed, eager for a break from her quiet, monotonous days. She pictured cosy evenings on the veranda, just like old times.
How wrong she was.
When she arrived, two grandsons were already there; by noon, the other two had joined. And then the chaos beganshrieking, food flung across the table (some landing on Margaret), Lucy frantically scrubbing porridge from the walls.
«Stop that this instant!» shed scold, brandishing a tea towel. «Or no pudding for any of you!»
It barely worked. At best, the boys ignored her; at worst, they wailed, rattled saucepan lids like cymbals, shot toy guns at anything that moved. By day three, Margaret packed her bags, though shed planned to stay a fortnight.
«Im sorry, but I need quiet,» she said, trying to keep her voice steady. The words hung between them, unresolved.
Now, history repeated itself. A month ago, Lucy had lamented that her children were «abandoning her for New Years»some off to in-laws, others to a ski lodge. Margaret saw her chance: just the two of them, like the old days, but on her terms.
«Lets celebrate together,» shed offered.
Lucy leapt at the idea. They planned walks along the Thames, a play, Love Actually. Margaret mapped out a route to Lucys favourite bakery for mince pies. She cleared her schedule, scrubbed the flat, stocked the larder. Then
«Margaret, your son-in-laws caronly one child seat, yes? No spare?» Lucy asked, casual as anything.
«Why would he? What for?»
«Well, Im coming to visitremember? Thought Id bring the grandchildren, show them London. Theyre thrilled. And their parents could use the break.»
Margaret froze. The grandchildren? All of them?
«Lucy I cant relive the porcheon incident,» she joked weakly. «We planned this as just us. Not a school outing.»
«Whats the problem?» Lucys voice sharpened.
«My nerves. They wont survive it.»
For Lucy, her grandchildren were extensions of herself. To come without them was unthinkable. Margaret couldnt fathom why every meeting had to be a circus.
They never reconciled. On New Years Eve, Margaret sat alone, thinking of their youthpicnics by the river, Lucy accidentally hooking her husband Georges sleeve on her first cast, the tang of her homemade elderflower cordial. Back then, their friendship had seemed unshakable.
Now, something had shifted.
In the end, Margaret went to her daughters. Better noise she knew than solitude.
«Hooray! Grannys here! I told you shed come!» Ellen crowed. «Im glad shes with us, not that other auntie.»
That New Year was warmpine needles, roast beef, sparklers. The clamour was familiar, bearable. Perhaps it was for the best.
Lucy, though, took offence. She didnt answer when Margaret called weeks later for her birthday. Setting the phone down, Margaret sighed. Their paths had truly diverged. They aged differently: one craving the whirlwind of family, the other a quiet corner to rest. The real trouble was this: they no longer spoke the same language.
