Dear Diary,
Today I found myself recalling the words my grandmother, Mrs. Edith Whitmore, used to whisper to me when I was a child: Watch yourself, love, or youll end up halfgone on the doorstep, and well have nothing left but shame. She never meant it kindly, and I never expected more from her than the bluntness she always showed. Ever since I could remember, I was told that my mother, Margaret, had been a wanderer. They lived five years with Tom, had no children, then she went off to a seaside resort and brought back a bundle of trouble, my grandmother would say, without any hint of delicacy.
No amount of explanation could silence her: even when I reminded her that my mother had left for a holiday three years before I was born, travelling with my aunt Nancy, Edith would repeat that I was a child of a wandering mother. She insisted on calling me the stray girl. My father, Leonard, watched his wife like a wolf eyeing a lamb, and he had little choice but to endure the constant chatter about my mothers mischief. He never left his mothers house after marrying; he felt obliged to look after his parents. My stepmother, who fell on my father’s feet like a spider, was despised by my grandmother, who could barely stand to see her sit or walk. Shes no match for you, Leonard, she would mutter, but I love my son regardless.
My own daughter, sweettempered and pretty, was the opposite of the wild one my grandmother describeda delicate rose in a garden of thorns. Yet my grandma would scowl at her, calling her a strange little wolf that sprinkles poison, and she would never look at me without suspicion. When my granddaughter, little Rose, came running up, calling me grandma, Edith would stare at her from the corner, as if she were a stranger in our blood.
Would you like some cucumbers? I asked Rose.
No, theyre bitter, she replied.
Fine, bitter they are, Edith agreed, bitter as you are, Lily, the lazy, cursed one. She went on, Margaret, give the child something to eat. Here, sweet buns.
The buns are hard, Rose whined.
Theyre hard, just like stone, Edith snapped, unable to appreciate the softness of the simple treat.
Edith threatened that if I didnt find a home for Rose, she would be left to wander alone, Like a stray without shelter, she said. If your own parents cannot care for you, then you must look after yourself. That was the way my life unfolded.
Now, at twentyfour, I am preparing to leave the village for Manchester, hoping to start university. My grandmothers parting words still echo: Dont go, youll only bring more shame upon us. I have always found school easy, lively, and fun. The citys bustling streets, the bright dresses of the girls, the sharp suits of the boys, and the gentlemens courteous bows fascinated me. I wanted to show my mother the worlds beauty, but how could I take her there? My father and Edith would not allow it; they clung to their old ways like a snake drinking its own venom. Because of my mothers wishes, I only visited the city on rare occasions.
I befriended the hall warden, Mrs. Anne Andrews, whose son lived up north with his two grandchildren. Anne often pretended that my mother had been summoned to a parentteacher meeting, saying, She must come, even though shes only a girl of twelve in school. We managed to trick my father, who muttered about me flirting with boys instead of studying. My mother feared the scolding, yet the teachers praised me, and she felt a surge of pride.
One evening, Anne and I, along with other women, gathered over tea. They all addressed me as Mrs. Whitmore, dear, and I told them my story. Ive spent my whole life as a servant, and apart from me there were never any children. I confessed that I had always earned top marks, dreamed of living in the city, visiting the library, but fate seemed against me. Thanks to my daughter, they said, for showing me the city; I never left the district before.
Anne asked, What do you do, Mary? (my name after marriage). Im an accountant, I replied, laughing. Would you like to move, Mary? Anne suggested kindly. I hesitated, I wish I could learn more.
When I returned home, my motherinlaw was always meddling, my husband, Thomas, glared like a wolf, and I found myself bruised both physically and emotionally. One night Thomas attacked me fiercely; I ran to the local constable, bringing a piece of meat and a slab of bacon as a token of peace, but the abuse continued. I finally gathered a few belongings, wrote a statement, and left my job, shocked that they let me go without a proper notice.
I leapt high, exclaiming, Mother, is that you?
Its me, love, Ive no strength left, I whispered, my body riddled with bruises.
Dont worry, dear, Anne promised, Ill help you.
I found work in a factory as an accountant, got a room in the hall, and began to bloom. Evenings, I would stroll with Emily, my university friend, through the towns lamps. Rumours spread, and Thomas, angry, demanded I return. I wont go with you, I said firmly, Ive had enough. He snarled, Youll regret it. I replied, Go, and I wont look back.
Later, Thomas, drunk and bitter, came home, shouted, Mother, mother I could barely hear him over the clatter of his bottle. He claimed a letter with his name had arrived, but I knew it was a lie. He spent weeks drinking, then brought home a new woman, Katya, who rearranged the house with the authority of a mistress. My grandmother feared her, and I too sensed the danger.
Our sweet granddaughter, Rose, the shining beauty, fell victim to Katyas deceit. Katya, a sly woman, seemed to control everything, making Thomas bend to her will. The village whispered that Katya was a city dweller, a cunning woman who had stolen a good wife. I felt helpless watching the young girls fate crumble.
Through it all, I have tried to stay true to myself, to my own aspirations, and to the little ones I love. I still hope that one day I will see a brighter future in the city, beyond the narrow lanes of my hometown, and that perhaps, somewhere, the kindness of strangers will help mend the wounds that have festered for far too long.
Emily Whitmore.
