We hated her the moment she stepped over the front door of our flat. Her jumper was plain, but her hands didnt look like Mums. The fingers were shorter, thicker, clenched tight. Her legs were slimmer than Mums and her feet longer.
I was sitting there with my brother Liam, he was seven, I was nine, and we kept throwing insults at her. Long Blythe, youre not a mile long, youre nothing at all! Id shout. Dad noticed our disrespect and snapped, Mind your manners! What are you, uncouth?
Is she staying with us for long? Liam asked, his tone full of mischief. He was allowed to speak like that; he was just a lad.
Forever, Dad replied.
You could hear his irritation growing. If he lost his temper, wed be in real trouble, so it was safer not to push him.
An hour later Blythe gathered her things to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, Liam tried to trip her. She almost tumbled into the stairwell.
Dad rushed over, What happened?
I just caught my foot on another shoe, she said without looking at Liam.
Everythings a mess, he said, eager to help. Ill sort it out!
And then we realised he loved her. No matter how hard we tried, we couldnt push her out of our lives.
One afternoon, while Dad was out, Blythe, in the middle of another nasty outburst, said in a deadflat voice, Your mothers dead. It happens, you know. Shes up there watching everything. I bet she doesnt like the way you behave. She knows youre acting out of spite, protecting her memory.
We froze.
Liam, Beth, youre decent kids! Does a mothers memory really need guarding that way? A good person shows themselves in deeds, not in thorns like hedgehogs! she went on. Her words slowly choked off our urge to be cruel.
Once I helped her unload the groceries from the shop. Blythe praised me, patted my back, and said my fingers werent Mums but still felt nice. Liam grew jealous.
He put the washed mugs back on the shelf. Blythe thanked both of us. Later that evening she told Dad, with enthusiasm, how helpful wed been. He smiled.
Her foreignness kept us on edge for a long time. We wanted to let her into our hearts, but it never seemed to work.
A year later we could hardly remember life without her. After one particular incident we fell for Blythe completely, just like Dad.
When Liam reached Year Seven, things turned sour. A quiet, introverted boy named Tommy Hargreaves started picking on him. Tommy was the same height as Liam but far braver. He chose Liam as a target simply because he could.
The Hargreaves family was welloff; Tommy felt his fathers protection. Youre a man, lad, give them a good knock. Dont wait for them to push you around, his dad would say, making Tommy see Liam as a convenient punching bag.
Tommy would come home and say nothing to me, his sister, hoping the situation would sort itself. Bullying never resolves on its own; the bully gets bolder when the victim is left untouched.
Tommy began hitting Liam outright, striking him in the shoulder whenever he passed by. I managed to coax the information out of Liam after seeing bruises on his shoulder. He believed men shouldnt dump their problems onto their sisters, even older ones.
Little did we know Blythe was standing just outside the door, listening to our conversation.
Liam begged me not to tell Dad, fearing things would get worse. He also pleaded that I shouldnt go over there and give Tommy a right hook though I wanted to defend my brother. Involving Dad would only pit him against Mr Hargreaves, and prison wasnt far off.
The next day was Friday.
Blythe pretended she was heading to the shop, but she actually led us to the school and asked me to show her where Tommy was. I did, and told her, Let him have it!
What followed was something out of a school drama. A Russian lesson was about to start. Blythe, hair neatly done, nails painted, walked into the classroom with a pleasant voice and asked Tommy Hargreaves to step out because she had business with him.
The teacher, seeing no trouble, let him leave. The boy, assuming Blythe was some new organizer, complied. She seized him by the shirt, lifted him off the floor and hissed, What do you want from my brother?
What brother? he stammered.
My brother, Liam Ryebin! Blythe shouted.
Nothing he muttered.
I want nothing! If you lay a hand on my brother again, come any closer, or look at him the wrong way, Ill smash you, you brute!
Please, miss, I wont ever do it again! Tommy whimpered.
Off you go! Blythe snapped, pushing him back into the room. If you say anything about me Ill see your father behind bars for abusing a child. Got that? Tell the teacher Im his neighbour, that I needed a spare key. After school youll apologise to Liam, and Ill make sure you do.
Tommy scurried back to his desk, fixing his uniform. He never gave Liam a hard look again; he avoided him altogether and apologised that very day, short and awkward, but it was an apology nonetheless.
Dont tell Dad, Blythe begged us, but we couldnt hold back and spilled everything. He was impressed.
At some point Blythe put me on the right path. I fell in love at sixteen, that reckless love that makes hormones drown reason and cravings for the forbidden.
Its embarrassing to recall, but Ill say it. I got involved with a jobless, perpetually drunk pianist, never noticing the obvious. He whispered that I was his muse, and I melted in his arms like candle wax. It was my first experience with a man.
My mother visited the pianist and asked two questions: Does he ever sober up, and how are we going to make a living? With a solid plan, she said shed consider a future together, provided he took responsibility for my upkeep. One cramped flat wasnt enough for serious intentions.
He was five years younger than Blythe, and I was twentyfive years older than him. She didnt bother with ceremony. I wont repeat the pianists answers here, but Ive never felt more ashamed in front of my mother, especially when she said, I thought you were smarter.
Thats where my love story ended, rather ugly and untidy. Neither the pianist nor Dad went to prison; Blythe stepped in just in time.
Years have passed. Liam and I now have families built on love, respect and looking out for each other when someones wrong. Those values were instilled in us by Blythe.
No woman has ever done more for my brother and me than she did. Dad is happy with her, wellkept and loved.
She once suffered a family tragedy that we never knew about, and Dad never spoke of it.
Blythe fell for our father and left her husband. She had a son before, but he died because of her husbands fault, a loss she could never forgive.
We like to think we eased some of Blythes pain. Her huge role in our upbringing was never downplayed. The whole family gathers around her. We never know exactly how to please Blythe or which slippers to put on her feet, but we cherish and protect her.
Because real mothers, even when faced with someones harsh step, never stumble.
