Margaret Wilkins stood frozen on her neighbour’s doorstep, face burning scarlet.
“I told you – no!” Margaret’s voice trembled with anger. “Always interfering!”
“Meg, do calm down,” Beatrice pleaded, reaching for her friend’s arm. Margaret jerked away sharply. “I only meant well…”
“Meant well?” Margaret spun around, eyes blazing. “Well would be minding your own business! Now everyone in the close has their tongues wagging!”
Beatrice felt the stares. A handful of curious neighbours pretended to water hanging baskets or peg out washing, straining to hear every word.
“Margaret, I didn’t mean…” Beatrice began.
“Didn’t mean?” Margaret cut her off sharply. “Then why blab to Pamela Clarke? About me seeing a fortune-teller? Now half the village knows!”
Beatrice hung her head. Last evening, overwhelmed, she had confided in Pamela next door about Margaret’s desperate trip to a clairvoyant in the next town. Pamela couldn’t keep schtum.
“Sorry, Meg. Honestly, I never dreamt she’d gossip,” Beatrice murmured. “I thought you needed support…”
“Support?” Margaret laughed bitterly. “Know what support I need? My son back home! Not the whole neighbourhood discussing me losing my marbles!”
Beatrice blinked back tears. Twenty years she’d known Margaret, since moving to this village after her own divorce. She’d never seen her like this – dishevelled, eyes raw from sleeplessness, dressed in a faded dressing gown.
“Meg, come inside? Talk properly?” Beatrice suggested, glancing at the hushed neighbours.
“No,” Margaret snapped. “Talked enough. Go home. Don’t come back.”
The door slammed violently. Beatrice flinched. She lingered a moment on the step, then walked slowly home. Muffled whispers bloomed behind her – enough fodder for weeks.
At home, Beatrice poured tea and sat by her window. It overlooked Margaret’s trim cottage – cream walls, navy shutters Meg painted every spring. Two old apple trees stood sentinel in the garden, shade for young Alfie until recently.
Beatrice recalled that August day. Margaret had rushed in, distraught – Stephen, her only son, had rowed with his wife over something trivial and stormed off to his mate’s flat in Oxford. Said he’d consider if he even wanted the family anymore.
“Bea, what do I do?” Margaret had wailed, grasping Beatrice’s hands. “Emily’s sobbing, Alfie’s bewildered. Should I go? Talk sense into him?”
“Meg, stay out of it,” Beatrice had advised. “Let them sort it. They’re grown.”
Margaret hadn’t listened. She’d called Stephen daily, then drove to Oxford. He met her coldly, said he wasn’t deciding anything yet, asked her to leave him be.
After that, Margaret crumbled. Stopped eating, sleeping, wasting away. Neighbours whispered she was unstable. Hearing about the fortune-teller cemented it – sideways glances, muttered disapproval.
Beatrice drained her tea and stood decisively. She couldn’t leave Meg alone, anger or not. Covering a plate of warm scones with a tea towel, she headed back.
Knocking persisted. Finally, a rasp came through the door:
“Who is it?”
“Meg, it’s me. Open up.”
“Go away, Bea. Don’t need you.”
“Margaret Wilkins, I brought scones. Know you’re not eating. Open up, let’s chat.”
Silence stretched. Beatrice nearly turned away when the latch clicked. The door opened a crack, revealing Margaret’s gaunt face.
“Come in,” she muttered, retreating inside.
Beatrice gasped. Chaos reigned where perfection lived. Unwashed plates piled on the table, papers littered the floor, curtains drawn tight.
“Meg, what on earth,” Beatrice sighed, setting down the scones. “You’re destroying yourself.”
“So?” Margaret slumped onto the sofa, cradling her head. “Son shuts me out, daughter-in-law ignores calls, Alfie unseen for months. Living barely matters…”
“Don’t say that,” Beatrice sat beside her, arm around her shoulder. “It’ll mend. You’ll see.”
“It won’t,” Margaret lifted red-rimmed eyes. “Know what that woman told me? That Stephen won’t come home. That he’s got someone else.”
“Someone else?” Beatrice stiffened. “What makes you think that?”
“The fortune-teller. Sees everything, she said. Cards don’t lie.”
Beatrice nearly groaned. This desperation – trusting charlatans!
“Meg, forget that rubbish. Cards? Stephen’s just rattled, needs breathing room. He’ll patch it up with Emily.”
“He won’t,” Margaret shook her head stubbornly. “Know why? I’m a rotten mum. Raised him wrong. Spoilt him maybe. Or was too harsh. Now he recoils like I’ve got plague.”
“Nonsense!” Beatrice gripped her hands. “Stephen loves you, anyone can see. Men get hot-tempered, then come crawling back.”
“Not mine,” Margaret whispered. “He rang yesterday. Filing for divorce. Told me to butt out.”
Beatrice stayed silent. Words failed her. The situation was bleak. But she couldn’t abandon her friend.
“Listen, let’s visit Emily?” she suggested. “Talk to her. Maybe she knows more?”
“Emily doesn’t want me either,” Margaret smiled bitterly. “Blames me for Stephen cracking up. Says my calls pushed him over.”
“Well? Still worth a try. Can’t hurt.”
Margaret dithered, then nodded.
“Alright. But let me tidy up first. Can’t face people like this.”
While Margaret washed and changed, Beatrice tidied. Washed dishes, swept floors, flung curtains wide. When Margaret returned in a clean blouse, brushed hair revealed stark weight loss.
“Meg, try a scone?” Beatrice urged. “You’ve faded away.”
“Nothing appeals,” Margaret waved dismissively, but took a scone and nibbled a corner.
The bus to Emily’s took half an hour. Silence hung heavy, nerves taut. Beatrice rehearsed arguments if Emily refused. Margaret sat rigid, knuckles white, staring out.
Emily lived on a new estate, third-floor flat. Voices murmured inside as they climbed the stairs – Emily on the phone.
“Don’t know, Mum,” she was saying. “Stephen’s lost it. Says he can’t take it. Like I caused his redundancy?”
Margaret and Beatrice exchanged startled glances. So work woes fuelled this too?
“Hold on Mum, someone’s here,” Emily continued.
The door opened. Emily, pale and tired, looked surprised.
“Margaret? Beatrice? What’s happened?”
“Emily love, can we come in?” Margaret’s voice wavered. “Need to talk.”
Emily hesitated, then stood aside.
“Come in.”
The flat felt quiet. Alfie likely asleep. Documents lay strewn on the coffee table.
“Sit down,” Emily gestured. “Tea?”
“Emily dear,” Margaret leaned forward earnestly, “tell us what’s wrong. Why’s Stephen so angry? I’m utterly lost.”
Emily sighed, sitting opposite.
“You knew Stephen was made redundant? Back in July?”
“Knew that. So? He’ll find something else.”
“That’s it. He hasn’t.” Emily rubbed her temples. “Three months without work. No money, mortgage payments looming. Then you started ringing daily, asking when he’d move back…”
“I was worried…”
“I know. But Stephen felt hounded. Said everyone demanded things, pressured him. He felt trapped.”
Margaret paled.
“So it’s my fault?”
“Nobody’s fault,” Emily said gently. “Just terrible timing. Stephen’s depressed. Feels a failure, unable to provide. When you pushed the move…”
“I wasn’t pushing! Trying to help!”
“I know. But he didn’t hear it that way.”
Beatrice listened, seeing the deeper
Stephen arrived burdened but repentant, embracing his mother and Emily in the hallway, the promise of facing their struggles together finally quieting the turmoil.