The mother was released on parole after serving time in her sons placehe had sold the house and wouldnt even let her inside.
Vera Whitmore paused by the little garden gate, leaning against the wicker fence. Shed run from the bus like a madwoman and now had no strength left. Seeing the pale blue smoke curl from the chimney, she clutched her chesther heart pounded so hard it might crack her ribs. Despite the crisp air, sweat beaded on her brow. She wiped it away, then pushed the gate open with resolve.
Her practiced eye noticed the shed had been patched. Her son hadnt written in years, but he hadnt lied: the family home was kept up, as promised. She bounded up the porch steps, ready to embrace her dear little Eddie.
But the door swung open to reveal a strangera sullen man with a dishcloth tossed over his shoulder.
“Looking for someone?” he rasped, eyeing her.
Vera froze.
“Wheres Eddie?”
The man scratched his chin, staring without courtesy. She shrank under his gaze, painfully aware of her worn quilted jacket, scuffed boots, and stained bagclothes for the poor. But you dont return from a stroll when youve been away since since summer stole you, and now its late autumn. She had only prison clothes.
“Eddies my son. Where is he? Is he alright?”
The stranger shrugged.
“Dunno. Shouldnt you know?” He moved to shut the door, then hesitated. “Eddie Whitmore?”
She nodded eagerly. The mans expression softened.
“Sold me this place four years back. Come in if you like…”
“No, no!” Vera waved her hands, nearly stumbling off the steps. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
He shook his head. She turned back toward the gate. She could go to her old friend Mabel, but Mabel had a sharp tongueshed drown her in curses. A mothers heart knew something terrible had happened to her boy.
Trudging toward the bus stop, she drowned in dark thoughts. What had gone wrong? Eddie had been so trusting Four years ago, hed trusted a “mate” and wound up tangled in fraud. If Vera hadnt taken the blame, hed have faced a far longer sentence. They gave her, an old woman, just five years. Three days ago, theyd let her out early for good behavior, even paid fare home.
Sitting on a cold concrete bench, she whispered:
“Where do I look for you, my boy?”
Tears welled up. Her heart had lurched three years back when his letters stopped. Now her worst fears seemed truehed even sold the house. She dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief.
Suddenly, a black car pulled up before her. The sullen man, the houses new owner, handed her a slip.
“Found this address in the papers. Want a lift to town?”
She clutched it like a lifebuoy.
“Thank you, lad, but dont fussIll manage.” Heartened, she boarded the rickety bus pulling in.
Half an hour of jolts, dread, and confusion later, she stood before a crumbling tenements third-floor door. She pressed the buzzer, holding her breath. Would they open it to deliver terrible news? Tears streamed unchecked.
When the door swung wide, her joy knew no boundsthere he stood, rumpled, a bit drunk, but alive! Her Eddie! She sobbed, arms outstretched, but he didnt share her joy. He stepped back, door half-shut.
“Howd you find me?”
Stunned by his cold welcome, she faltered. Eddie turned her toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Mum, but you cant come in. My missus hates ex-cons. Sort yourself outIm skint.”
Vera tried to mention the house sale money, but the door slammedlike a gunshot to her heart. She didnt cry anymore. Head bowed, she descended. Mabel had been rightshed raised a wastrel. Shed have to admit it and endure her scolding, homeless.
Back in the village, fate twisted the knife: Mabel had died six months prior; her house now held near-stranger grandchildren. Under a drizzle, Vera hunched at the bus stop, pondering the future.
Headlights startled herthe same man, the houses new owner, called out:
“Get in, youre soaked!”
She refused through sobsno place to go, and this stranger was too kind. He practically hauled her inside.
They talked. Vera spilled her bitter tale, omitting only the sons visit out of shame. The driver, Andrew, offered her a place to stay, just for a while. So Vera Whitmore returned to her old home, now his, and stayed.
Andrew worked dawn to duskhis sawmill was thriving. She kept house: cooking, laundry, chores. Easy with modern appliances. Andrew, young and divorced, wasnt looking for a new family.
Her presence was just what he needed: under her wing, the orphan raised by the state finally knew a homes warmth. Whenever she spoke of leaving, hed say:
“Whered you go? This is your home!”
Slowly, her heart thawed. A blood son couldnt be replaced, but Andrew proved oddly good, almost like her own. As winter neared, she brought him lunch at the milljust a short walk, and sometimes he was too busy to come home.
That day, she brought a thermos of hot stew and meat pies. She shooed a stranger from the office, laid a clean cloth. Andrew laughed:
“Mrs. Whitmore, youre a sergeant major! No arguing! What if hes offended?”
She frowned.
“Thinking of making him foreman? One look says hes a wrong un. Trust my gutprison taught me to read folk.”
He shook his head.
“Come on, Mum! His CVs solid. Cant judge on a whim.”
She was right: a month later, the mill suffered heavy lossesthe man had been smuggling timber and vanished with a whole lorry. Andrew, grim, admitted his mistake.
Hiring a new crew, he decided: since “Gran” had the knack, shed help. From then on, Vera sat in on interviewsAndrew asked questions, she watched, scribbled a verdict. Whole pages: “quarrelsome drunk,” “proven thief,” “lazy sot”concise, precise.
She spotted good workers too, even scruffy ones. But one candidate gave her pauseher hands shook as she stared at the form.
Andrew glanced at the visitor: the man whod sold the house! Eddie gaped, seeing his mother beside the boss, fidgeting with his cap. His wife had sent himthe mill paid well. He never expected to find her here; hed thought her lost.
In the silence, Andrew took the verdict slip. Vera scrawled two words, then fled. Eddie smirkedof course theyd hire him, his mum would vouch for him.
Andrew read aloud:
“Right bastard.” He shooed Eddie like a fly. “Out! I trust Mums judgment.”
