Alone

Mother had been flitting around trying desperately to clean our tiny house for hours, not paying much attention to us children and constantly muttering “He’s coming home. He is. He is.” The windows were washed, the floor scrubbed and the bed linen was the cleanest it had ever been. Once no more could be done for the house she set to the yard, small though it was, until it was perfect from picket fence to front door.

That morning she had run home from the local grocery store in a state of hysteria at what the grocer there had told her. The war was ended; the men were coming home, today. And she hadn’t spoken a word to any of us for the rest of the morning.

I was happy the war was ended for a different reason; I was nearly 16, nearly old enough to be enlisted. I had had terrible trouble with my lungs since I was very small and was unable to do any of the important jobs in town but I earned a little delivering the newspapers, I gave every cent to my mother, I doubted she’d get by if I left, it must be hard raising five children with father off fighting in Europe, especially on the wage of a seamstress.

Once everything was clean mother finally turned her attention to me and the girls. She dressed us in our Sunday best, which despite our lack of money, was high quality clothing, a perk of a mother who makes such things for a living.

After lunch, which we ate very carefully as not to make a mess, she led us out to the front of the house, lined us up and we waited. We waited late into the evening. Mother never took her eyes from the road ahead, not for a second.

When the sun completely disappeared and the stars came out I tapped my mother on the shoulder. She did not turn to look at me, but merely gave a small noise of recognition. “Ma, the young‘uns is getting most tired. Y’think I should put ‘em to bed?”

She still kept her eyes on the road. “He’s coming home today.” She muttered.

I chose to take that as a yes and took my sisters inside and put them to bed. When I returned to the front of the house our mother had not moved an inch. “You coming in to sleep, Ma?” I asked, already knowing I would get no answer. When I indeed received none, I retreated to my own bed possessed by a feeling of uselessness, but with my mother in her current state only one man would move her and, as much as took after him, I was not my father. There was nothing I could do for her and I hated it.

The following morning I found mother sitting in her garden chair asleep, still waiting, the look of thoughtful anxiety from last night gone though she did not appear to be sleeping well at all. I roused her gently but she refused to go in and took up her previous position by the gate.

I reluctantly left for work only to find her still waiting when I came home. I went inside and made her some breakfast but she refused to eat.

“Pa’s not coming home, Ma, least not today. Why don’t cha come inside? Maybe he’ll come tomorrow or the next day.” I doubted my own words as I said them. All the other men from town had arrived yesterday. We’d seen them all, except our own father.

Just then I saw a man at the end of the road dressed in army uniform. Mother’s face appeared to brighten as he headed toward our house. It soon became evident, however, that this man was not our father. He was an army courier and he was carrying a parcel.

The courier handed the package to my mother, his head bowed. She did not take it; she merely fell to her knees and cried. I don’t think my mother had ever let me see her cry before but she cried now. Great sobs of pure anguish and suffering the like of which I’d never imagined. I was too stunned to comfort her because I wasn’t entirely sure why she was crying.

It was the courier who brought me out of my reverie when he offered the parcel to me instead. He couldn’t have been much older than me and he had the look of someone who’d very much like to go home to their mother’s apple pie.

I took it from him and he left without a single word. The package was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string; it clearly contained clothing. I gently undid the knot and opened the paper. There was a letter from the army but the bulk of it was my father’s uniform, lying on top of it were letters my mother had sent him, his gold pocket watch and a grainy, poor quality photograph of us, that was tattered round the edges and clearly regularly gazed upon. He with his arm round mother who held the twins in her arms, still babies, my other sisters clinging to mother’s legs and I stood beside my father. I could only have been 12 or 13 when this was taken. The most important thing about the photograph was that we were happy, happier than I can remember us being.

I looked down to where my mother was curled up upon herself, the dirt of the path damp with her tears. I opened the letter and just one sentence caught my eye, ‘We are sorry to inform you that your husband, Joseph Peter Harris, has died serving his country.’

I nearly dropped everything I held on to the floor.

“Maudie!” I called. One of my sisters emerged from the house; she was the eldest of them at 12 years. I handed her the contents of the package and told her to take it inside and put it somewhere clean and safe, then with great care I scooped my mother from the floor and carried her inside, aware of the neighbours’ eyes on me, feeling the pity radiating from them.

It was at that moment that I realised what my mother must be thinking, beneath all her tears and grief. Now it appears, we truly are alone.