28April
Today I felt the weight of being the little master of our modest home. Mum left for a sixmonth work posting in Manchester, saying it would bring in a decent sum and that we could soon buy a flat in the city. She asked me to listen to GranEthel, my mothers sister, while she was away. I was nervous Ive never been without Mum before, even though Im almost eleven now.
Mums trip meant I stayed with GranEthel in the small village of Ashwick, just a short drive from the town centre. Weve been living here for three years, ever since Dad passed away. After his funeral, we were forced out of my paternal grandmothers flat; she told Mum, Im tired of you lot, I want to be alone now. It was a harsh goodbye, and we packed what little we could into the back of a van before heading to Grans cottage.
GranEthel is a solitary woman; she lost her own daughter before I was born, so Im technically her greatnephew. Shes been caring for us ever since. Life here is simple Mums salary was modest, just enough for food and a few clothes, so weve learned to make do with what we have.
When Mum called before she left, she said, Im heading off on a sixmonth contract, love. Ill bring back good money maybe we can buy a small flat in Manchester. Gran smiled and replied, Dont worry, dear. Hes ten now, a good lad. Ill look after him. She promised to keep an eye on my schoolwork; Im in Year4 and getting by fine.
Grans son, Uncle Andrew, is fortythree and lives alone in a onebedroom flat in Manchester. Hes been through a rough patch his marriage fell apart, he drinks far too often, and his health isnt great. Hes a heavyset man with a sallow complexion and dark circles under his eyes. I feel sorry for him; despite his flaws, hes gentle at heart. Lately hes been out of work, spending his Saturdays in the village helping Gran with chores: chopping firewood, fixing the gate, mending the fence. Gran still hopes hell find a proper partner, but she scolds him for his drinking, saying, Youre in your fifties, Andrew, and still wallowing. Find a decent woman and settle down.
Saturday arrived, and Gran was making pancakes, a tradition she keeps every weekend. I perched on a low stool near the stove, watching her flip the batter, butter each stack generously. She always saved the last pancake for me, claiming it was the tastiest. As we ate, the kettle whistled, Buster the terrier barked outside, and someone knocked on the garden gate.
Gran sang a quick rhyme, Im off, Im off, and slipped on her coat. While she was out, I nibbled more pancakes, sipping hot tea. Thats when Gran returned, eyes red and voice trembling. Timmy, Uncle Andrew has passed away she whispered, still holding her coat.
I stared at the mountain of pancakes on the table, bewildered. How did he die? What will we do with all these pancakes? I blurted, my throat suddenly dry. The tears came fast, and I fell onto the sofa, pressing my hand to Grans shaking back. We cried together until the sobs softened. Gran steadied herself, took a sip of water from my cup, and hugged me tightly, rubbing my hair in silence.
She told me she would go to Aunt Anne and Aunt Kate for a loan her own savings wouldnt cover the funeral. Youll stay warm, love, she said, handing me a cup of tea. Ill be back in a couple of days. Dont worry about the house the pantrys full, theres borscht in the fridge and plenty of pancakes left.
I tried to act brave. Im not scared of ghosts, I muttered. Hes just my uncle. Gran chuckled weakly, Thats the spirit, lad. She reminded me to look after Buster, feed the chickens, and keep the fire going. Youre the master of the house now, she said, patting my shoulder. Take care of yourself, and Ill be back soon.
The afternoon turned into a cold winter walk. I sled Buster across the frozen yard, laughing as he slipped and slid. We chased each other in the snow, rolled around, and finally tied Buster to a post before heading back inside. I watched cartoons on the telly, the warmth of the hearth soothing my nerves, until the phone rang. It was Mum.
Hey love, wheres Gran? she asked.
Shes fine, Mum. She went to the city. Uncle Andrew he died, I managed to say, my voice shaking.
Mum paused. Oh, dear. Are you alright?
Yes, Im okay. Im staying here. I miss you.
She promised to return in about a month and a half. Well be together again soon. I miss you too, my boy.
The call ended, and I felt the familiar ache of longing for Mum, for Gran, for the stability that seemed to slip away. I wished the days would pass faster.
Night fell, the sky clear and studded with stars, the moon casting a silver glow over the garden. I locked the chicken coop, untied Buster, and made sure the back door was latched. Sleep came uneasy, haunted by Mums voice reminding me to obey Gran. I woke to the first light of dawn, the winter chill still in the air. The stove was cold; I remembered Grans lesson on lighting a fire: Start with kindling, then add thin logs. I gathered some twigs, crumpled a newspaper, and coaxed a flame. Soon the fire roared, the room warming as the embers crackled.
I thought of how much Id grown having to tend the fire, feed the chickens, look after Buster, and keep the house running. I whispered to the empty room, I cant wait for Mum to come back. Im doing my best.
Two days later Gran returned, her eyes still heavy with grief but her steps steadier. Hows my little master doing? she asked, dropping her coat and heading straight to the kitchen.
All good, Gran. Ive got tea ready for you, I replied, feeling a small surge of pride.
She smiled, Well done, Timmy. Keep the fire going, and well get through this together. Life moves on, after all.
