Part Four - The Mother Land

Patty sank into a chair, the telegram trembling in her hands. The contentment she’d felt only minutes ago was gone, replaced by a cold, gnawing unease. She looked to her audience once more, “My father is dead.” She stared down at the words again, as though they might rearrange themselves into something less final, “Mother wants me home.”

The word home sent a shiver down her spine. The house she had grown up in had never felt like a home—not in the way she tried to make her own house feel for her children. It was a place of fear, where her father’s booming voice could make the walls tremble, and his belt could make her legs sting for days.

She could still picture her mother standing in the kitchen, silent and small, her shoulders hunched as her father’s rage filled the house. Her mother’s eyes had filled with tears, but she did nothing. She simply turned away, as she always did.

Patty pressed a hand to her chest, her breath hitching. She had spent years running from that house, determined to create a life where love didn’t come with fear. But now, the past was calling her back, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer.

Her gaze drifted to the breadbox, where the unopened letter she had received weeks ago, still sat. Now, with the telegram in her hands, she wondered if the letter had been a warning of what was to come.

“Patty?” Freddie’s voice startled her, and she looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his brow furrowed. “I came home as soon as you hung up.” He took the telegram from her grasp, “I’m sorry, darlin’. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, “You’ll have to stay here with the kids now that school has started back. They can’t miss school.” She forced a faint smile. “I just need a moment.”

Freddie nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder before he turned and left her alone.

Patty exhaled shakily. She had spent so long building a life that felt safe, a world where her father’s shadow couldn’t reach her. But now, it felt as though the walls she had so carefully constructed were starting to crack.

“I’ll go,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. She looked across at her invisible audience, “But not for him.”

Patty rose from the armchair, checked her dress for creases, before preparing for her journey back home. Back to a house, she had once sworn she would never set foot in again.

*********

The front steps groaned under her weight as she climbed them, her fingers brushing against the worn wooden railing. The porch was cluttered with a few empty flowerpots and an old broom leaning haphazardly against the wall. A faint spiderweb clung to the corner of the doorway, its delicate threads glinting in the sunlight.

“I wonder if Lucille Ball had days like this,” she muttered.

She raised her hand to knock but stopped short. The door opened. She had been waiting for her arrival.

Her mother stood there, thinner than Patty remembered, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a loose bun. Her face was lined with age, but her sharp blue eyes—the same eyes Patty saw every time she looked in the mirror—still carried the same weight of quiet sorrow. This house had aged her prematurely.

“Patricia,” her mother said softly, her voice trembling.

“Hello, Mother,” Patty replied, the words catching in her throat.

They stood there for a moment, neither moving, the space between them filled with years of silence and unspoken words. Finally, her mother stepped back, gesturing for Patty to come inside.

The living room was almost exactly as she remembered it—the worn floral sofa, the scratched coffee table, the old upright piano in the corner. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound, its steady rhythm filling the empty spaces.

Patty’s eyes drifted to the corner of the room where her father’s armchair sat. His impression still pressed into the fabric. The faint scent of after shave and tobacco tainted the air. His pipe lying by the chair. Cold and stained.

Her mother moved quietly into the kitchen, her footsteps soft against the creaking floorboards.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Patty followed hesitantly, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. Everything here seemed frozen in time, as though the house had been waiting for her return. She glanced at the wall near the doorway, where a faint outline of a crack ran down the plaster.

“That’s still there,” she murmured, more to herself than to her mother. She still could see him throw her brother against that same wall. He had his bags packed. He was going.

Her mother paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Your father never got around to fixing it.”

Her mother returned to the stove, the clinking of cups and the whistle of the kettle filling the silence. Patty sat at the small wooden table, her hands resting in her lap.

“Thank you for coming,” her mother said softly as she set a cup of tea in front of Patty.

Patty stared at the tea, the steam curling into the air like tendrils of smoke. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the hallway. She noticed a bouquet of flowers in the centre of the table.

“Such a stunning arrangement,” She muttered,

“They’re from your sister,” Her mother sat across the table, hands clasped tightly around her own cup. The years had aged her face, but her expression was the same as always—calm, reserved, and unreadable. It was a mask Patty had resented for most of her life. “She is stranded in Singapore. A monsoon or some such.”

“Escaping as usual,” Patty muttered. “I wish I could be that selfish.” Her mother’s shoulders stiffened, but she said nothing. “Do you know what it was like, growing up in this house? Do you have any idea what it felt like to live in constant fear of what he might do next? I was terrified of him, Mother. Terrified.”

“I know,” her mother whispered, her gaze dropping to the table.

“No, you don’t!” Patty snapped, slamming her hand against the wooden surface. The teacups rattled, but her mother didn’t move. Patty had forgotten to take her pills with everything going on. “You let him do it. You let him hurt us, and you never stopped him. You never even tried.”

Her mother’s face crumpled, her lips pressing into a thin line as tears welled in her eyes. “I did what I could, Patricia,” she said, her voice trembling. “I did everything I could.”

Patty shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her throat. “You call standing there, doing nothing, ‘everything’? You were his enabler, Mother. You gave him the power to torment us, day after day. And for what? So you could keep this house? So you wouldn’t have to leave him?”

Her mother looked up, the pain in her eyes was raw, unfiltered. “I stayed because I thought I could fix him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I thought if I loved him enough, he might change.”

Patty froze, her breath catching.

Her mother took a shaky breath, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “He wasn’t always like that, you know. He was a kind and gentle boy. Always sketching. Day dreaming.” She smiled at the memory of that long ago man. “He wanted to be an artist. He even got to attend some art school for a time.”

Patty blinked, startled by the unfamiliar word. “An artist?”

Her mother nodded, a faint, sad smile tugging at her lips. “He loved to draw. He had a sketchbook filled with all kinds of pictures—landscapes, animals, even portraits. But then... then everything changed.”

“What changed?” Patty asked, her voice quieter now.

“He met someone else. A girl from the city. He loved her, Patricia. Truly loved her. But then I found out I was pregnant with you, and he did what he thought was the right thing. He married me.” Patty stared at her, the words sinking in like stones in water. “He never got over her,” her mother continued, her voice hollow. “He gave up everything for us—his dreams, his happiness, the life he wanted. And he resented me for it. He resented all of us.”

“And that gave him the right to beat us?”

“No,” her mother said firmly, meeting Patty’s gaze. “It didn’t. Nothing can excuse what he did.” Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. “I failed you, Patricia. I know that. I should have left. I should have taken you and your siblings. But I didn’t. And I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life.”

Patty swallowed hard, “He... he hated me the most, didn’t he?” She shook her head, “Jamie was always trying to protect me…which made matters worse.”

Patty closed her eyes, the memories flooding back—the shouting, the slamming doors, the sight of James running out of the house one stormy night, his face streaked with tears. He couldn’t take it anymore. The house had finally gotten to him.

He never made it far. The car that struck him had silenced his defiance forever, leaving behind only the echo of his laughter and the heavy shadow of his absence.

“Jamie was only trying to escape,” Patty said, her voice breaking. “He just wanted to get away from this house. And it killed him.”

Her mother’s sobs grew louder, her hands shaking as she clutched at the table. “I know,” she whispered. “James was my son. I will live with that until my dying days.” She lowered her face, “He changed after that.”

“Avoiding us isn’t much of a change, Mother,” Patty wiped at her own tears, her anger giving way to a deep, aching sadness. “It is denial.”

Her mother nodded, her face pale and drawn.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock, its steady beat a reminder of time lost, and wounds left unhealed.

Finally, Patty exhaled, her gaze softening as she looked at her mother. “I can’t forgive him,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if I ever will.”

Her mother nodded, her expression filled with regret. “I don’t expect you to…but I hope, someday, you can forgive me.”

Patty didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure if she could. But for the first time, she saw her mother not as a silent bystander but as someone who had suffered too—a woman trapped by love, duty, and regret.

*********

The rain had begun to fall softly against the windows of the old house, its steady patter filling the silence as Patty sat curled up in her father’s old armchair. She sipped another cup of tea, washing down one of her pills. She settled into the impression in the chair that seemed to form around her like a long, awaited hug. She ran a hand over the worn fabric noting how faded and tattered it seemed now.

Her mother entered the room, her steps hesitant. She was holding something in her hands—a weathered leather-bound book, the edges of its cover, scuffed and frayed.

“I thought you should have this,” her mother said softly, standing in the doorway.

Patty looked up, her brow furrowing as her mother crossed the room and held the book out to her, “What is it?” Patty asked, taking it gingerly.

Her mother’s lips trembled into a faint smile. “Your father’s sketchbook.” Patty froze, her fingers hovering over the worn leather. “I kept it all these years,” her mother continued, her voice quiet. “Even when he stopped drawing, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It was the one piece of him I still cherished.”

Patty looked down at the book, the weight of it suddenly heavier in her lap. Slowly, she opened the cover.

The first page held a simple sketch of a sunrise over rolling hills. The lines were soft and clean, the shading meticulous, as though he had poured every ounce of his being into capturing that fleeting moment of light.

Patty’s breath hitched as she turned the page. There were more drawings—animals, trees, faces of people she didn’t recognize. The detail was astonishing, the kind of skill that spoke of hours of quiet dedication, “This was him?”

Her mother sat down on the edge of the coffee table, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Before the anger, yes. This was who he wanted to be.”

Patty lingered on one page in particular—a portrait of a young woman with dark, curling hair and a soft smile. “Is this... her?” she asked, looking up.

Her mother nodded, her gaze distant, “Her name was Helen.”

Patty traced the lines of the woman’s face with her fingertip, her chest tightening. “He must have really loved her.”

“He did,” her mother said, her voice thick with emotion. “But he married me instead. And every time he looked at me, every time he looked at us, I think he saw what he’d lost.”

Patty turned the page again, finding sketches of hands, flowers, and even what appeared to be studies of light and shadow. It was all so gentle. So, unlike the man she had known.

Her mother leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the sketchbook. “I held onto it because I wanted to remember him as that man. The man who could once create beauty.” She paused, her voice trembling. “I think he wanted to be that man, too, but he didn’t know how.”

Patty closed the book, her hands resting on its cover. For a long time, neither of them spoke, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the rain against the windows.

Finally, Patty looked up, her voice soft. “Thank you for giving this to me.”

Her mother’s gaze met hers, and for the first time in years, there was something tender in her expression. “You deserved to know that side of him, Patricia. Even if it’s just a small part of his story.”

Patty nodded, her fingers tightening around the sketchbook. She still wasn’t ready to forgive—not fully. But in that moment, with the weight of her father’s art in her hands and her mother’s sorrow etched across her face, she felt something shift.

It wasn’t healing, not yet. But it was a beginning.

*********

The soft glow of the dining room lamp cast warm light over the table, where two steaming bowls of lamb stew sat untouched. It was a warm evening but still she made stew. It could be boiling hot, and her mother would always fix a hot dinner.

Patty stirred hers absently, the aroma of herbs and mutton filling the air, but her appetite was nowhere to be found. Across from her, her mother was similarly quiet, her spoon resting idle beside her bowl.

“You still make it,” Patty said finally, gesturing toward the meal.

Her mother gave a faint smile. “It was your favourite.”

Patty let out a soft laugh, “It’s been a long time since I had your stew. Freddie likes fancier things now that he is the boss. Sometimes I think I spoil him too much.”

Her mother looked up, her eyes flickering with curiosity at the mention of Freddie. “He seems like a good man,” she said, her voice tentative. “Is he still with that newspaper?”

She had only seen him in a photo of their wedding or clippings from the newspaper that Patty had sent her. They hadn’t been invited to the wedding. They had become absent from her life. By Patty’s choice.

“Freddie is the editor now,” Patty replied, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone. “He has come so far so quickly. He’s steady, reliable and has an eye for details.”

Her mother hesitated, her spoon trembling slightly in her hand. “And the children?”

Patty paused, a pang of guilt tugging at her chest. She’d intentionally kept her life at arm’s length from her mother, afraid that letting her in might somehow reopen old wounds. But now, sitting here with the woman who had endured so much pain of her own, it felt like a small bridge she could start to rebuild.

“I have pictures,” she asked, reaching for her purse.

Her mother’s face softened, her brows lifting in surprise. Her eyes glinting as if on the brink of crying.

Patty unfolded a small stack of photographs and slid them across the table. Her mother’s hands trembled as she picked up the first one.

The photo showed the three of them standing in front of the half-finished cubby house, Lizzy grinning proudly with a hammer in one hand while Teddy had a rolled-up comic book in his fist, looking half-annoyed and half-amused.

“Lizzy’s the builder of the family. She doesn’t like to sit still. Teddy’s more like me—he’s always got his nose in a book or a comic.”

Her mother chuckled softly, her finger brushing over Lizzy’s face. “She’s beautiful. They both are. They look so... happy.”

“They are well behaved in those photos,” Patty said, her voice softening. “But they can give me some grief at times.”

Her mother picked up another photo, this one of Teddy drawing under the shade of a tree. His sketchpad rested on his knees, a comic lying beside him.

“What’s he drawing?” her mother asked.

“Heroes, mostly,” Patty said with a faint smile. “He loves anything with a cape or a mask. Sometimes he tries to teach Lizzy to draw, but she doesn’t have the patience.”

Her mother’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “He sounds... imaginative. Like your father used to be.”

Patty stiffened slightly at the mention of her father, but she didn’t pull the photo away. “Maybe,” she said cautiously. “But Teddy... he’s kind. Gentle. He doesn’t have an angry bone in his body.”

Her mother’s expression faltered, and she set the photo down carefully, her gaze dropping to the table.

For a moment, neither of them spoke until Patty said, “You can keep those prints.”

Her mother’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the light from the lamp, “Thank you. I will cherish them.” Her voice trembling, “You’ve done well, Patricia. You’ve built a beautiful life for yourself. For your family.”

Patty’s hands stilled, her throat tightening, “Thank you.”

Her mother looked up, her eyes glistening. “I wish I’d been able to give you that. A life like the one you have now.”

Patty hesitated, her mind tumbling through years of resentment and anger. “I guess…you did the best you could,” she said at last, her voice softer than she expected. “Under the circumstances.”

Her mother smiled faintly, “I don’t know if that’s true. But hearing about them—Freddie, Teddy, Lizzy—it helps. It makes me feel like... like maybe some good came out of it all.”

Patty’s chest tightened at the words, but she nodded, her lips curving into a tentative smile. “They’re good kids. And Freddie’s... steady. Safe. Everything I needed him to be.”

Her mother reached across the table, her hand covering Patty’s. “I’m glad, Patricia. Truly.”

As they cleared the dishes together after dinner, Patty found herself glancing at her mother more often than usual. There was still a gulf between them, but it felt smaller now—less like an insurmountable divide and more like a bridge waiting to be built.

*********

The cemetery was quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. Patty stood a few paces behind her mother, watching as the older woman knelt by the fresh grave. A small bouquet of white wildflowers trembled in her mother’s hands, and for a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her lips moving silently.

Patty’s eyes flicked to the headstone: Walter John Fielding, 1904–1959. Husband. Father.

The words felt hollow, almost mocking. A title like Father meant nothing when the man who bore it had brought fear instead of protection. And yet, seeing her mother kneeling there, so small and frail, stirred something unfamiliar in Patty—not forgiveness, but maybe the edges of understanding.

Her mother’s voice broke through the stillness, “Your father believed that graves were for the living not the dead. After all, the dead have no use for flowers or eulogies. They’re dead.”

“I’ve always thought they were places for remembrance.”

Her mother let out a shaky breath, “I’m not sure your father thought he deserved to be remembered.”

The words hit Patty like a blow. She stepped closer, unsure if she wanted to ask the question lingering on her tongue. “And did he?”

Her mother finally looked up, her eyes red but dry. “Everyone deserves to be remembered, Patricia.” She paused, her fingers brushing the edge of the bouquet. “But the man he became? No. I don’t think he wanted us to remember that man either.”

Patty swallowed hard, her gaze shifting back to the grave. “Do you think he ever regretted it? The way he treated us?”

Her mother’s lips pressed together as she looked back at the headstone. “Oh…He had so many regrets…we were just another lot. I think he regretted who he became. But he didn’t know how to stop being that man.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not unbearable. Patty stepped closer, kneeling beside her mother. For a moment, neither of them said anything, their shared grief unspoken but palpable.

“Do you regret staying?” Patty asked finally, her voice barely audible.

Her expression softened and become tired. “Every day. But where was I to go. I was stuck here.” She looked across at Patty, “My only hope was you girls.” She sighed, “That was why I sent you to look after Aunt Meg after Cecil died.”

“A woman who developed a condition to everything and nothing at all.”

Her mother chuckled, “If she had a bad case of wind. She was certain it was a tumour.” They both laughed at that moment, “Oh! And it was I who set your sister up with that dear, sweet boy. I would send useless telegrams to everyone that I knew just hoping that boy would appear with a reply.” She lowered her head once more, “I knew you would both be finally away from that house.”

Patty didn’t know how to respond, so she simply sat there, her hand still under her mother’s. For the first time, the silence between them didn’t feel like a wall.

********

The kitchen was crowded with empty plates and leftover sandwiches, the chaos of the funeral reception finally beginning to subside. Patty rolled up her sleeves, stacking dishes in the sink as her mother carefully wrapped what remained of the sausage rolls in foil.

“I don’t know why you made so many,” Patty said, shaking her head.

“People don’t come to a funeral for the speeches,” her mother replied matter-of-factly. “They come for the food.”

Patty couldn’t help but laugh at that, the unexpected humor easing some of the tension that had settled in her chest. “Well, if that’s true, you’ve just fed half the town for the next week.”

Her mother shrugged, placing the wrapped sausage rolls in the fridge. “It’s not like we’ve ever been the picture of moderation.”

Patty smirked, setting down the dishrag. “Speaking of moderation, did you see Mrs. Corwin eyeing the lamingtons? She looked like she wanted to smuggle the whole plate out in her handbag.”

Her mother chuckled, her shoulders shaking slightly. “I wouldn’t have stopped her. Those things were so dry I nearly choked on one.”

Patty gasped, mock horror spreading across her face. “Mother! Those were Mrs. Talbot’s lamingtons! She won prizes for them. She’d have a heart attack if she heard you say that.”

“Well, I didn’t say it to her, now did I?” her mother replied, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “No wonder her lamingtons are off. The woman has been losing it for years. She’s recently started searching for her cat that died twenty years ago.”

“The same one that use to attack us on our way to school?” Her mother nodded, “Thank God, it’s dead. That cat had a demon inside it.”

Patty burst out laughing, doubling over as the sound echoed through the empty kitchen. Her mother’s own laughter followed, soft at first but growing louder until the two of them were clutching the counter, tears streaming down their faces.

When the laughter finally subsided, Patty wiped her eyes, her chest lighter than it had been in days.

Patty could feel the darkness in this place begin to disperse along with their laughter. The shadows retreating into the corners of the room. The air becoming light and buoyant. There was certainly a new dawn within these walls.

Patty reached for her bag, “I have a gift for you.”

Her mother turned, her brow furrowing, “A gift?”

Patty handed her a bus ticket. Her mother gazed at the paper in curiosity, “When everything settles down. I want you to come for a visit.”

Her mother’s hands began to shake. Her eyes watered with tears. She couldn’t stop staring at the bus ticker like it was crown jewels. She didn’t know what to say. She could only show her gratitude by taking her daughter in a long-awaited hug.

********

Patty stepped out of the taxi, the sound of her heels crunching against the gravel loud in the evening quiet. The windows glowed warmly, the flicker of light and shadows inside indicating movement. She smiled, it was so good to be home.

Patty climbed the front steps and opened the door, the smell of roasting chicken wafting toward her. She frowned. The scent was rich and enticing, but it wasn’t quite hers. It didn’t carry the exact balance of rosemary and garlic she always used.

Something was off.

She stepped inside, the voices of her children carrying from the kitchen. Their laughter was light, happy, and... too loud.

Patty rounded the corner, her purse still dangling from her arm, and froze. There, standing in her kitchen with an apron tied neatly around her waist, was Betty Knight.

“Ah, there she is!” Betty said, beaming as though Patty were a guest arriving at a dinner party. “Welcome home, Patty. I thought you were never coming back.”

Patty’s eyes darted around the kitchen. The table was set, her Favorite serving dishes filled with steaming food. Freddie sat at the head of the table, carving into the golden-brown chicken, while Teddy and Lizzy shoveled mashed potatoes and peas onto their plates.

Her family looked perfectly at ease—too at ease—with Betty presiding over her kitchen like a queen on her throne. Patty’s throne to be exact. As if this were her kitchen, her husband and her family. Well, Patty had news for her. She reached for her broom ready to sweep out the dirt.

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