Daisy’s Cottage

A friend’s kindness is appreciated in this uplifting short story by Helen Yendall.

been loitering on the landing, came in and gave him some water.

Once he was able to speak, she slipped away.

“The vicar . . .” Steve repeated “. . . was going to come to see the band?” I nodded.

“He was growing his hair so he could do a bit of head-banging.”

I was only joking about that. I knew Reverend Clarke wouldn’t mind. Making Steve smile was the important thing.

There was a touch of colour in those pale cheeks.

He put his head back on the pillow.

“Oh, Daze,” he said, using one of my many nicknames, “you do make me laugh.”

You might have heard of my son-in-law, Steve. He’s my ex-son-in-law, if we’re splitting hairs, but he’ll always be a son to me.

He used to be in a rock band. They toured the world, played to huge stadiums and rode around on Harley-Davidsons.

It was, by all accounts, a pretty wild time.

Once, when he came to visit his favourite auntie, he fell in love with the doctor who was treating her: my daughter, Felicity.

No-one was more surprised than me. I love my daughter dearly, but I never imagined her with a six-feet-four-inch longhaired rock star.

They had a whirlwind romance, got married and moved to a big house in the country.

“Come and live with us, Mum,” Felicity urged.

Steve nodded.

“You can be the fairy at the bottom of the garden.”

I was imagining grandchildren coming along and I wanted to be near.

I moved into a cottage in their grounds, just a stone’s throw from the main house.

I insisted on paying rent, though. Steve named a ridiculously low figure which I immediately upped, and we managed to agree on somewhere in the middle.

For a year or two, everything was fine.

Then Felicity broke the news that she and Steve were separating.

“I’ve messed up, Mum,” she said, tears in her eyes.

“Don’t be silly. You’re both young; you’ve got your whole lives ahead of you.”

In truth, I was trying not to show how upset I was.

I was wondering, too, whether my son-in-law would keep in touch.

Also, if they sold their house, what would happen to me?

“There’s something else,” Felicity said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“I’ve been offered a promotion; it’s a fantastic opportunity.”

“That’s wonderful! You are going to take it, aren’t you, love?”

Felicity winced.

“The thing is, Mum, it’s in California.”

Life seemed to be turning

I loved living here, despite the unusual circumstances!

upside-down, but it all worked out in the end.

Felicity moved to the States and loved her new job. Steve kept the house, the cottage in the grounds – and me.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Positive. Be the fairy at the bottom of the garden for as long as you like!”

And I have been, for all these years.

There have been times when I’ve wondered if I’ve outstayed my welcome.

When Steve remarried, I worried Nina might object, but she assured me she was happy for me to stay.

When the children came along, I thought the family might need to move to a bigger house or use the cottage themselves, but Steve and Nina always brushed away my concerns.

I tried to repay their kindness by babysitting and making a fuss of the little ones, which was hardly a chore.

Then everything changed. One minute there were plans afoot to reform the band and embark on one final tour, and the next Steve became ill and was rushed into hospital.

I paced the floor, wrung my hands and finally called Felicity in America.

In my panic, I forgot about the time difference – it was four o’clock in the morning there – but she assured me it was fine and tried to set my mind at rest about Steve.

“He’ll be OK,” she assured me. “But it’ll take a while. Send him my best.”

When Steve finally came home, I wanted to help.

I made a chicken and ham pie as I’ve always found baking therapeutic. You can’t rush and there’s a pleasing rhythm to it.

At the end, of course, there’s something delicious to show for your efforts.

But when I presented it to Nina, she explained that Steve couldn’t eat it.

“He can’t manage solid food yet. Only soft things that he can easily digest.”

Then, I remembered Felicity’s gift to me from the previous Christmas.

She likes practical, useful presents and this one had never been out of its box. It was perfect: a soup maker.

To start with, the soup maker’s settings were a mystery.

“Chunky, Smooth, Juice, Blend,” I read.

If only life were as simple, I thought, and you could select a setting for how you wanted to feel each day.

I mused for a moment as I chopped onion and garlic.

I sautéed the onion and garlic, then added broccoli and celery with some vegetable stock.

I pressed Smooth and the little machine whirred, gurgled and steamed away. Twenty minutes later, I had piping hot broccoli soup.

“Would Steve like this?” I asked Nina tentatively, standing on her doorstep. She smiled.

“That’s perfect, Daisy.” After that I made lots of other soups: pea and ham, cauliflower with cheese, carrot and coriander and leek and potato.

I took one over every lunchtime, still warm in the soup maker. It was satisfying to be helping.

One day, when I knocked on the door with my lunchtime delivery, little Alice opened it.

“Hello, Daisy. My daddy says you’re a dragon,” she declared.

I frowned as I stepped inside.

“Does he, indeed?” I was used to Steve’s nicknames, but this one didn’t have his usual touch of humour.

A male voice called out from around the corner.

“No! I said you were a soup dragon!”

Steve, to my delight, was sitting at the kitchen table in his dressing gown. He looked so much brighter.

Nina took that morning’s work from me with thanks.

“You’re up!” I exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

“I am. Just in time to hear little Alice drop a clanger.” Steve gently rubbed his daughter’s blonde head. “Now, what did Daddy say about Daisy?”

He turned to me.

“I didn’t say you were a dragon, Dee, I said –” I waved away his apology. “I know! A ‘soup dragon’. I remember that children’s

TV programme, too.

“Though I’d have thought that was before your time, Steve.” I wagged my finger at him. “You’re older than you look, young man.”

“Oh, Daddy’s very old,” Alice said seriously. I couldn’t stop grinning. “By the look of you, this soup dragon is about to be made redundant.”

To everyone’s relief, Steve was getting better.

Just a few days later he was outside, directing the children in a game of mini-cricket from his chair in the garden.

It wouldn’t be long before he was batting and fielding himself.

It was summer by then, time for salads and picnics.

Nina invited me to come round for a drink one evening. The three of us sat sipping lemonade and watching the children play.

“Here,” Steve said, passing me a white envelope.

“We’ll have it all drawn up properly at the solicitors, but we wanted you to have this now.”

I frowned. I couldn’t think what it might be.

Solicitors, as far as I was concerned, were for the serious things in life.

“Oh!” I squealed as I read the letter inside. “This is too much!”

They were putting the cottage into my name. It was going to be all mine. Steve shook his head.

“We should have done it ages ago. It only occurred to me while I was in bed.

“I had plenty of time to think. I want you to have peace of mind, Daisy.”

My eyes filled with tears. I stood up and gave them both a hug.

“We’re going to put a sign on the door that says Daisy Cottage,” Nina added. “So there’s no doubt.”

Steve raised his finger in the air.

“There’s just one condition. You can’t sell it.” I gasped.

“As if I would!”

He winked at me.

“You might run away to the circus or elope with an oil millionaire.

“You might sell the cottage to someone with fifty cats, or to a Scotsman who plays the bagpipes in the morning –”

I laughed.

“Stop! Honestly, your imagination! You should be a writer, Steve!”

Steve frowned.

“Perhaps I’ll give it a go,” he said. “New career.”

“The tour’s definitely off then?” I asked.

“For good,” he confirmed.

“Hello, Daisy. My daddy says you’re a dragon”

He looked around him at the lush green lawn, the laughing children and the house bathed in evening light and spread his hands.

“Why would I want to leave any of this?”

The sun was going down and we gazed at the stunning sunset. Streaks of orange, red and pink were flooding the sky.

“It’s the final, fiery breath of a dragon,” Steve said.

He was right. Summer was here, Steve had recovered and the soup dragon wasn’t needed now.

But I hadn’t packed the soup maker away. I had another use for it now.

I thought about the little machine and its buttons.

If I could programme myself in the same way, I’d choose Useful and Busy, but also how I was feeling now: Calm and Loved.

“The soup maker’s got a new job: it makes smoothies,” I told Steve. “We’ve tried banana and strawberry – oh, and mango, haven’t we, Nina?” She laughed.

“Yes, and you even managed to hide some spinach in that gorgeous green concoction yesterday! The kids gulped it down.” Steve was thoughtful. “This calls for a new name, Daisy. You’re the ‘smooth operator’ now.”

That was absolutely fine by me.

The End.