Turning over a new one.

Freda Hammond was slowly washing the breakfast things in the scullery, reflecting that tea and toast for one person hardly needed a whole sink full of hot water, but she didn't like to let the dishes pile up. I was well trained by Mother, she thought wryly.

Then the silence was broken by the sudden shrill demand of the phone, making her start and filling her with panic. She was used to the stillness of the big empty house and it had been weeks since she'd spoken to anyone.

She carefully placed the plate on the rack and wiped her hands on a tea towel before she walked to the hallway, but the ringing stopped before she could pick up the receiver.

"Who on earth could that have been?" she wondered, and was instantly annoyed that she'd spoken out loud, something she'd caught herself doing several times recently.  That must stop, you silly woman, she thought crossly. 

Since her mother's funeral a month before, attended only by the neighbours on either side and a distant cousin of her mother's, she'd had no visitors. And no phone calls, she realised, apart from the family lawyer Mr Godlonton.

Well, that was understandable. Freda had enjoyed her job in Johannesburg as office manager for a large insurance company but she'd never allowed herself to become close to the girls she worked with. And a year ago she'd moved back to Cape Town to nurse her mother, and lost touch with everyone in her old office. She'd been kept so busy looking after her mother, who had grown steadily more dependent on her, that she hadn't had a chance to meet anyone or have any sort of social life. 

"Maybe that was Mr Godlonton? I'd better phone him. He did say there were a few things I still needed to sign for Mother's estate."

Standing in the badly- lit hallway, she hesitantly dialled his number.  I must get round to changing some of this old furniture, she thought. And maybe I should start by throwing out this depressing arrangement of dried flowers. Mother had these here for years, she said they didn't need attention. But there's something sad about dusting off a flower arrangement.  

"Why no, Miss Hammond, I didn't call you. I'm still waiting for those annuity certificates." The lawyer's voice was slow and precise. "But by co-incidence I was thinking of you only yesterday."
"Really?" Freda couldn't imagine why.
"I was wondering if you would be interested in working part-time for us? We urgently need a reliable office manager and although I know you don't really need to work for financial reasons, I was hoping you might be available?"
"No," said Freda, her voice shaking slightly. "No, I don't think I can, Mr Godlonton. Thanks all the same."
"It was just a thought, Miss Hammond. But if you ever change your mind..."
"Thank you, but I don't think I will."

Freda was trembling as she replaced the receiver. The thought of going out to work again and getting to know a whole office full of new people!  Impossible. Some days she couldn't even bring herself to greet the check- out girl at the supermarket.  Besides, as he said, she didn't need the money.

But if not the lawyer, then who could have phoned her?  Mrs Richards in the red brick house next door?  She'd been very kind to her mother during her final illness and after the funeral she'd insisted on helping to wash the tea things, giving Freda a comforting hug as she left. "If you ever feel like a bit of company, dear, pop over for a chat," she'd said. But Freda had never done that and suddenly she longed to hear Mrs Richards' warm, motherly voice again.

"Mrs Richards? Freda Hammond here, from next door. Someone tried to phone me just now and I thought it might be you?"
"No, dear, not me. Although I feel badly that I've not been in touch with you, but I've been away for nearly a fortnight visiting my daughter. She's just had twins and she needed a bit of help. Then when I came home I went to bed for a week with bronchitis. I've been a bit poorly."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that." Freda's voice felt rusty as she spoke, and she cleared her throat. 
"Never mind, I'm quite better now, thanks. In fact, I'm helping with the church fete this weekend and I was planning to phone you. Would you like to make a contribution for the cake stall? You mother told me you were a great baker."
"Did she?"

 It had been a long while since she'd made anything more exciting than egg custards and soup for her mother but her never-fail chocolate sponge had been a favourite at the office parties in Johannesburg. She could certainly make a cake.

"That will be fine, Mrs Richards.  I'd be happy to."
"Good! And Freda dear, we're looking for someone to assist on the second- hand book stall. Would you have a spare hour or two on Saturday to help us?"

She had plenty of spare hours, but that would mean standing in front of a lot of strangers and smiling at them. Even talking to them. She didn't think she'd be good at that any more.

"I - I don't know if..." she began, searching for a plausible excuse.
"It would only be for a short while until Mary Harris can take over. And there are some wonderful bargains on the book stall this year, you'd have first pick!" Mrs Richards cheerfully steamrollered her objection. "I remember you used to read to your Mum, she did so enjoy that. She told me you were quite a bookworm."

That's right, I was, she thought. But reading light romances to her mother until her voice became hoarse had dampened her enthusiasm and since the funeral she hadn't been to the library.

I wonder what's happened to me, she thought, I used to read a good book before I went to sleep every night. Now I can't remember when I last even opened a newspaper. 

"All right, I'll do it," she agreed. Mrs Richards' invitation was impossible to refuse and after all, she reasoned, she wouldn't have to actually talk to people, just take their money. 

"Lovely! And why don't you pop over for tea later? About four o'clock? I've just baked some peanut butter cookies for the fete and they're still warm. I've made more than enough."
"I - alright, I'd love to. Thanks."

As she replaced the receiver Freda was smiling. Tea with Mrs Richards would be nice. A change from making herself a cup of instant coffee and staring out at the overgrown garden. She knew she really ought to get out there and start cutting back the wilderness that had once been her mother's pride and joy. She ought to be doing a good many things but somehow she just hadn't had the energy.
Back to the mysterious phone call. Who could possibly have phoned her?  It might have been Mr Adamson, the elderly widower who lived on the far side of the overgrown hawthorn hedge. He sometimes waved when he saw her walk past to the shops.

I wonder what he wanted, Freda thought, looking out of the window. As she watched, he opened his front gate and raised a ladder to start clipping back the thorny hedge which separated their properties.  She was tempted to ignore him but something made her walk down her front path and speak to him.

"Phoned you? No, Miss Hammond, not guilty. Can't stand the phone, much rather speak face to face, especially to a pretty lass like you!"  His crinkled face beamed down at her.  "But I've been wanting to come round and see you about this hedge, so maybe now is a good time to discuss it."
"This hawthorn?"
Freda disliked the dark prickly hedge, which had grown so thick that it took up most of what used to be a flowerbed down the side of the driveway.
"Nasty thing. And it's the very devil to trim.  I was wondering if you'd be prepared to share the costs of having it removed and putting up a wooden fence in its place? Unless you're very fond of it, that is."
"No! Not at all. I think that's a good idea," said Freda in relief. "I'd always wanted to chop it down but my mother…"
"I know. Your mother wouldn't hear of it. She said your father had planted it and she was attached to it. But it's thirty years old and I'd much prefer a neat fence. That would give us both a lot more space to plant flowers."
"Yes," she agreed. "Although I haven't been doing much in the garden lately." Doing nothing, actually, she thought guiltily. I used to have so much energy, maybe I need a tonic.
"Well, that's understandable," he said gently, surveying her wilderness from his vantage point on top of the ladder.  "Losing your mother is very hard. It takes some getting over. In fact you never do, really. I still miss mine and she's been gone over forty years. But if you like, I could give you a hand. Just bought myself one of those smart electric lawnmowers and it's a shame to let it sit in my garage doing nothing. I could come over and teach your lawn a lesson!"
"Could you?" Unaccountably, tears threatened at his kindness. "I really would appreciate that. It's got a bit beyond our old push-mower, I'm afraid."
"I'll come over tomorrow," he promised. "By the way, I always used to give your mother some lettuce seedlings around this time of year. And I've plenty to spare again, if you'd like them."

Freda remembered the vegetable garden at the back of the house where her mother had worked so hard. Things grew well for her mother and she'd enjoyed giving away thick pink stalks of rhubarb, tiny crunchy carrots or scarlet tomatoes ripened by the sun. I really should get the vegetables going again, she thought. Mother would have expected me to keep growing them, she always said it was the perfect spot for veggies.

"Shall I bring some over? Of course, I usually swapped them for a cup of tea and some of those delicious shortbread fingers of hers. Your mother made pretty good shortbread."
"It's a deal!" she smiled. "Shortbread fingers will be ready and waiting. See you tomorrow, Mr Adamson."

I'd better dig over that patch this afternoon, she thought, walking back up the path. And make some shortbread fingers this evening.  But right now I must get ready for tea with Mrs Richards. I wonder if there's any spinach at the back?

Freda was filled a sudden energy and almost laughed out loud. Having something to do was the most marvellous feeling. She couldn't wait to start baking and gardening and - living. Yes, living again.

She picked up the dusty vase in the hallway and emptied the dried contents into the kitchen bin. As she opened her front door at five to four, freshly lip-sticked and clutching a bunch of crinkled Swiss chard that had somehow flourished despite months of neglect, she made a sudden decision and went back to the phone.
"Mr Godlonton? Freda Hammond here. I've had second thoughts after all. I'd love to work for you, mornings only, if that would suit you. Next Monday at nine? I'll be there." 

Far away, in Durban, little Michael Venter's mother came into the room and frowned. The phone was off the hook again. She picked it up and put it high on the cupboard where his chubby little fingers wouldn't be able to reach it.  One of these days her toddler was going to dial a real number and then she'd have a lot of explaining to do.

Ginny Swart

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Name	Comment	Date
Erna	Heart-warming! I love stories that remind me that Providence is watching over me…	2007-10-27
Louis	Little Michael Venter! Who’d have thought that an unanswered call would have changed someone's life so drastically?  Yes, providence works in many strange ways.  But for providence to work, one must retain a certain degree belief in oneself, only then will all the little angels come out of the woodwork, something you have captured quite remarkably in this short story.  Thank you, Ginny.	2007-11-09
James	A pleasant read. The only thing that stood out was the abundance of adverbs (-ly) in the opening paragraphs.	2007-11-23
Louis	Congratulations Ginny - great story.	2007-11-26
Barbara	I really enjoyed this story, and if you haven't already sold it to a woman's magazine then you should certainly give it a try, it's exactly the sort of 'feel good' material they're always looking for. I loved the way you depicted the sort of lonely depression that had overtaken the protagonist and how such a simple 'accident' as a telephone call could change her life around. Good light read. Points 4 - Pretty close to perfect. I was captivated	2008-01-11