Free Every Mother's Son by Val Wood

this, Ma. You’ve plenty of fuel. Put the axe down and I’ll split some more before I leave.’
    She grunted but leaned the axe against the wall. ‘Talking of leaving as soon as you get here,’ she grumbled.
    He didn’t retaliate. He needed her in a reasonable humour. If they ever argued he always left feeling disgruntled and frustrated. He followed her into the small porch and then into her only room, where a pan of stew was bubbling over a bright fire. At least she cooked, he thought. She wouldn’t starve. He unfastened his coat and unwrapped his scarf.
    She sat down in the chair that had been his father’s when they’d lived at Marsh Farm. Her bony hands rested on the worn upholstered arms as she gazed at him. He had often noticed that she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in sitting in that chair, as if by doing so she was claiming victory over Nathaniel, her long dead, much maligned husband.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sitting opposite her.
    ‘Have to be, haven’t I? There’s nobody to care if I’m not.’ Her voice was forthright, her straight back uncompromising. ‘And to what do I owe ’pleasure o’ this visit?’ There was no delight or joy at seeing him and he knew that she was hoping for some indiscretion or misunderstanding that she could pounce upon.
    ‘Do I have to have a reason to come? Am I not welcome?’
    She blinked. ‘In my experience folk who call generally have a purpose in mind. They don’t come to talk about ’weather.’
    I won’t argue with her, he decided. It’ll spoil my day. ‘Well, I didn’t think that I counted as folk ,’ he said genially. ‘Who else has been who wanted summat?’
    She gave him a sharp look. ‘So you do want summat?’
    He shook his head and sighed. ‘It was a figure o’ speech, Ma. A joke.’
    She turned her face away. ‘I don’t understand jokes,’ she muttered. ‘Never did. Life isn’t funny.’
    ‘You spend too much time on your own,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t I look for a cottage in Brough or Elloughton for you? You’d see more people, have—’
    ‘I don’t want to see more folk,’ she snapped. ‘Nosy busybodies most o’ them. I’m all right here. I’ll decide when I want to be somewhere else.’
    ‘I’ve brought you some eggs and a bacon shank, and bread,’ he ventured. ‘I think we’re in for some snow.’
    ‘Who baked ’bread?’ she demanded.
    ‘Maria,’ he lied, knowing that she’d throw it out for the ducks and geese on the Haven waters if he’d said that Harriet had baked it, which she had.
    She nodded. ‘It’ll save me baking,’ she said grudgingly. ‘And my hens have gone off lay so I’ll use ’eggs. Now tell me why you’ve really come.’ The question was sudden and he was taken aback.
    ‘Next time I’m coming I’ll send you a postcard with a list o’ reasons on it,’ he said tersely. ‘Then you can be prepared.’
    She didn’t answer and Fletcher drew in a breath. ‘If you don’t want me to come, I won’t,’ he said abruptly; the only time his temper rose was when he was with his mother and it was rising now. ‘So if this is to be ’last time, then yes, there are some things I want to ask you.’
    He saw by her expression that she knew she had gone too far in her cat and mouse game; if he didn’t come to see her there would be no one she could use for her whipping boy, no one else who would tolerate her moods, her bitterness and resentment that life had treated her unfairly, for the fact was that no one else did come, not even his children, although they would have done if they’d thought she was glad to see them.
    She waited for him to continue and he in turn waited to order his thoughts, to decide on the best approach, knowing already that there wasn’t a best way or a right way; she was going to be angry however he said it.
    ‘My children,’ he began. My children, not our children; she wouldn’t tolerate even a vague reference to the mother of his children. ‘My