**A Candle in the Wind**
Margaret Elizabeth removed her latex gloves and surgical mask, tossing them into a metal basin before stepping out of the operating theatre, exhausted beyond measure. It had been one of those surgeries where life itself hung in the balance. The patient, George William Whitmore, an elderly man with a failing heart, had barely survived the anaesthetic.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait…
Margaret did not sleep that night. She lay on the narrow cot in the doctor’s quarters, staring at the ceiling. The white, cracked plaster seemed to pull her in, summoning memories she had long buried deep inside. The jagged lines of peeling paint stretched like remnants of a distant past—a past tied to a tiny, snowbound village called Brinsley, nestled in the Yorkshire Dales, where her adult life had first begun.
She closed her eyes, and time unwound. Suddenly, she was nineteen again, standing before the ruin of an old stone chapel, its walls blackened by soot, its lone bell hanging silent in the empty belfry.
In those days, fresh out of medical school, she had been sent to the countryside. There, she learned what it meant to live among silence, bitter winters, and indifference.
One evening, drawn by impulse, she had stepped inside the chapel. The air smelled of dust, cold, and beeswax. She lit a candle, hoping—just for a moment—to feel warmth.
*”Something troubles you, my child?”* A voice spoke behind her.
She turned to see the young vicar, Father Thomas.
*”Just passing through,”* she answered with a forced smile.
After that, she visited often. Their conversations were long and hushed. He seemed kind, understanding—as if he knew the inner workings of her soul.
One evening, she whispered, *”Today was my father’s birthday. He was a soldier. Died in 1916, at the Somme…”*
She didn’t know then that those words would be her undoing.
That very night, thunderous blows shook her door. She flung on her dressing gown and opened it—and everything ended.
The search, the shouting, the accusations. Father Thomas had been an informant. He had betrayed her for “anti-government” sentiments.
In the holding cell, they did not beat her at first. First came the questioning. The interrogator was a short, balding man with weary eyes.
*”Sit. I am Geoffrey Albert Harris. Do not be afraid,”* he said softly. *”Not all of us are monsters. Though these are harsh times—a man is like a candle in the wind. The slightest gust, and he is gone…”*
He did not strike her. Only watched with pity.
*”I cannot free you, Margaret. But I will not let them send you to the labour camps. I will arrange for exile. Pray no one else takes interest in your case.”*
And so she was sent to Brinsley.
The road there was a single, snow-covered stretch, straight as an arrow. The winter was cruel.
No one would take her in at first—exiles were met with suspicion. She knocked on every door, only to hear silence or a sharp *”No!”*
*”You will find good folk even in Yorkshire,”* Harris had said.
Only one door opened—a young widow named Beatrice.
*”Come in,”* she said. *”But behave yourself.”*
Margaret stayed. She worked the vegetable patch, tended to the villagers’ ailments, cared for children and livestock. Slowly, trust grew.
Two years passed. Every fortnight, she reported to the local magistrate. The man, Edmund Charles Burton, signed her papers without a word, his face unreadable.
In the third year, everything changed.
One evening, amid a blizzard, a horse-drawn cart stopped outside Beatrice’s cottage. Burton burst in, snow clinging to his coat.
*”My daughter is dying. Help.”*
Margaret gathered her supplies. They raced to his home.
A girl of seven lay in bed, her face ashen, breath barely there. A bored district physician stood in the corner.
*”Diphtheria,”* she muttered.
*”Have you a scalpel?”* Margaret asked.
*”It will take five hours to fetch one.”*
*”Five hours will be too late,”* Margaret said. *”Bring me a knife, a candle, and spirits.”*
Burton obeyed. She sterilised the blade, pressed it to the child’s throat—and the abscess burst.
Pus and blood smeared the girl’s face. The mother shrieked, lunging at Margaret—striking, clawing. Burton pulled her away.
Margaret stayed all night at the bedside. By dawn, little Emily breathed easier. Within days, she was playing again.
Before Margaret left, the mother pressed a bundle into her hands—food, a woollen blanket, embroidered linens. *”Forgive me. I thought you… but you saved her.”*
Burton visited often after, bringing provisions. He no longer demanded her signatures.
A year and a half later, Margaret returned to London. She earned her doctorate, married, raised two children.
Decades passed.
One day, walking through the city, she found herself before that same chapel. It stood restored now, clean and bright.
Inside, a nun swept the floor.
*”Is Father Thomas here?”*
*”He is gone. A carriage accident. Six years now.”*
Margaret studied the new young vicar’s face.
*”Were you one of those he betrayed?”* he asked.
She nodded.
*”God does not forgive evil done in His house,”* he murmured.
She lit a candle—for her father, for her youth, for all the pain.
Years later, an elderly man appeared in her surgery.
*”Stomach cancer. Weak heart.”* She scanned his notes. *”Name: George Whitmore.”*
She looked up—and froze. It was him. The interrogator.
*”Margaret?”* Recognition flickered in his eyes. *”Can it be…?”*
They spoke for hours. He told her he had been denounced a year later. Served five years himself.
*”What’s the verdict, Doctor?”*
*”The odds are against you, George. But we will try.”*
That night, she lay awake. She rang the ward.
*”How is Mr. Whitmore?”*
*”Stable,”* the nurse replied. *”Resting.”*
Margaret stepped onto the balcony. June air, pink dawn, fading stars.
And in that moment, she felt it—his candle still burned. And perhaps, just perhaps, it would burn a while longer.
