Touching a gaze and feeling happiness
For nineteen years Agatha has lived in a small Cotswold village with her mother Mary and her grandmother Eleanor, still hoping that one day George, the boy she has loved since she could remember, will return. She smiles at the memory of the neighbour lad, five years older than her, and thinks:
“It would be wonderful if George suddenly turned up here. But alas, his grandmother died three years ago, even though I cared for her”
After finishing Year9, Agatha entered the local health college, qualified as a nurseassistant and now works at the village surgery. She often asks herself:
“What does a woman’s happiness really look like? Does it even exist? We live as three women in a purely female household, and I have no idea what happiness means to Mum. She seems just as lost. She once told me how my father, a man I never met, fled the moment he learned she was pregnant. And my other grandmother, Faye, raised two daughters alone after being widowed early.”
Agatha treats the villagers despite her youth, giving injections, checking blood pressure, always polite and kind, and the locals respect her because she is one of their own. Since childhood she has dreamed of becoming a medic, tending to every creature she couldcats, dogs, friends’ scraped knees, even her own small cuts.
Today, on her way back from the surgery, she finds herself thinking of George again.
“Why do I keep turning him over in my mind?” she scolds herself. “Maybe he’s already married, maybe he has a brood of children, and he’ll never know I’ve loved him since I was thirteen.”
The last time he visited was for his grandmother’s funeral; they hardly spoke. He was with his mother, who looked pale and leaned on his arm.
Winter has settled in, the New Year has passed, February is drawing to a close. Mary works as the village postmistress, while Eleanor stays at home, baking pies, making dumplings and pastries.
Turning toward her own cottage, Agatha glances at the neighbours house, the key to which Eleanor had given her long ago when she cared for the old woman. After heavy snowfalls, Agatha would sometimes clear a path to that house, hoping George might appear, but
“Afternoon, Grandmother, where’s Mum? She ought to be home by now,” the granddaughter asks.
“She came in earlier, then went to see Mary, her friend, whos feeling a bit under the weather. Shell be back soon; Ive brought her some tea. You can come in and have a bite. Well keep you warm,” Eleanor says kindly.
“Right, I’m famished, and its freezing out. Spring will chase the winter away soon enough,” Agatha laughs. “When it does, the cold will pack its bags and head for the north. I love spring.”
Agatha retreats to her tiny bedroom, lies on the bed and once more recalls George. When he was seventeen, he helped his grandfather Sam close the roof during a summer break. He slipped, nearly falling from the rafters, but Sam caught his arm just in time; a protruding nail grazed his leg. Agatha saw the incident from her garden, fetched a bandage and some green ointment, and rushed over. George sat on the ground, clutching his leg, while his grandmother clapped her hands and gasped.
“That hurts, George. Let me clean and dress the wound,” the girl demanded, her eyes full of concern.
“You’re a real doctor,” he replied, surprised.
“Don’t be modest,” his grandmother chided gently, “she’s been treating everyone since she was a child.”
Agatha examined the cut, reassured him, and asked constantly, “Does it hurt?” Her blue eyes were so full of compassion that she felt tears rise. George saw them, smiled, and said, “Not at all, it’s fine.” He remembered her bright blue eyes ever since, when he was about twelve.
When George returned from the army, he saw his mother pale and lips cracked. He couldn’t hold back his tears, and she wept with relief at having her son home.
“Thank God, my boy, youre back. I can finally die in peace,” she whispered.
“Mother, spare me the talk. I promise Ill help you with everything,” George answered, becoming the devoted son who tended her injections, massaged her aching feet, and worked hard to put her back on her feet. Soon she was cheerier, handling the housework, often reminiscing about the old family home in the village.
“Ah, son, how lovely it would be to live here again, not having to descend four flights of stairs. Just a chair on the porch, breathing fresh country air, maybe even raising a few chickens”
He decided to visit the village on a Saturday. Though traveling to a remote, neglected cottage in winter seemed foolish, he promised his mother hed scout the place. Her eyes sparkled with hope. He set off, halfbelieving her dream was a fantasy, but feeling he had to try.
Stepping off the bus, he was surprised to see a tractorcleared road leading straight to the old grannys house, the same house he had visited every summer as a child.
“He’ll have to wade through kneedeep snow,” he thought, then realized the lane was already swept clean up to the gate and even the threestep porch was cleared, a battered broom standing at the doorstep.
“Whos been clearing this? Perhaps someones moved in,” he mused.
The windows were dressed with thin curtains, the ones Eleanor had sewn herself. She loved to look out without ever closing them. George lifted the porch steps, pulled the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door. A cheerful, girllike voice rang from behind him:
“Hello! Its been ages since you were here, and Ive been waiting, feeling youd come back someday.”
Startled, George turned and nearly slipped off the porch. Before him stood a tall, slender young woman in a sheepskin coat and a fluffy white hat, her blue eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, smiling warmly.
“Dont you recognize me? Im Eleanors granddaughter” she said.
She was the girl who had bandaged his leg all those years ago. He stared, trying to recall her name.
“I’m Agatha,” she said. “You dont remember?”
“Agatha! Of course, Agatha,” he recovered, laughing. “You were the one who tended my foot You were tiny then, with braids to your shoulders, all bright and playful.”
“Did you really remember?” she beamed.
“Ive never forgotten,” George replied, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I used to shovel snow, waiting for you,” Agatha chattered, eager to share everything. “Come in, Ill make you tea with homemade jam. My mum and Grandmother will be thrilled. You can stay for a while.”
George sat at Agathas kitchen table, sipping tea with cherry jam while she told him stories. Her mother and grandmother slipped into another room, still glowing from the reunion.
“My grandmother has been ill lately, and I didnt want to worry you both,” Agatha explained. “I cared for her, fed her. Ive wanted to be a medic since I was a child, and now I work as a nurseassistant here.”
“I remember you treating that wound,” George chuckled. “You were so serious, yet you fixed it so well theres no scar left.”
“Oh, stop it,” Agatha waved her hand, blushing. “I was just worried about you. Ive liked you since we were children” She covered her mouth, surprised by her own confession.
George blinked, astonished.
“Yes, you were a lanky girl then, but I respected you for how you handled my injury,” he said, gently holding her hand, aware she had just revealed her feelings.
Agatha handed him the key to his grandmothers house.
“Your grandmother gave me this before she passed. She always said youd come back, maybe even stay,” she whispered, eyes dropping.
“Keep the key,” George replied softly. “Lets go inside.”
Inside, the house was spotless, as if Eleanor had just stepped out. George sensed the gratitude owed to Agatha for her care.
“I have to go back home now, but I promise Ill return. My mother needs that fresh country air, and well fix up the place together. Your bright eyes have stayed with me,” he said, his heart leaping.
He understood that the only thing he truly wanted was to return, to feel the happiness that a simple look from Agatha could bring.
“As I watch the bus pull away, I think of how right my grandmother was: I will come back and never let you go,” he whispered.
Agatha walked home with a smile, finally knowing what a womans happiness feels like: the quiet contentment that comes from caring for others and being loved in return. The lesson is cleartrue happiness isnt found in distant dreams, but in the simple acts of kindness and the connections we nurture every day.
