Fed Up with My Wife and Mother-in-Law
That evening, the quietest, most steadfast man in our little village, Stephen Harris, paid me a visit. You know the sorthe could be made of iron nails. Straight-backed, hands like garden spades all calloused and scarred, eyes deep and calm as an old woodland lake. He never said more than was needed, never grumbled, whatever happened. Patch a leaking roof? Chop firewood for the widowed Mrs. Green down the lane? Stephen was always there, fixing what needed to be done, barely a word, just a silent nod before heading off again.
But that evening, he came to me. Ill never forget how he lookedthe door to my surgery opened so softly I thought it was just the draft. He stood on the threshold, wringing his flat cap between weathered fingers, eyes downcast. His overcoat was damp from the drizzle, and his boots were caked in mud. Right then, he just seemed so beaten, so utterly flattened that my heart dropped.
Come in, Stephen, dont just stand there, I said gently, already putting the kettle onbecause I know some troubles you treat with nothing but a hot cup of tea with a bit of thyme.
He shuffled in and sat on the edge of the old cot, still staring at the floor. Silence hung between us, only broken by the ticking of the clocktick, tick, each moment heavier than any shout. I set a steaming mug in his hands, hoping the warmth would seep into his bones. His fingers were icy.
He pulled the mug close, but his hands shook so hard that the tea rippled over the rim. Then, I saw a single heavy tear slip down his unshaven cheek, trailing into his stubble. Another followed. He didnt sob or moan, he just sat, silent, as the tears kept coming.
Im leaving, Mrs. Simmons, he whispered, so low I nearly missed it. Thats it. I cant take any more. Ive got nothing left.
I sat beside him and set my rough hand atop his. His hand twitched, but didnt pull away.
Leaving who, Stephen?
My lot, he muttered. My wife, Daisy her mother. Theyre driving me mad, Mrs. Simmons. Like two hawks circling. Whatever I do is wrong. I make soup while Daisys at the dairytoo much salt, potatoes cut wrong. I put up a shelfcrooked, other men do it better, youre hopeless. Dig the flower bednot deep enough, weeds left. On and on, year after year. Not a kind word, not a gentle look. Just that constant stinging, like nettles.
He trailed off, sipping his tea.
I know Im no lord, he sighed. Daisys worked off her feet at the farm, tired and cross. Her mother, Edna, bad legs, stuck indoors, sees the world through gritted teeth. I get it. Im up before dawnlight the fire, fetch the water, sort the animals. Then off to my job. In the evening, nothing I do is right. Say a word backthree days of shouting. Keep quietits worse. Why so silent, have you got a plot brewing? A soul, Mrs. Simmons, cant take it forever. It gets tired too.
He stared into the flicker of the fire, words spilling out like a broken dam. How sometimes theyd not speak for weeks, treating him like he was invisible. How theyd whisper behind his back, hide the best jam for themselves. The worst was when, for Daisys birthday, hed bought her a warm woollen shawl with his bonusand shed tossed it in the chest, saying, You should have got yourself bootsyou look a disgrace.
There he sat, a big man who could wrestle a bull if needed, crumpled before me, silent tears soaking his rough cheeks. My own heart ached for him.
I built that house with my own hands, he said softly. Every beam, every stone. Dreamt itd be a nest. A family. But its a cage. And the birds inside are angry. This morning, Edna started up again: Door creaks all night, keeps me awake. Not a real man, just a joke. I picked up the hatchet thought Id fix the hinge. Caught myself looking at the old apple tree dark thoughts, Mrs. Simmons. Scared myself. Threw some bread in a bag and came here. Ill sleep somewhere, and take the train from the village station at first light. Let them live on their own. Maybe then theyll say one decent thing about me but only once its too late.
Thats when I realised this was more than simple exhaustionthis was the souls last cry for help. I couldnt let him go.
Now, Harris, I declared, in my no-nonsense nurses voice. Wipe those tears. Its no way for a man to act. Run away, will you? Have you thought what will become of them? Will Daisy manage the farm alone? Will Edna, bad legs and all, get by? Youre responsible.
And whos responsible for me, Mrs. Simmons? he shot back, bitterly. Wholl care for me?
I will, I answered firmly. Because youve got a grave illnesssoul fatigue. Theres only one cure. Listen carefully, and do as I say. Go home now. Say nothing to their grumbles. Dont meet their eyes. Go to bed, turn to the wall. Ill be round in the morning. And youare notgoing anywhere. Understand?
He gave me a wary look, but I saw a glimmer of hope light up. He drained his tea, nodded, and walked back out into the chilly dark. I sat by the fire, thinking what kind of nurse am I, if the best medicinekind wordsare too rarely prescribed.
At first light, I was at their gate, knocking. Daisy opened, face pinched and tired.
What brings you here so early, Mrs. Simmons?
Im checking on your Stephen, I answered, stepping past her into the cottage.
Inside, it was cold and unwelcoming. Edna sat on the bench, swaddled in a shawl, glaring at me. Stephen lay on the bed just as Id instructed, back to the room.
He doesnt need checking, fit as a flea, just having a lie-in, Edna snapped. Theres work to do and hes slacking.
I checked his brow out of habit but knew what ailed him. Glancing at the women, I straightened my back and addressed them with stern seriousness.
Ladies, I said, things are grim. Stephens heart is strung tight as a fiddle, nerves shot. Not much more and therell be nothing left. Then youll be alone.
Daisys eyes widened; Edna harrumphed with disbelief.
Dont be ridiculous, Mrs. Simmons, Edna scoffed. He was splitting logs like a champion yesterday.
That was yesterday, I replied. Today, hes done in. All this griping and nitpicking has worn him down. Hes not a stone; hes flesh and bone, and his spirits hurting. Im prescribing restabsolute rest. No chores. Complete quiet. Not a single complaint, not a snide remark. Gentleness, caretreat him like crystal. Feed him broth, tuck him in warm. Or else it might mean a hospital in London, and you know some never return.
They heard me. I saw real fear set in. For all their nagging, their lives leaned on him like a stone wall. The threat of losing him cut deep.
Daisy quietly sat by his bedside and touched his shoulder. Edna pursed her lips but said nothing, eyes darting about searching for reassurance.
I left them alone with their conscience. And waited.
The first days, Stephen later whispered to me, the house was hushed as a graveyard. They tiptoed about, spoke in whispers. Daisy left him soup on the nightstand, Edna would cross herself as she passed. Odd, uneasybut the shouting stopped.
Slowly, things began to shift. One morning, Stephen woke to the scent of baked appleshis favourite, with cinnamon like his mum used to make. He turned; Daisy sat peeling apples, nervous but caring.
Eat up, Stephen, she murmured. Its still warm.
For the first time in years, he saw care in her eyes. Awkward, uncertain, but real.
A couple days on, Edna brought him woollen sockshand-knitted.
Keep your feet warm, she muttered gruffly, but the old vinegar had gone. Draft from that window, you know.
Stephen lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling, for the first time in forever, that he wasnt just a pair of hands in that house. He was neededfor himself, not just as hired help or a beast of burden.
A week passed. I called by again, and the cottage was changed. Warmth in the air, the aroma of fresh bread. Stephen, pale but less lost, sat at the table. Daisy poured his milk; Edna nudged over a plate of pies. They werent all sweetness and light, but the cold tension had gone.
Stephen looked up at me, grateful, his honest smile lighting up the whole room. Daisy saw him smile and, shyly, smiled back, while Edna turned to the window, secretly dabbing away tears.
I never needed to treat them again. They became one anothers remedy. Not perfectEdna would grumble, Daisy would snap when tired. But something had changed. After a cross word, Edna would brew Stephen tea with raspberry jam, Daisy would pat his shoulder after a tiff. Theyd begun to see not each others faults, but their shared humanitytired, close and dear.
Sometimes I walk past and there they all are, three of them on the doorstep at dusk. Stephen tinkering with a bit of woodwork, the women shelling peas, chatting. A quiet evening, gentle as a village breeze. And Im reminded that real happiness isnt found in loud words or expensive giftsbut in the scent of apple pie, in the warmth of hand-knitted socks, and in knowing you are at home and needed.
So, my dears, ask yourselvesdoes a harsh pill heal more than a gentle word, spoken at just the right moment? And is it sometimes fear that nudges us to treasure what was always ours to begin with?
