Wearied by the Wife and Mother-in-Law
It was on one rain-soaked eveningoh, I remember it as clearly as though it were yesterdaywhen the quietest and most steadfast man in our village, George Wilkins, appeared at my door. You know the sort: men who could be made into nails, as my old father used to say. Straight-backed, hands broad as shovels, crusted with calluses, yet there was a stillness in his eyesa kind of old, woodland peace. He was never one for chatter, nor did he ever grumble, no matter what befell him. If there was a roof to mend or logs to split for the vicars widow, George was there. He would do the task in silence, offer a nod, and slip away down the path.
Yet that evening he camegood Lord, I can see him now. The door of my surgery opened so quietly, it was more like a draught than a man stepping in. He paused on the threshold, wringing his flat cap in his hands, eyes fixed to the floor. His overcoat dripped with autumn mist, boots clotted with mud. He seemed so bowed, so broken in that moment that my heart plummeted.
Come in, George. No need to hover on the doorstep, I said softly, setting the kettle on for tea. Some ailments, I know, are best soothed by a pot of chamomile and thyme.
He shuffled in and sat on the very edge of the couch, head still bowed. Not a word. Only the clock in the hallway filling the hush: tick, tock, tick, tock counting out each heavy moment. That silence was heavier than any outbursta silence that pressed down on us, ringing in the ears, filling up the little room. I put a hot cup of tea in his hands to warm them. They were stone cold.
He cupped the tea, brought it to his lips, and his hands shook so that tea splashed over his fingers. Then I saw a single tear roll down his unshaven cheekheavy, silent, falling into the stubble. Then another. Not a sob, not a whimperjust silent tears.
Im leaving, Mrs Barnaby, he breathed so quietly I barely heard him. I cant go on. Ive no strength left.
I sat beside him and covered his hand with my rough, workworn own. He flinched, but did not draw away.
Who are you leaving, George?
The womenfolk, he replied, hollow-voiced. My wife, Emily her mother, Mrs Hardcastle. Theyre eating me alive, Mrs Barnaby. Like a pair of crows. Whatever I do, its wrong. If I make the soup while Emilys at the dairytoo much salt, potatoes cut all wrong. Put up a shelfcrooked, other men manage better. Turn the gardennot deep enough, youve left all the weeds. Every day, every yearnever a kind word, never a look of warmth. Only this endless prickle, like nettles.
He paused and sipped his tea.
I know, Mrs Barnaby, Im no lord of the manor. Lifes hard. Emily works all hours at the farm and comes home exhausted, sharp as vinegar. Mrs Hardcastle, with her bad hips, sits with a face like thunder and curses the world for her troubles. I understand. I bear it. Im up before dawn to light the range, fetch water, see to the stock. Then off to work. At night, whatever I doalways wrong. Speak up, and Ill be blamed for days. Say nothingworse yet. Why so quiet, have you something to hide? A souls no piece of iron, Mrs Barnaby. It wears out.
He stared into the little flames in the grate and words came tumbling out, as if a dam had burst. How some weeks not a word was spoken to him, as if he did not exist. How they whispered together lest he overhear. How they hid the tastiest jar of jam. How he bought Emily a silk scarf for her birthday out of his Christmas bonus, and she threw it in the chestOught to buy yourself boots, your toes poke through for all to see.
This big, strong manwho could wrestle the very bull that got loose last Maysat before me silent and broken, tears shining on his face. Sadness ached through me, sharp as grief.
I built that house with my own hands, he whispered. I remember every beam. Thought I was making a nesta family. But I made a cage. And the birds inside are vicious. This morning Mrs Hardcastle started in before dawn: The squeaky door keeps me awake. Useless, you areless than a man. I grabbed the axe to fix the latch, and there I was, just staring at the old apple trees bough. And that dark thought camenearer than I like. Only just shook it off. Packed a little bundle, grabbed some bread, and came here to you. Ill sleep where I can, and in the morning, take the trainanywhere at all. Let them live as they like. Perhaps then, I thought, theyll find a good word for methough itll be too late.
It was then I realised how desperate things were; how this was no ordinary weariness, but the desperate cry of a soul on the edge. And whatever happened, I could not let him leave that night.
Right, Mr Wilkins, I said, as firm as I knew how. Dry your eyes. Its not manly, this talk of running away. And what of the womenfolkyou thought of them? Emily to manage the farmstead alone? Mrs Hardcastle with her poor legswholl see to her? Youre their rock.
And who has ever cared for me? His smile was bitter. Who pities me, Mrs Barnaby?
I do, I replied softly but surely. And Ill treat youfor youre gravely unwell. Youve a broken soul, thats your illness. The remedy is simple. Listen now and do as I say. This evening youll go home. Say nothing, no matter what is said. Dont meet their eye. Lie on your bed and face the wall. Tomorrow, Ill visit myself. But youre not to run off, understand?
He looked at me uncertainly, but a faint glimmer of hope flickered in his eyes. He finished his tea, gave a silent nod, and went out into the cold, dark night. Long I sat by the fire, wondering what sort of healer I was, if the truest medicine of alla kind wordfolk sparingly give.
With the first light I was at their gate, knocking. Emily answered, face tight, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
What brings you so early, Mrs Barnaby?
Im here to look in on George, I replied, stepping inside.
It was grim and chill within. Mrs Hardcastle sat on the settle, wrapped in a woollen shawl, peering at me in suspicion. George lay on his bed, just as bidden, turned towards the wall.
No need to fuss over him, strong as a bull, muttered Mrs Hardcastle. Should be out working instead of lying about.
I felt Georges brow and listened to his chestthough in truth, I already knew all I needed to know. He lay quiet as a mouse, jaw clenched.
I straightened and looked at the women, sternly.
Youre in a very poor way, ladies, I said. Very poor. Georges heart is stretched tighter than a fiddle stringquite worn out. His nerves are shot. Hes at breaking. Any more, and hell snap. Then youll be left alone.
They glanced at each other. Emily looked startled, while Mrs Hardcastle narrowed her eyes.
Nonsense, Mrs Barnaby, she huffed. Yesterday he split logs so fiercely wood chips flew.
That was yesterday, I snapped. Today hes at the end. Youve worn him down, with your endless complaints. Did you think him made of stone? Hes flesh, same as anyone. And his soul achesa pain that would make a grown man howl. Here is my prescription, and it is vital: complete rest. No housework at all. He must stay in bed. Peace and quietdo you hear? Not a single cruel word. Only kindness and care. Nurse him like he was a delicate china cuprosehip tea by the spoon, woollen blankets over his toes. Otherwisewell, Ill not be held responsible. He may need the hospital in town, and not everyone returns from there.
I watched the fear bloom in their eyesthe kind of fear that strips you to the bone. For all their grumbling, they had leant on him as on a stone wall. He was their strength, silent and unfailing. The thought that their wall might crumble chilled them.
Emily crept to the bedside and brushed his shoulder. Mrs Hardcastle pressed her lips together, stayed quiet, only her eyes darting round the room for a way out.
I left them with their thoughts, with their fear and their conscience, and waited.
George told me laterin a hush, as if afraid the spell might breakthat the first days passed in utter silence. They crept about the house on tiptoe, whispered when they spoke at all. Emily brought him broth for supper and left without a word. His mother-in-law crossed him and moved on. Unnatural, yes, but the bickering ceased.
And slowly, the ice began to thaw. One morning George woke to the scent of baked apples and cinnamon, just as his own mother had made for him long ago. Turning, he saw Emily sitting at his bedside, peeling apples. She started when she saw his eyes open.
Eat, George, she murmured. Its hot.
For the first time in years, he glimpsed a flicker of care in her eyesawkward, unpractised, but faithful.
A day later, Mrs Hardcastle brought him a pair of thick woollen socksher own making.
Keep your feet warm, she muttered, somewhat gruffly, that draughts dreadful by the window.
George lay there looking up at the ceiling, for the first time in many seasons feeling he was not just a stray pair of hands in the house. He felt wantednot just as hired muscle, but as a person who mattered.
A week passed. I visited again, and the change was remarkable: the house was warm, heavy with the smell of fresh bread. George sat at the table, still pale yet not so lost. Emily poured milk into his mug, and Mrs Hardcastle nudged a plate of pastries closer. They were not cooing lovebirds, far from itbut the old cold tension had vanished.
George looked up, gratitude shining plain in his eyes, and smiled. The rare sight filled the whole room with light. Emily caught his smile and, shyly, smiled back. Mrs Hardcastle turned to the window, but I glimpsed her wipe at her cheek with the edge of her handkerchief.
I never had to treat them again. They were each others medicine now. No, it was never like the fairytales: Mrs Hardcastle still grumbled, and Emily snapped at times, worn out and sharp. But things had changed. After a sharp word, Mrs Hardcastle would brew him tea with raspberry jam, and Emily, hot-tempered, would come over and squeeze his shoulder. They had learned to see past each others failings, to the tired, precious soul within.
Sometimes today, passing their cottage, I see the three of them sitting out on the front step of a summers eveGeorge tinkering with a tool, the women shelling peas and softly chatting. And it warms my heart, so calm, so wholly English, that Im put in mind of what happiness truly isit lives not in grand gestures or costly gifts, but in a quiet evening, the scent of apple tart, a pair of socks hand-knit with care, the surety that you are home. That you are wanted.
So I leave you, dear friends, to ponderwhat cures deepest: a bitter pill, or a gentle word, offered just when its most needed? And I suppose, in the end, sometimes it takes a great fright to make one cherish what is truly theirs.
