A MAN AND HIS BURDEN
I remember that November evening as if it were yesterday. Outside, sleet lashed against the window and the wind howled down the chimney like a hungry beast, but I was warm in the surgery with the stove crackling away. I was just about to pack up for the night when the door creaked open and there stood Gregory Somers. A towering figure of a man, broad-shouldered, yet he looked as though a good gust would blow him over. In his arms was a small bundle his daughter, little Mary.
He carried her in, laid her gently on the daybed, then retreated to the wall, stiff as a statue. I took one look at Mary and my heart dropped. Her cheeks burned with fever, her lips were cracked and dry, and she trembled all over, whispering softly, Mummy mummy She wasnt even five yet. I took her temperature goodness me, nearly forty!
Greg, I said, sharper than I meant, as my hands got to work opening the ampoule, drawing up the injection, why on earth didnt you come sooner? How longs she been like this?
He didnt answer. Just stood there, staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fists white-knuckled. It was clear his pain ran deeper than any fever. I realised then it wasn’t just Mary who needed tending the man before me was stitched together with wounds no medicine could heal.
I gave the injection, rubbed Mary down After a while, she settled and her breathing eased. I perched on the edge of the bed, stroking her damp forehead, and quietly said to Gregory, Stay here tonight. Theres no sense going out on a night like this. You can have the sofa, Ill keep watch with her.
He only shook his head, but stayed rooted to the spot, guard-like till dawn. All night I swapped cold compresses, spooned water into Marys mouth, and thoughtand thought.
People in the village liked to whisper about Gregory. A year ago, his wife, Catherine, had drowned. She was a lovely thing, bright as spring water. After her death, Gregory became like stonemoving about, working hard, keeping the house in good nick, looking after Mary, but his eyes were hollow, his spirit gone. He barely spoke to anyone, greeting folk through clenched teeth.
Some gossiped that he and Catherine had rowed down by the river that day. They claimed he was drunk, said something cruel, and in her misery she stepped into the water. That he did nothing to stop her. Not a drop of drink had passed his lips since, but guilts a poison more potent than whisky. Folk eyed him and Mary as that man and his baggage, but the baggage wasnt the childit was the grief he dragged along everywhere.
By morning, Mary was cooler. She blinked up at me with her mothers lovely blue eyes, glanced at her father, and her lips trembled again. Gregory shuffled over, touched her hand clumsily, and jerked away as if burned. He was frightened of her, you see? Because she was Catherines mirrorhis pain made flesh.
I kept them with me another day. Made chicken broth, spoon-fed Mary. She ate quietly, hardly speakingshed been silent ever since the accident. Yes, no, and little more. Her father was even worse, only saying what was necessary, plaiting her hair with his huge, clumsy hands, never a word. Their silences left the house echoing with sadness.
And so it went on. Mary recovered, but I kept a watchful eye. Brought cakes, dropped off jam just becausereally, to see how they were. They lived together like strangers, a wall of ice between them, and no one knew how to melt it.
Come spring, a new teacher arrived in the villageOlivia Spencer. Quiet, gentle, with melancholy in her eyes. Shed left the city for reasons of her own; you could sense it wasnt by choice. She started teaching the little ones, and Mary ended up in her class.
Funny, how sometimes a little sunlight finds its way into a dark corner. Olivia noticed Mary straightaway, recognised that silent sadness, and set about warming her little by little. Shed bring her books with pictures, gift her coloured pencils, keep her after lessons to read stories. And Mary began to open to her.
One day, I turned up at school to see to the Heads blood pressure, and there they were, the two of them in an empty classroomOlivia reading, Mary pressed close, utterly absorbed, a rare peace about her.
Gregory didnt like it at first. Hed come to fetch Mary, see her with Miss Spencer, and his face would harden. Hed growl, Home, and march her off without a word to Olivia. He saw only pity in her kindness, and pity to him was worse than a slap.
Once, they bumped into each other outside the grocers. Olivia and Mary came out licking ice creams, just as Gregory approached. He glowered, snatched the ice cream from Mary, and tossed it in the bin.
She doesnt need interfering. Well manage, he barked.
Mary wept, Olivia stood there, hurt flickering in her eyes. Gregory strode away, dragging his sobbing daughter behind. My heart bled to see it. Oh, Gregory, you foolruining your life and your childs.
That evening he came to me for some heart medicine. My chest feels tight, he muttered. I poured him a glass, placed it on the table, and sat down with him.
Its not your heart, Greg. Its your grief strangling you. You think your silence keeps Mary safe? Its killing her, slowly. She needs love, not just hot soup. Loves in your eyes, in your armsnot just chores. Youre so scared to touch her, to look at her. Let Catherine go. The living need you now.
He listened, head bowed, silent. When he looked up, the pain in his eyes almost stole my breath.
I cant, Mrs Simmons, he whispered. I just cant
He left, and I watched him go, thinking, sometimes its harder to forgive yourself than anyone else.
And then came the day everything changed. It was late Mayall blossom and scent of hawthorn and damp earth. Olivia stayed after school with Mary, and they sat on the steps drawing together. Mary drew a house, the sun, herselfand a large figure, her father. Beside him, a black smudge coloured in deep, angry strokes.
Olivia looked at the picture, and something must have snapped inside her. She took Mary by the hand and they walked straight to the Somers place.
I happened to be passing, checking in, as usual. Olivia stood uncertainly at the gate, while Gregory sawed logs in the yard, shavings flying.
She summoned her courage and entered. Gregory switched off the saw, face like thunder.
I told you
Im not here for you, Olivia said softly. Ive brought Mary home, but I need you to know something.
She began to speak then, her voice quiet but clear enough for the whole lane to hear. She told Gregory about herselfhow shed loved her husband deeply, how he died in a crash, and how she spent a year hiding away, curtains drawn, silently wishing to follow him.
I blamed myself too, her voice trembled. Thoughtif Id only asked him to stay that day, if I hadnt let him go out… I nearly drowned in grief, Gregory. Then I realised, shutting myself away betrayed his memory. He loved life. Hed want me to live. I forced myself to get up, to breathe, for his sake, for our love. We can’t live with the dead when the living need us.
Gregory stood paralysed, her words breaking through his walls. Suddenly, he covered his face with his hands and his great body began to shudder. He didnt cry, not exactlyjust shook, shoulders heaving.
Its my fault, he rasped through his fingers. We werent arguing that day We were laughing, just fooling around. She dashed into the river like a kidthe water was freezing. I shouted, she just laughed. Thenshe slipped, banged her head I dived in, searched but she was gone. I couldnt save her. I failed her.
Just then, little Mary appeared in the doorwayshed heard every word. She stood, calm, and looked at her father without fear, only soft, infinite love.
She walked over, hugged his legs with her thin arms, and in the clearest, loudest voice Id heard from her all year, said, Daddy. Dont cry. Mummys sitting on a cloud. Shes watching us. Shes not angry.
Gregory collapsed to his knees, pulled her into his arms, and wept, full-voiced, unashamed, like a lost child. Mary stroked his stubbled cheek, his hair, murmuring, Dont cry, daddy, dont cry. Olivia stood by, her own tears flowingbut these were tears that heal.
Time passed. Summer turned to autumn, then spring arrived again. In Ashbrook, our village, there was now one more true familynot by law, but by heart.
One day I sat out in the warm sun on my bench, bees humming in the cherry blossoms. Along the lane they cameGregory, Olivia, and Marywalking slow, hand in hand. Mary chattered and giggled like a tinkling bell, laughter ringing out.
Gregoryoh, you should have seen him! Straight-backed, bright-eyed, beaming at Olivia and his girl with the steady glow of a man whos found his treasure.
They stopped when they saw me.
Afternoon, Mrs Simmons, Gregory said, and there was so much warmth in his voice, it seemed you could bask in it.
Mary ran up, offering me a bunch of dandelions. For you! she chirped.
I took them, eyes damp, heart buoyed. Theyd unhitched that dreadful burden at lastor perhaps, just perhaps, love had helped them. Love from a child, a woman, a friend.
They wandered off towards the river. I thoughtnow that river for them is just a river again, a place for peace and new memories, where the water can carry pain away.
And I wonder, dear reader, can one pull oneself out of grief alone, or do we all need a hand to guide us back to life?
