The snow no longer burned bare feetDorothy had stopped feeling them. Only the wind still lashed her cheeks, hands, and neck, whipping right through her thin nightdress. Her grey hair, heavy with driven snow, hung like icicles. The blizzard howled and battered her, and Dorothy no longer knew where she was going, lost in her own garden. Pressing her back to the cold wooden fence, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to mutter miserably:
If only I could die sooner. Take me, Lord! Please just let me die
She would surely have frozen to death that night if not for her neighbour, Margaret, who had come out to check on her cow. She noticed Dorothys door was wide open, and pale yellow light spilled outside.
Dorothy! Is that you muddling around in the dark?
But Dorothy was standing in the far corner of her garden, closed in by trees and swirling snow, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mumbling let me die, let me die, again and again as though stuck in a loop.
Margaret dashed over, flinging open Dorothys creaky gate.
Dorothy, where are you! Dorothy, you silly woman! Dorothy!
Even if Dorothy had wanted to answer, she couldnt. With a heavy sigh, she slumped down against the fence and, mumbling something, burrowed her head in her knees. She shrivelled up, tears trickling down her wan, sunken cheeks. Then Margaret managed to haul her to her feet and shout for her husband. The two of them together dragged Dorothy back into the warmth of the house.
From that day onwards, Dorothy took to her bed. A young nurse visited the next morningshe was surprised that at ninety-one, Dorothy hadnt even caught a chill, save for her frostbitten feet. Leaning over the old woman, the nurse said, You ought to go in to hospital. Shall we arrange an ambulance?
Dorothy looked up, her eyes tracing the nurses jet-black hair and frost-pink cheeks. She shook her head stubbornly.
No need for that. Ill stay right here. Dont waste your time on me, my dear. Ill manage. Off you go, now. God bless.
So Dorothy lay there, unmoving, for two weeks. Nobody quite understood why shed ventured out into the biting dark in just her nightdress and nothing on her feet. People blamed her foolishness, but Dorothy herself felt something mysterious had drawn her out, an odd, fateful impulse. On the evening before, she had sat on her bed, unravelling an old woolen sock in the weak glow of her lamp. Her fingers had known the task by heart. Her thoughts were miles away from the sockher eyes fixed on a single point on the wall, her mouth twisted into a strange smile at something remote, a memory.
Nothing good had ever happened to her since her youth. Only endless toil and hardship, and one fleeting beam of lighta single, brief surge of love.
His name was George.
George Georgie she slurred between thin lips, her smile widening, stranger still.
Maybe she dreamed it, maybe it truly happened. In her mind, she walked through the fields beyond the spinney, at the end of the big houses estate. Dorothy would stand in the long rye looking into the distance, hand to her brow, waiting. Hed promised he would come. Inside, she could feel the ache of hope mingled with fear. And there, shimmering amidst the field, she saw a mans figure. Shed run to him, calling George! George!the happiest shed ever been.
She drifted off into these dreams, but was startled awake halfway through the night, restless. Looked out of the windowthe blizzard raged, rattling at the glass. She threw back her blanket, stretched out her hands, and felt her way, blindly, through the darkness to the door.
I wont be long just a minute
Out she went, barefoot, pushing open the door without knowing what she was doing. She peered into the swirling, ghostly snow over the village, reaching out as though pleading:
George
The cold bit through her, chilling every bone. Her numb feet found the iced-over steps, and she stumbled down to the garden path. She walked to the fence, looking straight ahead, fighting against the storm.
George! Im here! George!
She ran up and down along the fence trying to spot him. That was when she realised she couldnt feel her feet at allanother moment and she wouldnt be able to move them. She hurried to the gate, still smiling.
I wont be long Ill just check this way too
But she couldnt find the gate. She became lost among the trees and snow. Whenever she tried to turn, there was a tree, or the hedge, or she was knee-deep in snow. And so she grew desperateuntil her neighbours found her.
Margaret kept visiting, bringing food, stoking the fire, chatting quietly. The young nurse came to tend to Dorothys feet, rub stinging ointment onto them, and nag her to check her temperature. Dorothy did everything she was told, but when left alone, she would just lie there with empty eyes, staring at the ceiling. She listened to every outside soundthe barking of dogs, childrens shouts, the groan of a passing milk cart.
More and more, she drifted into odd half-sleep. Shed open her eyes and see the sun had risenor sometimes it was night and the fire whistled in the grate. Water trickled from the eaves. Lord, how long? she thought over and over. If only I could die already
From her earliest childhood she learned a hard truth: her fate was a steep, muddy embankment covered in brambles and slick clay. The only way was down, battered by roots and stones. No one would reach out or help her climb back up towards the sun. Everyone around her lived that way, and she never hoped for better. Life, she came to believe, was a long, wearying tumble, and all one could do was grit ones teeth and bear it.
That year, spring came late and harsh, carried by raw winds and endless rain that churned the lanes into impassable mud. Only in May did the snow finally disappear, revealing exhausted, sodden earth, old and worn as leather. The trees stayed bare for ages, the orchards stood black and dead. Dorothy, struggling under the weight of her sodden headscarf, trudged the muddy path from the well. Her water buckets slopped ice-cold puddles onto her cracked, unshod feet. On the other side of the lane, a group of men smoked under the sagging fence, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. They spoke in low voices, watching her, but she passed them by without looking up. Shed long ago become invisible, just part of the dreary, grey scene.
Dorothy! came old Mrs. Goodwins voice, sharp as a whip, slicing through the damp airthe old farm woman shed served with on the estate. Get yourself to the shop! Tell Tom to give you some floral print cotton for the young missMind you get the finest! Weve got visitors from town tonight, and were to lay on supper. And pick some flowers too!
She set her buckets on the step, careful not to spill a drop, wiped her hands on her filthy apron and set off to the lanes end. She was twenty-two, yet it felt as though life had passed her by without so much as a glance. When her parents died twelve years ago, the sharp-tongued widow of the estate brought her in as a maid for bed and board. Back then, Dorothy was a skinny, beaten slip of a thing with frightened eyes who winced at every noise and shout. Now, shed grown into a tall, sturdy young woman, mute and strong, her rough hands always busy, the light in her eyes long gone.
She worked from dark until darkuntil her ears rang and her legs felt heavy as lead. She chopped wood in freezing rain, milked goats in iced stalls, kneaded clay for the old stove, scrubbed laundry in the icy brook until her fingers went numb and useless. In burning heat, she weeded the kitchen garden, the smell of currants and raspberries heady and overwhelmingbut she dared not eat even one, for the lady of the house counted every berry and punished any loss with a stinging switch: Not for the likes of you, idler! Dorothy learned not to look around. She wrenched the weeds out, bit her lip to hold back tears, always determined to please, so the mistress might, just once, leave her alone. All day, her narrow back flickered among the tall, hot greenery, the lush berries dangling temptingly closeyet she never picked a single one. Dorothy endured.
Saturdays, she stoked the bathhouse fires, hauling heavy buckets from the river and heating stones until the air shimmered with choking heat. Shed scrub her mistresss sagging shoulders with a rough sponge until her own eyes blurred and sickness climbed her throat. Slow, commanding, the mistress would turn this way and that, demanding Dorothys hands again and again. Once dry and dressed, Dorothy would half-carry her back indoors. Her head would hum and nausea linger, but she endured the old ladys grumbling and pinching, and on rare kind days, the slap of a hot, damp hand along the cheek: My little workhorse! Dorothy barely noticed; she knew no other life and didnt even wish for one. There was a silent, invisible wall between her and the worldmade from exhaustion, indifference, and old, long-buried hopes. She didnt care how she was dressed or what rags she received for holidays. She found the other maids chatter boring, the lads suggestive jibes meaningless. She never sat a minute idleand the mistress could no longer manage without her.
Once, as Dorothy stood on a stool, polishing the high mirror, her strong body stretched out, the old woman suddenly asked, Dorothy, perhaps its time to marry you off? Would you like that?
Dorothy stepped down, wrung out the cloth, and answered without feeling, As you wish, madam.
Or will you stay a spinster?
Makes no difference to me.
Right you are! cackled the mistress, slapping her shoulder. Better off as an old maid. Else youll just fill the house with bratswhat a brood youd have, with those hips! Not like my Polly, not a bit!
She meant to cross herself, thinking of her daughter, but got distracted by a summons from the parlourso she let the thought drop there.
That conversation did not stir a single chord in Dorothys heart. Her soul dozed, quietly and passively, content behind its wall. Healthy and strong as she was, Dorothy neither wanted nor yearned for anything, although one would expect she mighthumanly. But life behind her wall felt safe enough, calm. The men soon learned to ignore her quiet beauty and unthreatening walkshe awakened none of their fancies. Old Ned the groom once said, Dorothys too good for us mortalsGods creature, she is. And so it might have remained, except for one incidentDorothy peered, if briefly, over her invisible wall into the human world.
It was early June, the warm air finally settling in and the meadows lush with green. The household was readying for important guests. The pale, sickly young miss was to receive a suitor from London. Dorothy was sent to pick daisies. She tiptoed down the slope to the river, picking her way through the slick grass, when a young man blocked her path.
He wore a dapper waistcoat over an embroidered shirt, his boots polished bright even in muddy weather. His eyes were bold and mocking, his well-oiled hair parted smartly. This was George, the groom from the neighbouring estate, there as part of the visiting party. He stood with his feet apart, sizing Dorothy up as if at a cattle market.
Good day, love, he called, eyes roaming over her strong, tanned arms and the faded blouse stretched tight across her chest.
Dorothy didnt even look at him. She stepped aside, but he mirrored her, blocking her way.
What do you want? she asked, still looking down.
Whats your name?
Whoever named me, knows it. And its nothing to you, she replied, and walked past him as if he were no more than a fence post.
But George was undeterred. He began visiting each week with the young squire, and Dorothy could hear his self-assured voice in the yard, always felt his eyes trailing her as she scrubbed the walls or washed up. He always seemed to turn up nearbythe well, the shed, the back stepscracking jokes, trying to pinch her, but she pulled away every time, unflinching.
One day, she went for flour in the empty shed. George leapt out from behind the door, grabbing her around the waist, pressing her against the sacks. She didnt shout. Something primal woke within her; she shoved him so hard he slammed into the post and sank to the floor, stunned. Dorothy just looked at him, her face calm and puzzled.
Serves you right
She straightened her scarf, brushed off her skirt and left him sitting there, rubbing his sore head, watching after her with something new in his eyesno longer just lust, but a sharp, burning curiosity. He was used to girls who came runningthe silent, strong girl with stone-cold eyes was different.
As for Dorothy? She was not entirely unmoved, but nor was she interested in him the way a girl might be. She didnt think of Georgehe was just the stir to some long-stifled feeling. She found herself rising earlier, yearning for the bright pang in her chest. She would stare at the sunrise mists over the fields, milk the cow, watch the dew sparkle in the grass, dream of just being alive. But always, work called her back, and a month slipped by.
Georges attempts met stern resistanceaside from a stolen kiss in the larder, which earned him a slap hard enough to make his ears ring. But he persisted, and his determination worked a subtle change. Once, as she poured out the water and he tried to help, she cast him an unusual sidelong smile. Another time, she watched him at work among the horses. It meant nothing, perhaps, but George never lost hope.
But theirs was not to be a story, at least not a long one.
One day, George stood up for a young lad caught nicking turnips from the estate fields. The mistress ordered the boy whipped; Dorothys face quivered, and she tried to intercede for the boybut was pushed aside by the head groom. She grabbed a stick, ready to strike, but before she could, George snatched away the whip and lashed out in anger.
Get out! Ill tell the mistress myself. Go!
The women gathered round the weeping lad to comfort him. He whimpered, Me mam died yesterday died.
The words struck Dorothy like a brick. She gasped, ran to her cubby, threw herself on her cot, her body wracked with sobs. Shoulders shaking, she clawed at her thin pillow. The weeping was not only for the boy, but for herselffor the bitterness of a childhood she had never really left behind.
George found her. He crept in, squeezed in beside her. He didnt try to talk, just held her shaking shoulders until she calmed, clinging to the warmth of his young, solid body. Tears ran down her cheeks, but the awful noise inside her faded. She sat there quietly, listening to his breathing, then murmured,
What lies past the woods? Whats out there?
The town, he replied, surprised. A big oneshops, churches, houses.
And then?
Then another town. The railway runs there. Past thata sea, people say, far off.
Dorothy fell silent. Shed never once seen the seashe was frightened of crossing even a river. But now she wanted to see it, to escape this world of bruises, endless work, where she was only ever called workhorse and barely remembered by name. She wanted, at last, to be a person. Turning to George, she cupped his face in her rough, cracked hands and asked, for the first time ever looking him in the eyes,
Will you take me away? Will you marry me?
George panicked. He liked to boast to the maids, but he shrank from anything serious. He hesitated, made excuses about needing more time, about money, about things not being so simple. But Dorothy was already lost in the current; for the first time in her life, she was bold, desperate, almost wild in her longing. She took the lead, kissing him, whispering she didnt care what people thought, that shed do anything just to leave. That night, her old copper cross broke from its string and tumbled into the darkshe let it lie, her voice taking on a strange, determined calm: Let it be, then.
George visited twice more. Their meetings were always in secretin the hay barn, the cellar, the thickets outside the village. Dorothy blossomed before peoples eyes, began to walk with her head high, her cheeks turning rosy, her smile shy, as if learning to do it all over again.
Then everything ended abruptly. The young misss wedding was noisy, the new husband swept her away to London, taking George with him. No one warned Dorothyshe heard first from the cook, who said, Hes gone, Dorothy. Off with the squire. Youll not see him again, love.
Even so, Dorothy continued to wait. Every evening shed stand by the lane, hands folded, staring into the distance until the stars came out. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Her already-thin face grew almost transparent, but her eyes blazed with peculiar light. Old Mrs. Goodwin would scold and scorn, calling her mad and hurling her bowl at her, but Dorothy only smiled the empty, blissful smile of hope. She was certain hed returnshe could feel it with every tired bone in her body.
Summer passedstifling, stormy, full of rain. Then came a wet, grey autumn with ceaseless fog and sodden leaves. Dorothy loved staring at the distant edge of the woods, where the treetops brushed the sky, believing if she waited long enough, George would appear. She asked no one about him. On the rare occasion she heard news, it didnt mattershe just smiled. She convinced herself cruel forces kept him away, but if there had been days as bright and warm as those with George, he would surely come back, as anyone would for happiness. She believed all it would take was patience.
She spoke little, always deep in thought, fiercely attacking any work at hand. In her free hours, she sat and gazed beyond everything, seeing nothing. Days, months, years melted together in a blur. Dorothy waited.
One day, in late October, as the fields turned black in the rain, Dorothy, out working in her own garden, suddenly looked up. At the fields edge, near the woods, she saw a lone man, and her heart skippedwas it George? She dropped her spade and ran, arms flailing, voice hoarse:
Wait! Wait!
The figure didnt turndidnt hear. She reached the swollen stream, dashed along the bankshe couldnt swim, he was already gone. Standing on a log at the waters edge, she strained to see him, biting back tears lest she lose sight of him in the blur. His fair head glimmered for a moment, then shrank to nothing in the distance. She rose on tiptoe, desperate to be closer, feeling herself stretch towards himthen he was gone, and all she saw was the endless, green meadow.
A woman from the neighbouring cottage found her, shaking her head.
Whatre you sitting there for, love? Come on, lets get you home
That was George, said Dorothy, not turning round.
Which George?
The groomthe one who used to come here with the young squire.
Oh, from the next place over? Dont be daftwhat would he be doing here?
Im waiting for him.
Whatever for? sighed the neighbour. No, love, hes long gone. Heard he married ages back, bless him, before the war. Lives in Oakfields, same as he always did.
Dont lie, Dorothy said quietly, her voice so low and dead that the other woman shrank back.
Im not lying, for heavens sake! Daft thing! She spat. My brother was there not long ago. Loads of kidsbarely a penny to their name. Hes barely left his bed these years after that cart went over him. Likely dead by now, the poor soul. What are you laughing at?
Hahaha! Dorothy cackled, sitting on the grass, her hair wild, skirt turned up, pale knees gleaming in the sun. Her laugh was wild, desperate, barely human.
Mad thing, laughing like that! The neighbour crossed herself hurriedly. Likely he is under the ground already, and youre just grinning Poor dear!
Hes young, handsome, healthy Dorothy pointed to her own breast, her eyes burning with a crazy, feverish sparkand you know who I am?
Who?
His wife. And we havent even got children, because I was never with child.
Lovely, but hes pushing fifty by now! Youre lost, come on the woman tugged Dorothys hand.
Dorothy just grinned back, her eyes muddy and unfocused.
Why lie to me? Eh? Why?
The neighbour shuddered and retreated. Poor thingshes touched, the Lord protect her, she thought, crossing herself and backing away from where Dorothy sat on the grass.
From that day on, the whole village openly considered her cracked. Dorothy no longer waited for George as she once had. She worked her plot of land with a wild, almost cruel diligence, as if she could drown out the ache within her. And in her quiet moments, she sat gazing at the woods, imagining there was a sea just the other side. Her eyes were deep and empty, so blank the villagers crossed the road to avoid her.
Until her last years, even on a fine June noon, with the air thick with the scent of peonies and limes, Dorothy would don her one clean blouse, comb out her long, greying hair, and walk into the meadow to look at the far blue line of woods. She stood there, still and upright, not beautiful any more, but ancient and patient, as though she had grown roots into that earth and waited not for years, but for centuries. When someone, out of pity or curiosity, asked whom she waited for, she would reply quietly, with a faint, gentle smile:
My happiness. Its out past those woods. George promised hed come today.
There she goes, poor soul! God help her
Only the wind rustled in the treetops, the river rolled slowly on, and far beyond, somewhere past woods and towns, the seaunknown and only a name to hersighed as it always had.
The door of her cottage creaked open. Margaret came in, arms full of firewood. Dorothy looked at her with empty, colourless eyes.
Well? Howre your feet? asked Margaret softly.
Dorothy only muttered, not quite making sense. Margaret came closer.
Eh? What was that?
I just wish I could die already No, hes never coming back. Not now only dying leftMargaret placed a gentle hand on Dorothys bony shoulder. There now. Hush, darling. The kettles on, and Ive brought honey. Rest awhile; youll feel better.
Dorothy blinked, lost for a moment between memory and the warm lamp-lit room. The wind outside had softened to a whisper, as if the world paused, holding its breath. A scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers drifted in.
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in many years, an unexpected peace washed over her. She no longer saw the garden fence, or heard the distant river. Instead, she felt herself walking, barefoot and young, down a sunlit lane just past the edge of the woodsthe place shed never dared to go.
Ahead, the rye bent in golden waves, and she saw a figure waiting, just as shed dreamed: his hair bright in the sun, arms outstretched. She ranfaster, stronger than shed ever beenher laughter rising, scattering the shadows of a hundred silent winters.
When Margaret turned to check again, Dorothys breathing had stilled, her lips softened by a faint, childish smile. Her hands were folded quietly, as if holding a secret only she could keepher eyes half-open to a world beyond, one that at last, belonged to her alone.
Days later, the neighbours laid Dorothy to rest at the edge of the village, beneath a tangled hawthorn where the view stretched far across the fields. In the hush of evening, as the light faded and the birds began their dusk song, the villagers thought they saw, for a moment, a young woman standing tall among the meadow grass, her face alight with happiness, waving gently at someone just out of sightbefore dissolving, quiet as mist, into the long blue line of the woods.
And ever after, when the wind sighed over the fields, the people would say shed finally gone to meet her happinesspast the woods, where the world is wide, and the sea waits, bright and unbroken, at the very end.
