The village was quite small, more of a hamlet, really. It rested upon a knoll surrounded by moss and cranberries. Just four cottages with weathered, gray shingle roofs nestled under mighty oaks, giving the place its name: Oakham.
In Oakham lived a mere eleven people, sustaining themselves through farming, hunting, and fishing. Among them, John Smith was the most prosperous. A frugal and hardworking man, he was nearing sixty but still strong and sinewy. That autumn, he and his son Chris gathered about thirty stone of cranberries. Chris, the youngest at eighteen, showed little interest in farm work, unlike his two older brothers who had moved to London three years ago and never returned.
One morning, Chris came home and boldly declared to John, “Dad, send a matchmaker to Highfield.” His father, frowning, asked, “Who for?” “The Jenkins’ daughter, Mary,” Chris responded, knowing his father’s stern ways. “If you don’t, I’ll run off to the city with her.”
John got no joy from his youngest. Unlike him, Chris was light-hearted and flighty, useless with farm chores, yet the last child left. If Chris left too, John would have no help. His wife Martha was ailing and of little use around the farm now.
Mary Jenkins, despite having a drunkard for a father, was a beauty. John had seen her over the summer haymaking: tall, graceful, with blonde hair cascading to her waist, and deep grey eyes that seemed like wells. He couldn’t fathom why she fancied Chris. But a girl like that would brighten any home and Martha could use help.
Shortly after, come Michaelmas, a wedding took place. But a month later, an army recruiter came and conscripted Chris. At the farewell, Mary cried as if mourning Chris’s passing. Without him, life in Oakham became unbearable for Mary. Her father-in-law started making inappropriate advances. At first, it was subtle: a pinch here, an unwelcome hug there while she was milking. But once, as she scrubbed the floor, he brazenly tried to climb under her skirt.
Too embarrassed to say anything with Martha just behind the curtain, Mary felt trapped. Another time, while gathering hay, John sneaked up behind her, pushed her down, and tried to kiss her, his garlic and whisky breath overwhelming her as his bushy beard smothered her face. How she escaped, she couldn’t recall, but with desperation, she grabbed a pitchfork and thrust it towards John’s chest, hissing, “I’ll skewer you, you old dog! Forgive me, God!”
From then on, John stopped his lewd behavior but found fault in everything she did. Mary was miserable. She visited her mother in Highfield to complain, but all she got was sympathy and the advice, “Endure, Chris will return, and it’ll all be okay.”
Before heading back to Oakham, Mary went to the village shop for matches and kitchen spices—bay leaves, red pepper, mustard powder—at John’s request. She trudged back, the snow crunching underfoot, pondering her hard life. Three months had passed since Chris left. She missed his playful, gentle nature in a place where the other boys were boorish.
Meanwhile, John, as if to replace his absent son, was relentless in his pursuits. Determined to rid herself of him, Mary schemed. When washing, she pocketed a mix of red pepper and mustard powder. In the bathhouse by the pond she prepared for John’s usual Saturday soak, she rubbed the mixture into the benches and sprinkled it generously on the birch whisk.
The pepper and mustard scent made her sneeze, so she left just as John approached with his towel. “Why’d you let all the steam out, you wretch?” he bellowed. Mary stood aside, letting him pass, then darted back to the house, her heart racing.
“What now?” she wondered, nervous yet gleeful at the thought of teaching him a lesson.
In the bath, John tried to relax, but the heat turned to burning. Confused, he rubbed his skin—only making it worse—then instinctively scratched an itch that sent him howling and scrambling into the snow to ease the sting. Gasping from the cold, he retreated back to the bath.
Meanwhile, in the cottage, Mary was rolling on the floor, stifling her laughter. Martha, observing from her corner, hadn’t heard Mary laugh since Chris left. Knowing John’s antics, she understood what was happening.
Back in the bath, John assumed something tainted the benches. After hosing them down with hot water, he resumed his wash, but flicking the whisk sent him into fits of sneezes and another scorching sensation all over his skin. Tumbling out onto the floor, he once more landed in the snow.
Returning home at dusk, John said nothing, opting to skip supper for bed, yet sleep eluded him as his body continued to burn. Rolling restlessly, he opened the window, dropped his trousers, and bared his raw skin to the frosty night air. Slight relief came, but he imagined the absurdity of someone stumbling upon him: John, with a notorious reputation, perched on the windowsill like a crow.
Outside, his loyal dog Duke, curious about the spectacle, stood on hind legs and gave John an affectionate lick, which startled him so badly he crumpled to the floor. Martha awoke from the thud, and soon both women, witnessing the scene, were torn between tears and laughter.
From then on, John ceased all troubling of Mary, without mentioning a word. Soon after, a letter came from Chris, prompting her to leave and join him.
Despite Granny Doreen recounting the tale about a daughter-in-law named Mary, I suspect she spoke of herself. Even at eighty, there’s still a mischievous spark in her eyes…
