I was perched in my little cottage clinic, listening to the floorboards groantap, tap, tap, tapas if they were counting down the seconds of life itself. I wondered how many secrets those walls had heard, how many tears the threadbare cot, covered in cheap vinyl, had soaked up.
The door squealed mournfully, as though the cold had made it shrink. In the doorway stood Ethel Crane, as straight as a fence post, dry as toast, not a single tear ever seen on her face. Id watched her for forty years, and her skin still looked like itd been chiseled from stone, her eyes two shards of ice.
She slipped off the damp kerchief from her silvered hair, hung it on the peg with the reverence one might show a medal, and perched on the edge of a stool, back as straight as a ruler, hands folded on her knees, knuckles like twigs.
Good morning, Mrs. Sampson, she said, her voice as flat and even as a freshly ironed tablecloth.
Good morning, Ethel. What brings you in? A fluttery heart? I asked, trying to keep the tone light.
She stared out at the grey rain streaking the window, then whispered so softly I could barely catch the words:
Frederick is dying.
My heart jumped into my shoes. Frederick Frederick Gray. Hed been the man shed been meant to marry four decades ago. The whole village remembered their tale, a sort of tragic folk story. Their cottages sat opposite each other across the Avon, like two banks that never meet. For forty years they lived across the river, never sharing a word or a glance. If Ethel went to the shop on the right bank, Fred would wait until she vanished from view before crossing to the left. A silent, icy war that somehow seemed even scarier.
The district doctors have been here, Ethel continued in the same stonecold tone. They say he has two or three days at most. Hell struggle on.
I stared, baffled. Why had she come to my clinic? To inform? To celebrate? Her eyes held no joy, no sorrowjust a bleak emptiness, like scorched earth.
I used to visit him, Mrs. Sampson. Now Im here because of him.
I was left speechless. Ethel and Frederick? As if the river would run backwards!
She seemed to read my thoughts and cracked a bitter smile.
His neighbour, Clara, turned up this morning. She says he called for me, wants forgiveness before he goes. I thought Id see his eyes one last time, so he knows I havent broken. So I havent forgiven.
Silence settled over the clinic, and I could hear my own heart thudding. Ethel stared at a point on the wall, her hands clenched until the knuckles whitened. In that instant the dam shed been holding back for forty years began to crack.
Hes lying there, skin and bone, eyes sunk, breathing in fits and starts. He saw me, his lips trembled, but no words came. He just looks at me with not fear, Mrs. Sampson, but a deathlike longing. Its as if hes dying not from illness but from that yearning. He reached out a hand, dry as an autumn twig
Ethels stonecold cheek finally released a single, reluctant tearsmall, heavy, salty with four decades of grief.
And I I couldnt. I couldnt take his hand. I stood over him like a statue while the words of my father rang in my ears. You remember my dad, Paul? He used to say, Ethel, Ill give you away to Fred and Ill be at peacegood lad. When Fred returned from town with a city fancy, my father fell ill and died a week later, whispering, Dont forgive betrayal. Never. So I never forgave. I stand over Fred watching him fade and feel the need to shout, I wont forgive! Not for me, but for my father. The words got stuck in my throat, and anger swelled inside me. What kind of person am I, Mrs. Sampson? Whats left in my chest but a stone? Hes dying and I didnt even lay a hand on him. I turned and left.
She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with silent, dry sobs. She wasnt crying; she was crumbling from the inside. All her pride, all her hardwon strength, turned to dust on my old wooden chair.
I slipped over, poured a glass of water, added a splash of valerian, and handed it to her. Her fingers trembled, the glass clinked against her teeth, and she gulped it down.
All my life, Mrs. Sampson, Ive lived on this grudge. It kept me warm like a stove, stopped me from feeling sorry for myself. I held my house like a fist, my garden pristinenothing else but a rebellion against him. Now hes about to die. What will be left? Nothing but emptiness
I looked at her, my own soul a bit out of place. Its funny how we cradle a grudge like a tiny child, only for it to gnaw us from within. You think its your strength, but really its a cross, a prison.
Go to him, Ethel, I said softly. Go not for his forgiveness, but for yours. Just be there. Dying alone is terrifying.
She met my eyes, a depth of torment that made my own chest tighten.
I cant, Mrs. Sampson. Im a stone, not a person. And with that she slipped away, as silently as she arrived, pulling her damp kerchief back over her head and melting into the grey drizzle.
The evening found me restless, turning over their story, the river that split their lives, a pride that outweighed love, a fathers curse that lingered like a bad smell. I couldnt sleep; I tossed and turned until dawn. Then I decided Id go to Frederick myself, give him a painkiller and simply sit with himhumanly, not as a field nurse.
I threw on my coat, laced my boots, and crossed the little bridge to the other side. Morning was already bright, a mist hovering over the Avon like fresh cream. I approached Fredericks cottage, heart hammering, fearing Id be too late.
The back door was ajar. Inside, the house smelled of old timber, herbs, andoddlychicken broth. I paused, puzzled by the broth, then peeked into the kitchen where Ethel was bustling about in a faded dressing gown, hair tucked under a scarf. Her face was tired, but alive.
Shh, Mrs. Sampson. Hes sleeping, she whispered, finger to her lips.
I tiptoed to the bed. Frederick lay pale but breathing evenly, not the dying gasp Id expected. On the nightstand sat a cup of rosehip tea and a cracked biscuit.
Ethel and I slipped into the kitchen, she shut the door and sank onto a stool, exhausted.
After you, Mrs. Sampson. Im heading home, she murmured. Ive been pacing the rooms all night, feeling like a wolf gnawing at my own tail. Then it hit meit wasnt anger at all. It was fear. Fear that hed leave and Id be left with this stone in my heart, as if my fathers portrait were staring at me, shaking his head, saying I shouldnt burn my life in hatred.
She exhaled, and that sigh felt like a release.
I took the broth Id prepared, thought if he were to die Id at least give him a proper sendoff. I went in, he was moaning, asked for a drink. I fed him a spoonful, then another, and another. He finally opened his eyes, looked at me and said, Ethel, my little bird forgive me. And he wept. Can you imagine, Mrs. Sampson? This rockhard woman actually cried.
What about you? I asked, breathless.
She glanced at her hands, worn and trembling on her lap.
I did nothing. I sat beside him, held his hand, and spent the whole night there. I never said I forgive you. I couldnt lie to myself. I didnt forgive himfor my father, for forty years of burnt life. You cant erase that with chalk. But I sat, feeling the anger melt, drop by drop, as if I were the one being healed. By morning his fever broke, he slept peacefully. Hell live, I think my old enemy.
Ah, my dears, half a year has passed. Autumn gave way to winter, winter to spring, and now summer sits at the height of the day. The sun bakes the grass, bees buzz over cloverpure bliss!
Frederick eventually pulled himself together, thanks to Ethels steady care. She visited him daily across the Avon, bringing milk, baking pies, saying nothing at all. Hed eat, smile, Thank you, Ethel, and shed nod and walk on. The whole village watched, fearful of shattering that fragile, newlyborn truce.
I remember strolling down the lane from the far end of the village, past the Zahars, and deciding to cut across the path by Fredericks house. I stopped and saw a scene that made tears well upbright, warm tears.
Under an ancient, spreading apple tree, two old folk sat side by side. He was tinkering with a wooden whistle for the local children; she was peeling new potatoes into a bowl, chatting softly about how her cucumbers had turned out this year. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappled their faces, their hair, their hands. A hush settled over the garden, such peace that you could almost hear the earth breathing.
He no longer called her bird, and she didnt look at him with the fevered love of youth. They were simply two neighbours, two riverbank friends who, late in life, finally understood something vitalsomething beyond forgiveness or resentment. It was about the warmth of a hand offered, a cup of broth, simply being there.
They spotted me and grinned.
Mrs. Sampson, come have a seat! shouted Frederick, now robust enough to raise his voice. Ethels just fetched a cold cider from the cellar!
I sat, sipping the sharp, fizzy brew, watching them, the river sparkling in the sun, and thought what was all this? Unforgiveness? Or the highest form of forgiveness that needs no words at all? What do you think?
If you enjoy my ramblings, stay tuned. Well keep remembering, crying, and laughing together.
