I sit in the village clinic, listening to the floorboards creak click, clack, click, clack as though they were counting the seconds of life itself. I wonder how many stories have passed through these walls, how many tears this old wooden cot, covered in oilcloth, has soaked up.
The door sighs open, its hinges whining like a cold wind. In the doorway stands Ethel Hart. She is as straight as a fence post, dry as chalk, and you never see a tear from her childhood. I have watched her for forty years; her face has the hardness of carved stone, and her eyes are two shards of ice.
She steps in silently, removes the damp kerchief from her silvergrey hair, hangs it neatly on the peg as if it were a medal. She perches on the edge of a chair, back upright, hands clasped on her knees, her bony fingers tangled together.
Good morning, Margaret, she says, her voice always level, flat as a stretched canvas.
Good morning, Ethel. What brings you in? Is your heart playing tricks on you?
She pauses, looking out at the grey rain streaming down the window, then whispers so low I almost miss it:
Thomas is dying.
My heart drops to my heels. Thomas Thomas Hart. The Thomas she meant, the one who was supposed to be hers forty years ago. The whole village knows their story, a tale as stark as a ghost story. Their houses sit opposite each other across the Willowbrook, like two banks that never meet. For forty years they have lived that way across the river, never sharing a word or a glance. If Ethel goes to the shop on the right bank, Thomas waits until she disappears from sight before crossing to the left. A quiet, icy war that feels even more frightening for its silence.
The district doctors were here, Ethel continues in the same stonecold tone. They said he has two or three days left at most. Hell fight.
I stare at her, not understanding why she has come to me. To inform? To celebrate? There is no joy in those icy eyes, no sorrow either just a void, like scorched earth.
I used to visit him, Margaret. Now Im here because of him.
I lose my voice. Ethel? Thomas? It feels as if our river has turned backward!
She seems to read my thoughts and gives a bitter, fearful smile.
His neighbour, Clara, came this morning. She says hes calling my name, wants forgiveness before he dies. I went to see him, hoping to look into his eyes one last time, to let him know I havent broken. That I havent forgiven.
Silence settles over the clinic, and I can hear my own heart thudding loudly. Ethel stares at a point in space, her hands clenched until her knuckles turn white. I realise that in this very moment the dam she has built over forty years is about to burst.
Hes lying there, skin shrivelled to bone, eyes sunken, breathing only in fits. He saw me, his lips trembled, but he cant speak. He just looks, and in his gaze theres no fear, Margaret, no. Theres a deathly longing, as if it isnt the illness killing him but this ache. He reaches out a hand, dry as an autumn twig
Ethels stonecold face finally yields a single tear, slow and heavy, salty from four decades of grief.
And I I couldnt I couldnt take his hand. I stand over him like a statue while the words of my father echo in my ears. Do you remember my father, Paul? He always called Thomas his son. He used to say, Ethel, Ill give you to Thomas and Ill be at peace a reliable man. When Thomas returned from the city with a fancy city job, my father fell ill and died a week later. His dying words were, Daughter, never forgive betrayal. Never. So I never forgave. I stand over Thomas, watching him fade, and I want to shout, I wont forgive! Hear me? Im not forgiving for myself, Im forgiving for my father! Yet the words choke in my throat, and anger and hate swirl inside me. What kind of person am I, Margaret? Why is my heart stone? He dies and I never gave him my hand. I turn and leave.
She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking in silent, dry sobs. She does not cry openly; she simply crumbles from within. All her pride, her rocksolid strength, turns to dust on my old wooden chair.
I slip over, pour a crystal glass of water, add a drop of valerian, and hand it to her. Her fingers tremble as the glass clinks against her teeth. She gulps it down.
My whole life, Margaret, I have lived with this grievance. It kept me warm like a hearth, stopped me from feeling sorry for myself. I held my home tight, my garden never saw a weed. All to spite him, to make him see I can live without him. And now he will die, and what will be left? Nothing but emptiness
I look at her, my own soul uneasy. Its funny how you carry a grudge like a child, nurture it, and it eats you from the inside. You think its your strength, but its really your cross, your prison.
Go to him, Ethel, I say softly. Go. Not for him, but for yourself. Not for forgiveness, just to be near. Dying alone is terrifying.
She lifts her eyes, filled with such anguish that my own chest tightens.
I cant, Margaret. I cant. Im stone, not a person.
She walks out as silently as she entered, pulls her wet kerchief back on, and disappears into the grey rain.
The rest of the evening I wander, restless, thinking of them, of the river that split their fates, of a pride that outlived love, of a fathers curse that became a lifelong burden. Sleep evades me; I toss and turn until dawn, when I decide to go to Thomas myself. Ill give him a painkilling injection and simply sit. Not as a field nurse, but as a human being.
I throw on my coat, pull on my boots, and cross the footbridge to the other side. Morning is already bright, mist hovering over the Willowbrook like milk. I approach Thomass cottage, heart pounding, fearing Im too late.
The back door is ajar. I slip inside. The house smells of old timber, herbs, and chicken broth. I stare, bewildered. In the kitchen, Ethel is stirring a pot, wearing a faded dressing gown, her hair tucked under a kerchief. Her face looks weary, sunken, but alive, not stone.
She sees me, startles, and places a finger to her lips: Shh, Margaret. Hes sleeping.
I tiptoe to the bed. Thomas lies pale but breathes evenly, not as a dying man but as someone at peace. On the nightstand sits a glass of rosehip tea and a cracked biscuit.
Ethel and I move to the kitchen. She shuts the door and collapses onto a stool, exhausted.
After you, Margaret, Ill go home, she whispers. Ive been pacing from corner to corner, feeling a beast gnawing inside me. Then I realised it wasnt rage, it was fear. Im terrified hell leave and Ill be left with this stone in my heart, as if my fathers portrait were watching and shaking his head, disapproving of my hatred.
She sighs, a sigh that feels like release.
I took the broth Id prepared for the night and brought it to him. I thought, if he does die, at least I can give him a proper sendoff. I entered, he was moaning, asking for water. I pressed my lips to his, spooned broth into his mouth. He sipped, sipped then opened his eyes, looked at me and said clearly, Ethel my little bird forgive me. And he wept. Can you believe it, Margaret? That proud, stonehearted woman wept.
What about you? I ask, breathless.
She looks at her tired hands resting on her knees.
I did nothing. I sat beside him, took his hand, and stayed there all night. I never said I forgive. I couldnt lie to myself. I didnt forgive him for my father, for forty years of burnt life. That scar doesnt fade like chalk. Yet I sat, holding his hand, feeling my anger melt away, drop by drop, as if I were the one being healed. By morning he slept peacefully, his fever broke. Hell live, I think my sworn enemy, perhaps.
Its been six months now. Autumn gave way to winter, winter to spring, and now summer is at its height. The sun beats down, grass sways, bees buzz over clover pure bliss.
Thomas eventually recovered, though slowly. Ethel helped him up and visited him across the river every day, bringing a jug of milk or a fresh pie, all in silence. He would eat, smile, say, Thank you, Ethel. Shed nod and go. The whole village watched, afraid to disturb this fragile truce.
One day, walking home from the far end of the village, I cut across the path by Thomass cottage. I stopped and tears welled up bright, warm tears.
Under the old spreading apple tree, two figures sit. He and she, both greyhaired, still. He works on a small wooden whistle for the neighbours children. She peels new potatoes into a bowl, telling him quietly how her cucumbers turned out this season. Sunlight filters through the leaves, painting spots on their faces, hair, hands. A hush lies over everything, such peace that even the wind seems to hold its breath.
He no longer calls her bird, and she no longer looks at him with youthful love. They are simply two old neighbours who, at the end of their lives, have finally grasped what matters most a warm hand, a cup of broth, the simple act of being together. They notice me, smile.
Margaret, have a seat! Thomas calls, now stronger. Ethels fetching a cold cider from the cellar!
I sit, sip the sharp, fizzy cider, watch the glinting river, and think tell me, dear ones, what was that? Unforgiveness? Or the highest form of forgiveness that needs no words? What do you think?
