Hollow Life of Dorothy
The snow no longer burned Dorothys bare feetshe had lost all sensation in them. Only the wind lashed her face, hands, and neck like a whip, piercing through her thin nightgown and her chest. Silver hair, heavy with clumps of snow, hung in icicles about her face. A thick blizzard howled and battered her, and Dorothy no longer knew where she was going, lost even in her own garden. She pressed her back against the frozen fence, clutching her arms around her chest and began to wail:
Oh, let me die already, Lord! Take me, please Just let me go
She would have died that night, frozen solid, had it not been for her neighbour, Margaret, coming out to check on her cow, wondering if it had started calving. Margaret spotted Dorothys door was swung wide open, light spilling into the snow.
Dorothy! Are you out there, fiddling about in the dark?
But Dorothy only stood in the corner of her yard, shielded by trees and the swirling snow, muttering let me die, over and over, her eyes clamped shut, stuck like a skipping record.
Margaret dashed from her garden, rushed through Dorothys little gate.
Dorothy, where are you! Dorothyyou silly old girl! Dorothy!
Even if shed wanted to reply, Dorothy couldnt manage it. With a groan, she slid down the fence, dropping her tangled, frost-bitten head onto her knees, whimpering and curling up tight. Tears trailed along her gaunt, hollow cheeks. Then someone grabbed her beneath the arms and tried to haul her upfutile, for the old woman had stiffened, her body frozen through and through.
You daft old thing! Hold on, Im coming back! Margarets voice rang out as she raced home to fetch her husband. Together, they dragged Dorothy into her cottage.
Dorothy was bedridden from that night on. The next morning, the young nurse arrived, surprised to see that even at ninety-one, Dorothy hadnt caught a cold, only her feet had suffered frostbite. Leaning over Dorothys worn face, the nurse asked:
You ought to be in hospital. Shall we call for an ambulance?
The old woman regarded the nurses thick black hair and pink, wind-bitten cheeks, then shook her head stubbornly.
No need, love. Ill stay here. Dont waste a minute on me, nothing more to be done. Bless you, but you best be on your way.
Dorothy stayed that way for a fortnight. And why, for what reason, had she gone out barefoot and in her nightdress that night? Everyone said it was her own foolishness, but Dorothy herself saw something almost fated in it, something mysterious. The night before, shed been sitting on her narrow bed, unravelling an old knitted sock by the dim glow of the lamp. Her gnarled old fingers worked quickly, knowing the task without thinking, but her mind was far from that worn sock. Her eyes were glazed, staring at a single point on the wall, and she wore an odd, haunted smile, as if remembering something distant.
Dorothys life had held nothing good since childhoodonly work and want. There had been just one shaft of light in all the gloom, a brief and solitary flare of love.
His name was Gregory.
Greg Greg darling she whispered through barely parted lips, her strange smile widening further.
That evening, she seemed to drift between waking and dreaminga vision of herself in a field, beyond the woodland at the edge of the manor house gardens. She shaded her eyes against the sun, searching, waiting, always waiting. He had promised to come. A gnawing mix of fear and hope filled her chest. Through the haze of the rye field she glimpsed a mans figure. She dashed toward him, overwhelmed with joy, crying, Greg! Greg!
Those dreams sent her to sleep. But in the deepest part of the night, Dorothy awoke, restless. She glanced out to where the snowstorm howled, rattling the windowpanes. Tossing aside her blanket, arms stretched ahead, she fumbled blindly towards the door in the dark.
I wont be long, just a moment
She went outside barefoot, unaware of herself. Peering into the white swirl above the village, she reached out, pleading softly,
Greg
Cold wrapped her body, clamping icy claws on her insides. Her numbed feet found frozen stone steps as she shuffled onto the path. Gazing ahead, beyond the fence, she pressed forward, battling the gale.
Greg! Its me! Im here!
She reached the fence, tried to look beyond, hurried up and down searching for the gate. But she couldnt find it. Dizzy, she tripped through the garden; everywhere she turned, the trees, the hedge, snow up to her knees. Lost, she despaired. Thats how the neighbours found her.
Margaret came by, bringing soup, making small talk, lighting a fire in the hearth. The nurse came with her sharp-smelling ointment and clean bandages, demanded Dorothys temperature be taken. Dorothy did as she was told, but once left alone, she stared up at the ceiling with empty eyes, listening for the world outside: barking dogs, the creak of a cart on frost, the distant chatter of schoolchildren on their way home.
She drifted into sleep more and more often. Shed wake to find either the sunrise or the deep hush of midnight. The wood in the stove popped and crackled. Icy meltwater dripped tentatively from the roof. God, when will I die? Oh, please let me die Dorothy thought again and again.
From the earliest age, Dorothy had known one harsh truth: her lot in life was a steep, muddy slope bristling with gorse and brambles. All she could do was tumble down, battered and bruised with no one to catch her fall, no hope of climbing back to sunshine atop the hill. Everyone around her lived the same way; she expected nothing else. Life was a long, grinding downward slip, endured in silence, jaw clenched to bite back any cry.
That year, spring was late and cruel. It arrived not with gentle warmth but with sharp winds and relentless drizzles, turning roads to an eerie, bottomless mud. The snow faded only by May, uncovering clammy, worn-out earth like the hide of an old dog. Birches stalled, their leaves slow to unfold; the orchards stood black and bare as if burned. Dorothy, her hair wound into a heavy knot beneath her damp scarf, trudged back from the well. The buckets on her yoke sloshed water over her aching, split feet into the freezing puddles. On the other side of the village lane, men huddled beneath the crooked fence, puffing on cigarettes, muttering under the fine drizzle, glancing at her but Dorothy passed them by, eyes down. She had long since learned to blend in, just a faded shape in this bleak, grey landscape.
Dorothy! barked old Mrs. Agnes, the farm girl whod once worked beside Dorothy for the squires widow. Her shout cut through the soggy air, demanding obedience. Run to the shop! Tell Geoff to give us the prettiest chintz for missflowers, mind! Dont dawdle! Big to-do tonight, setting up for guests from London. Mind you pick some flowers!
Dorothy silently set the buckets on the step, careful not to waste the precious water, dusted her apron, and started towards the village edge. She was only twenty-two, but it felt as though her life had already slipped past, barely touching her. Twelve years ago, when both her parents died, the grasping widow-squire had taken her in for a crust of bread. Shed been a scrawny, beaten girl, rabbit-eyed and jumpy, dreading every new shout or sudden noise. Now shed grown tall and broad, with calloused hands and eyes always trained on the ground, all sparkle long since gone.
She worked dawn till dusk, until her ears rang and her legs ached with a dead weight. Dorothy chopped wood in autumns icy rain, milked the goat in a frozen shed, lugged clay for the oven, washed laundry at the river until her hands stung and turned numb. She weeded under the searing sun, close to the fat, ripe blackberries and raspberries that made her dizzy with their scentbut not a single berry could she eat, for the squires wife counted every one, thrashing her for any that went missing, hissing, Theyre not for you, you useless thing! Dorothy learnt to keep her gaze straight ahead. She wrenched up weeds with fury, bit her lips to stifle tears, striving to please, hoping the squires wife would leave her be, just once. Until dusk, Dorothys thin back flitted amongst the lush green orchard, always hunched, ignoring the tempting fruit hanging just overhead. But she endured.
Every Saturday, she scrubbed the bathhouse. Dragged heavy, slippery buckets from the river, fired up the sauna until she nearly fainted in the heat, red rings dancing before her eyes. In the suffocating steam, she scoured the squires sprawling, flabby back with coarse soap until her own vision blurred and nausea rose up. The old lady would slowly turn, presenting first one shoulder, then the other, forcing Dorothy to go over the loose flesh again and again. Dorothy toweled the mistress dry and dressed her, then hauled her back inside the house. Her head throbbed, her stomach churned. The old lady griped, snapped, got her in the side, or sometimes, if feeling generous, tugged Dorothys cheek with a wet hand and called her a packhorse. Dorothy was used to it. She knew nothing elseheld no dreams of anything better. Between herself and the world stood some invisible walla wall of exhaustion, indifference, of some hope long buried alive. It no longer mattered what she wore or who spoke to her, nor what rags the old woman threw at her for holidays. The girls evening chats bored her, the boys rough jokes and pinches were met with total indifference. She never idlednot that the mistress would let her.
Once, as Dorothy stood on a stool, carefully polishing the tall mirror, the old squires wife mused aloud,
Dorothy, maybe we should marry you off? Would you like that?
Dorothy climbed down, wrung out her cloth, and replied evenly,
Whatever you say, maam.
Or will you become an old maid?
Makes no odds to me.
Exactly! the old lady snorted, clapping her on the back, Better off an old maid. Otherwise youll end up with a pack of brats, nothing but shrieking and chaos. With those hips, youd bear half a dozen! Lucky girl, not like my poor Polly.
She crossed herself, frowning with the effort of decision, but her daughter called from another room and the question was dropped.
That conversation stirred no feeling inside Dorothy. Her soul slept quietly, serenely, and dumbly. She was healthy and strong, and though some basic longing might have prompted her towards the simplest desires, something always stood in her waya shadowy barrier shutting her off. Beyond that wall, Dorothy found comfort of a sortlife without pain, without hope, without want. Men and boys had grown used to her stoic beauty and the way she never hinted at feeling; thus, none harboured the usual longing for her. Old Joe the groom grumbled once, Dorothys beautys not for men. She belongs to God alone. And so it might have stayed, if fate hadnt torn a hole in her quiet world, drawing Dorothy into the land of the living, if only a little while.
It happened in early June when at last the air warmed and the meadows burst into lush, green life. Important guests were expected at the manor. The young mistress, pale and wan, was to receive a young gentleman from London, rumoured to be offering for her hand. Dorothy was sent to pick daisies by the riverbank for the drawing room. As she descended the bank, careful on the soft grass, a strange young man blocked her path. He was wearing a smart waistcoat over an embroidered shirt, and shining black boots. He had cheeky, confident eyes and neatly parted hair, slicked back with pomade. This was Greg, the horseman from the neighbouring estate, visiting with the same London gentleman. He stood, legs spread, eyeing Dorothy as though sizing up a cart horse at the fair.
Good day, beauty, he smirked, looking her over from head to toe, his glance lingering on her strong arms and the swelling chest beneath her faded blouse.
Dorothy didnt look at him. Silently, she stepped aside, trying to get around him, but he moved too, blocking her again.
What do you want? she muttered, still staring at her feet.
Whats your name?
The one who gave it knows, and thats all you need! she retorted, brushing by him like he was a fence post.
Greg wasnt put off. He began coming every week, and Dorothy heard his brash, loud voice in the yard, felt his heavy gaze on her back as she whitewashed the walls or scrubbed endless dishes. He crossed her path at the well, by the barn, on the back step, throwing crude jokes and trying to pinch her. Each time Dorothy simply moved away, not deigning to notice him. Once, when she entered the empty barn for flour, he leapt out and grabbed her round the waist, pressing her against the sacks. She didnt even cry outsomething ancient and animal awoke in her. She pushed him so hard he thudded off the wall. Dorothy stood, towering over him, face unreadable.
That was foolish of you…
She straightened her scarf, brushed off her skirt, and left him on the damp hay. Greg nursed his head, watching her go. Something fierce lit up behind his paina new, sharp curiosity. He was used to giggling girls who clung to his neck. This silent, solid woman, her strong arms and impassive face, was stronger than hed thought.
Yet Dorothy She wasnt untouched by it all. She felt no giddy attraction for Greg, but what was happening to her was strange and new. She had no clear thoughts or wishesthey didnt even occur to her. He was but a spark that set something stirring, luminous and bright inside.
Dorothy began to smile more. She longed to feel that strange ache in her chest again, the longing Greg had unwittingly awakened. She rose before dawn to watch the sunrise over the misty fields, milked the cow, lingered to watch the morning light dazzle the grass with dew. She wanted to collapse into that green meadow and laugh for the pure joy of life and strength. She didnt really understand what she wantedjust to live, simply live. Catching herself idle, shed dash off to find work. So a month passed.
Gregs advances got nowhereexcept a kiss he stole in the cellar for which he earned a ringing slap. Dorothys strong hand landed on his cheek, enough to deter him, but his persistence left its mark. One day, as Dorothy poured water from her buckets and saw Greg nearby, she met his gaze sidewise and smiled, a shy, glimmering thing. Another time, he saw she stared after him from her window as he set to the horses. Not that it meant much, but Greg was not ready to give up. Though whatever it could be between them, it was always short-lived.
Once, Greg stood up for a farm lad, caught stealing in the squires field. The mistress ordered the horseman to flog the boy. Dorothy witnessing the scene, trembled with fury, rushing to throw herself between the whip and the child, but the groom shoved her aside. Dorothy grabbed a log, ready to strike the man from behind. The small crowd froze. Dorothy crept forwardthen suddenly Greg raced in, snatched away the whip and struck at the grooms beard.
Get out! Ill tell the mistress myself. Go onout!
Women rushed to the sobbing boy, asking his name, trying to soothe him. The boy whimpered through tears,
My mum passed yesterday Shes gone
Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth. The memory of her own childhood crashed down upon her like a blow. She saw herself in that child. Tearing open the front of her blouse, snapping the string with her copper cross, she fled to her tiny room and collapsed on the bed. Racked by sobs, her shoulders shook, fingers twisted tight into the thin blanket. She cried for herself, for her own helplessness, for a longing for something shed never knownnot even its name.
Greg found her there. He crept inside, opened the creaky door, and sat by her side. He said nothing extra, just put his arm around her trembling shoulders, and for the first time, Dorothy didnt shrug him off. She pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his strong, young body, and was still. Tears still streamed, but her howling ceased. She sat quietly, listening to his breathing. Then she whispered,
Whats out there, past the woods? Whats next?
The city, he replied, a little surprised by the question. A big city. With merchant houses, shops, cathedrals.
And then?
Beyond thatanother city, and a railway. And then the sea, or so they say. Far away.
Dorothy was silent. She had never seen the sea, even the river frightened her to cross. But suddenly she longed to see it. She wanted to escape, away from the blows, the endless toil, the name-calling, the role of beast of burdenshe wanted to be human. She slowly turned to Greg, took his face in her cracked, rough hands and met his eyes, clear and direct, for the first time.
Will you take me away? Will you marry me?
Greg faltered; he was reckless, loved to boast, but marriage was a step too serious. Hesitant, he looked away, mumbling about patience and needing money. But Dorothy wasnt listening. The dam had burst. Suddenly, she was bold, urgent, almost wild in her resolve; she pulled him close, kissing him fiercely, saying she didnt care what others thoughtshed do anything just for a chance to be with him and to leave. That night she lost the copper cross shed worn alwaysthe string snapped, and she let it slip away into the darkness. She didnt bother searching. So be it, she said quietly, an odd, solemn acceptance in her voice.
Greg returned twice more. Their meetings were secretout by the hayrick, in the old cellar, beyond the fields in the willow thickets. Dorothy bloomed before their eyes. She walked lighter, head up like a girl, a pink flush in her cheeks, a shine in her eyes, even learning to smile again, shy and awkward.
But it all ended. The squires daughters wedding came, loud and drunken, and the young gentleman whisked her off to London. Greg, naturally, went with them. No one bothered to tell Dorothy. She only learned from the cook, who, with some pity, said, Hes gone now, Dorothy. Chasing the wind, love.
Dorothy waited. Each evening she went to the road, squinting at the grey ribbon stretching into the woods. She stood for hours, arms folded over her chest, staring into the distance until dusk fell and the first stars blinked on. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping, became pale and hollow-eyed, her face almost translucent, eyes burning with a wild, feverish light. Agnes, the old farm worker, scolded, shoved her, called her an idiot, even flung a bowl at her, but Dorothy only smiled with that vacant, blissful expression. She was certainhe would return. He would. She felt it in every trembling fibre of her battered body.
The summer passed, oppressive and stormy, rumbling with thunder and lashing rain. Autumn came, bleak, sodden, endless fog, and falling leaves. Dorothy grew fond of gazing at the far horizon, where the woods met the sky. She believed that with patience, long enough, Greg would surely come back. She never asked about him, and even if she was told, she didnt understandshe just smiled. She knew that if her life had ever shone with such a bright, gentle happiness when shed kissed him, he must yearn for those days too. Who could not want happiness? She convinced herself all it would take was to wait. She barely spoke, only thought deeply, attacking each task with harsh intensity to speed through her work. In idle moments, shed sit, gazing at nothing, vision drifting over everything. Days, months, years slurred together, decaying in a single heap. And Dorothy waited.
One late October day, with trees stripped bare and fields black with damp, Dorothy was digging in her little garden when suddenly she saw, at the distant edge of the field, a lone figure. Her heart skipped painfully. She was sure it was Greg. Dropping her spade, she ran, arms flailing, shouting his name in a ravaged voice:
Wait! Wait for me!
The man didnt turn, perhaps didnt hear. Dorothy reached the swollen river, panicked at the waters edgeshe couldnt swim, and he was far off on the other bank. She climbed onto a fallen log, eyes straining to catch one last glimpse as his fair hair blurred into his shirt, the whole shape shrinking, flickering, and then gone. She stood on tiptoe, stretching fruitlessly to be closer, sight fixed on the expanse of endless green meadow.
A neighbouring woman, out digging raspberry canes, found her. She approached, shaking her head.
Why are you just sitting there, love? Whats the rush?
That was Greg, Dorothy replied, not turning round.
Which Greg?
The horseman Used to come with the young master.
You mean from the old estate next door? Whyd you care? the woman asked. I heard he married years agolives in Oakhurst still, same as always.
Dont lie to me, Dorothy said softly, her voice haunted and strange enough to make her neighbour back away.
Not lying, silly! Lord help us. My brothers been, seen himloads of kids, poor as church mice. Said hes crippled now, bedridden after a cart accident. Maybe dead by now, he was real bad last time. What are you laughing for?
Ha-ha-ha! Dorothy replied, laughing fiercely, hair wild, skirt rucked, her knees whitening in the watery sun. But her laughter was sharp, cracked, not quite human.
Off your rocker, you are, muttered the neighbour, making the sign of the cross in quick, anxious motions. Hes surely dead and buried, and there you are, cackling away. Poor creature!
Oh, hes young, and handsome, and strong, Dorothy pressed her hand to her chest, eyes flashing with feverish brilliance. And Idyou know who I am?
Who, then?
His wife. Weve no children yet, Ive not quickened
Dotty, youre mad! Its been decades since he was young! Hes nearly fifty! Lets go, please
Dorothy laughed, still eyeing her mutely, eyes glazed and unfocused.
Whyd you lie to me? Why?
Poor soul, thought the neighbour, stepping back. Mad as a hatter, may the Lord not hold it against her! And she hurried off, moving carefully around the seated Dorothy.
After that, the whole village openly called her touched. Dorothy never wept again nor waited in the way she once had. She worked her rough patch of earth in silence, with even more harsh dedication, as if to hammer down the pain that curled in her chest. In rare idle hours, shed sit on the step watching the trees, believing that beyond lay the sea shed never known except by its gentle, haunting name. In her eyes was held that hollowed, tranquil emptiness the villagers crossed themselves to avoid.
While she could still move aboutsometimes, in the high noon of June, as the air was drenched with sweet peonies and linden blossom, Dorothy would put on her clean blouse, comb her long, streaked hair, walk onto the meadow, and gaze at the far line where the woods bled into sky. Shed stand, unmovingstill tall, but no longer beautifuland in her stance, there was something ancient, patient, as though shed become part of the land, waiting not years, but centuries. If anyone, out of curiosity or pity, asked her whom she awaited, she answered softly, with a gentle, bright smile,
My happiness. Its out there, beyond the woods. Greg promised to visit today.
Poor lovea lost cause, people would say.
And only the wind whispered in the tops of the trees, and the river rolled on with its slow, constant music; far, far away, beyond woods and fields and cities, roared a sea she would never meet, save in name.
The door creaked. Margaret was there to light the fire. Dorothy turned to her, eyes dull as stones.
So, then? How are your feet? Margaret asked.
The old woman only mumbled.
Eh? Cant hear you!
just want to die No, hell never come now. Only death left to wait for
And so Dorothys hollow days drew on. Yet, at the end, there was a simple truth in her waitingin all her emptiness was the seed of hope. Even the loneliest life contains the longing for a happiness just beyond reach. And perhaps, sometimes, the courage is not in finding happiness but in enduring, in hoping, in waiting, however long you must wait.
