The Empty Life of Dorothy
The snow no longer stung Dorothys bare feetshe couldnt feel them anymore. Only the wind, sharp as a whip, lashed her face, her arms, her neck, cutting right through her thin nightdress. Her once-blonde hair, heavy with snow, hung in frozen clumps, nearly breaking like icicles. The blizzard howled, swirling around her, leaving her confused and lost in her own garden. Pressed against the cold wooden fence for support, she folded her arms over her chest and began to wail:
Oh, let me just die already! Please take me, Lord! Let me go
She would have died out there that night, frozen stiff, if it werent for her neighbour, Mrs Jane Harris, who was up checking on her cow in the early hours. Jane noticed Dorothys door hanging open with a thin slice of yellow light leaking out into the swirling white.
Dorothy! Are you faffing about outside in this?
But there Dorothy stood, huddled in a corner of the garden, hidden from view by the blowing snow and the bent trees, eyes squeezed shut, mumbling to herself in a broken record: Let me die, let me die
Jane dashed across, rushing through Dorothy’s gate.
“Dorothy, where are you? Dorothy, you old fool Dorothy!”
Even if shed wanted to, Dorothy couldnt have answered. Sighing, she slid down the fence, muttering incoherently, her tangled grey head drooping to her knees. Her thin cheeks glistened with tears. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders, tried to pull her up, but Dorothy had gone stiff with cold.
“Oh you daft old bird! Hang on!” called Jane, then raced back to get her husband. Between the two of them, they managed to carry Dorothy back inside.
Dorothy was bedridden from then on. In the morning, a young NHS nurse arrived, surprised that at ninety-one, Dorothy hadnt even caught a cold, only suffered frostbite on her feet. The nurse bent over Dorothys face and asked gently,
You should be in hospital. Shall I call for an ambulance?
Dorothy gazed sadly at the girls dark hair, her wind-burned cheeks, and shook her head stubbornly.
No need for all that. Ill stay here. Dont waste your time, my dear. Im past all help. Go on, love, off you go.
Dorothy lay like that for two weeks. Why shed gone out that night in nothing but a nightdress, no one could say. Most put it down to foolishness, but to Dorothy, it felt almost fatefula force bigger than herself. The night before, shed sat on her bed, unravelling a knitted sock by dim lamplight, her old hands working from habit, her thoughts leagues away. Her eyes glazed over, she stared at a patch on the wall, a strange smile flickering across her face as memoriesdistant, fadedrose and fell.
Her life, from the start, had been nothing but hard work and need, a life of grinding poverty relieved by only a single, brief flash of happinessa fleeting rush of love.
His name was George.
George my George she whispered through cracked lips, that eerie smile widening with the memory.
In dreamsor perhaps in the drowsy haze before sleepshe imagined walking over to the fields beyond the old estate. Shed shade her eyes from the sun, waiting for him, hope battling with fear inside. And there, shimmering in the wheat, shed see a mans figure, and shed run, calling wildly: George! George!
Under these dreams, Dorothy drifted off. But late in the night she awoke, restless and anxious. She glanced at the windowoutside, the storm raged still. Tossing back her blanket, she groped blindly for the wall and made her way to the door.
I wont be long just a moment
Out she stepped, bare feet numb with cold, not even aware of her own shivering, into the swirl of white that had buried the village. Again, she stretched out her hand, as if trying to summon him.
George!
Icy air bit her skin as she stumbled down the frozen steps, blindly chasing after the memory that lived just beyond the garden fence.
Im here, George! Here!
She reached the fence, peered and wandered along, searching desperately for him. Only then did the numbness in her feet seep into her bones. Bumping into trees, fenceposts, stumbling deeper into driftslost and coldDorothy surrendered, and thats where the neighbours found her.
Jane came every day after that with a casserole or a pie, checking up on her, stoking the old Rayburn fire. The young nurse kept changing the dressings, smoothing pungent ointment over Dorothys blackened feet, telling her to take her temperature. Dorothy obeyed, but as soon as she was alone, she stared at the ceiling with empty eyes, her soul straining towards any sound from outsidethe barking of dogs, the rumbling of a milk lorry, the skittering of schoolchildren returning home.
More and more she drifted in and out of sleep, waking to find morning had turned to night, or night to morning, logs popping in the hearth, raindrops pattering on the leaky roof. Over and over she thought, Lord, let me die. Why must I linger?
From her earliest memory, Dorothy had learned one bitter truth: her life was a steep, muddy slope, thorns and brambles snagging at every turn. All one could do was hold on, grit ones teeth against the falls, knowing no hand was coming to steady you, no saviour to haul you back to the summit. She never expected morenot when everyone around her lived the same way. Life was a long, exhausting tumble, and the only thing left was to endure in silence.
That year, spring was late and mean. It came not with gentle warmth but biting wind and endless grey rain, turning the roads to sludge. It was nearly May before the last crusts of snow melted, revealing earth as bald and sodden as an old mans crown. The trees were slow to bud, and the gardens stood blackened, bare.
Dorothy trudged back from the village pump, her headscarf soaked, buckets jouncing from a yoke and splashing ice-cold water over her cracked, bleeding feet. Men, hunched under drizzle, smoked by a broken stile, talking in mutters as she passedDorothy never met their eyes. Shed long since learned the art of invisibility.
Dorothy! called Mrs Agatha Brown, another servant at the manor since the old days, her command ringing out like a bell. Pop to the shop, will you? Tell Arthur I need the best chintz for the young missand dont dawdle! Guests are coming tonight, and pick some flowers on your way back!
Dorothy silently set the water buckets on the back step, wiped her hands on her grimy apron, and plodded off towards the village edge. She was only twenty-two, but she felt as though shed skipped youth altogether. Her parents had died when she was ten, and the sharp-tongued, penny-pinching widow of the estate had taken her on as a skivvyroom and board, she called it. Dorothy had been a skinny, frightened girl then, flinching at every noise, every harsh word. Now, she was tall and sturdy, silent and strong, her hands rough and her back always bent, the light in her eyes snuffed out for good.
She worked from dawn to dusk, until her arms shook with fatigue and her head hummed like a kettle. She split logs in the icy rain, milked goats in freezing barns, mixed mud for patching the chimney, scrubbed linen in the winter river until her fingers froze solid. She weeded the vegetable garden under the glare of a July sun, scarlet currants dangling so temptingly she nearly swooned from their scentand all the while, she didnt dare steal a single berry. The mistress counted every one and would thrash her with nettles for a missing handful. Dorothy learned not to look sideways, yanked the weeds with fury and bit her lip to stifle tears, desperate always to please, or at least avoid another beating.
On Saturdays she prepared the bathhouse, hauling steaming buckets in from the river, firing up the stove until steam filled her head and spots swam before her eyes. Then, in the choking heat and vapour, she would scrub her mistresss heavy back with a stiff brush until her own strength failed. The old woman would turn this way and that, griping and pinching, sometimes patting Dorothys cheek when in good spirits and calling her my sturdy dray horse. But Dorothy never minded, never dreamed of any other life, numb behind an unseen wall of exhaustion, indifference, and long-buried hope. It made little difference to her what rag she wore, who spoke to her, or what scraps were tossed her way on festival days. She never lingered at village gatherings, and the local lads soon lost all interest in her, watching her toil with a wordless awe as if she belonged to some other world entirely.
Once, as she stood on a stool, polishing the tall drawing room mirror, the lady of the manor paused in thought.
Dorothy, shall we marry you off, do you think? Would you like that?
Dorothy stepped down, squeezed out her cloth, and shrugged.
As you wish, Maam.
Or will you become an old maid?
Makes no odds to me.
Ha! her mistress crowed, slapping her shoulder. Best you stay single. All those squalling children, and youd breed them by the dozen! Lucky you with those hipsnot like my Paulines.
She almost crossed herself at the mention of her daughter, but thought better of it. She fancied marrying Dorothy off for want of drama, but couldnt quite face losing her best workhorse either. The thought was carried away by Paulines voice calling from another room.
This conversation didnt rouse a single feeling in Dorothy. Her soul slept quietly, dumbly. Healthy and robust as she was, she didnt want anything from lifenot even the simple, natural joys of others. There was a wall, strange and unexplained, separating her from the world, and behind that wall she lived, if not happily, then at least untroubled. Even the men grew used to her sturdy charms, her singular grace unaccompanied by any invitation, and stopped paying her mind altogether. The old horseman, Arthur, once quipped, Dorothys beauty isnt for the likes of usit must belong to God. And so, things would have remained, but fateor rather follytipped her life over the edge, giving her a fleeting glimpse of the world beyond her wall.
It happened at the start of June, the air finally warm, the meadows lush with green. Expecting esteemed company at the manor, the young mistress sent Dorothy to gather daisies for the parlour. Dorothy made her way down to the riverbank, careful on the slippery grass, when a strange young man blocked her path. He was dressed smartly in a waistcoat over an embroidered shirt, shiny boots looking almost out of place in the muddied field. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and his hair, parted and slick with pomade, gleamed despite the grey day. This was George, the groom from a neighbouring estate, who had come with the young lord.
Good day to you, beauty, he smirked, sizing her up in the open way a man sizes a prize at market, pausing on her strong arms and high chest.
Dorothy didnt even look at him. She stepped aside wordlessly, but so did herefusing to let her by.
What are you after? she asked, not lifting her gaze.
Whats your name?
The one who needs it knows it, and its not for you, she replied, brushing past him as though he were a fencepost.
But George was persistent. Each week, whenever the young lord visited the manor, George would be there too, his cheerful voice echoing right across the yard, his watchful eyes never far from Dorothy as she scrubbed dishes or whitewashed the walls. Shed find him loitering near the pump, the cart shed, the back door, cracking jokes and trying at every turn to catch her attention. Once, finding her alone in the larder, he startled her, grabbing around her waist. Instead of yelping, Dorothy pushed him off with such strength that he smacked his head hard against the doorframe. Her look was calm, even pitying.
Thatll teach you, she muttered, straightening her headscarf before turning on her heel.
George sat, rubbing his bruised skull, watching her leave. In his eyes now, alongside irritation, burned a new curiosity. He was used to girls who fluttered and giggledDorothys cool indifference was a novelty.
Dorothy herself was neither thrilled nor nervous; what happened between them struck her as strange and a little excitinglike a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She woke earlier, eager to see the dawn rising beyond the misty meadow, watched the sun melt the dew on the grass, felt herself wanting to laugh, to lie down and feel the freedom of living. She didnt understand her own longingshe simply carried on, working to stifle any idleness.
A month passed in this way.
George made little headway beyond a stolen kiss (for which he earned a stinging slap in return). But he persevered. One day, when Dorothy spilled water and he reached to help, she shot him a shy, furtive smile. Another time, he caught her gazing at him through the kitchen window while he brushed the horses. It hardly matteredbut it was enough to keep hope alive. Their story, if it was a story, was brief.
One afternoon, George intervened when the head groom was ordered to thrash a lad caught pinching apples in the orchard. Dorothy, face trembling, rushed to shield the boy, but the groom shoved her aside. She grabbed a log, meaning to swing, but before she could, George snatched the whip from the mans hand.
Get goneand dont come back! Ill speak to the lady myself. Out!
The village women hurried over to comfort the crying boy. Whats your name, love? they cooed. He muttered something, then whimpered,
My mum died yesterday she died!
Dorothy clamped a hand to her mouth. The words struck her like a stone. Suddenly she saw herself in that boya lonely orphan, overlooked and worn down. Fumbling with the collar of her blouse, snapping the string that held her only cross, she fled to her attic room, collapsing on the bed, shaking with silent sobs, clutching the thin counterpane. She wept from pity for herself and a deep, raw pain for everything shed never had.
George found her eventuallyletting himself quietly into her room and sitting next to her on the edge of the rickety bed. He didnt say much, just drew her gently into his arms. For the first time ever, she didnt fend him off. She pressed against him, feeling the heat of life and youth for once, sobs slowly dying away as she sat and listened to his steady breathing.
Whats beyond those trees, George? What comes next?
The city, he answered, surprised by her question. Big grand houses, shops, cathedrals.
And farther still?
Another city, a railway and then the sea, they say. Miles off yet.
Dorothy lapsed into silence. Shed never seen the seadrowning even in the river scared her. But she longed now, desperately, to see it; to leave this place of toil and beatings, where even her name was denied her. She wanted to become someone new. She turned to George, cupped his face in her rough hands, and asked, for the first time looking right into his eyes,
Will you take me away? Will you marry me?
George faltered. He liked impressing village girls, but wasnt ready for more. He shifted, mumbled about waiting, saving money, how these things werent so simple. But Dorothy had already started down her roadfloodgates open, bold and breathless.
That night she lost her little copper cross. The thread snapped and it vanished in the dark. She didnt search for it. So be it, she murmured quietly, something resolute and proud in her tone.
George visited twice more, meeting Dorothy in secret behind the shed or by the elder trees. Dorothy bloomed. Her walk was lighter, her face flushed with colour and a new, uncertain joy. She began smiling, awkwardly teaching herself to feel hope.
Then, suddenly, it ended. The young misss wedding came with all its finery and the bridegroom whisked her away to London, George leaving with them. No one told Dorothy. The cook broke the news one morning, with careful sympathy: Hes gone, Dorothy. Gone to London. Best forget.
But Dorothy waited still. Each evening, shed leave the cottage to stand by the dusty country road, hands folded, heart racing with hope as sunset fell. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping, her gaunt, lovely face haunted by a feverish glow. Agatha scolded her, threw pans, called her a fool, but Dorothy only smiled back in that blissful, vacant way. She believed, to her bones, he would return. Of course he would.
The long, humid summer passed; then autumn settled incold, grey, the evenings pressing in with fog and falling leaves. Dorothy came to love the horizon, where the tree line brushed against the clouds. If only she could wait long enough, she felt certain, George would come back. She never asked about him, and if anyone told her otherwise she just smiled, convinced that only some dark magic kept him away.
Her speech grew terseshe was always thinking, impatient and angry at herself for falling behind in chores, doing everything as quickly as she could. In her spare moments, she just sat, gazing through the landscape at something no one else could see. The days and months and years piled together, faceless and indistinguishable. Dorothy waited.
One October morning, with the trees stripped and the fields black with rain, Dorothy, out digging in her garden, suddenly straightened. On the far side of the meadow, just where the trees thickened, she spotted a lone man. Her heart stalled. It must be George. She flung down the spade and ran, arms swinging, calling his name in a cracked, desperate voice.
Wait! Wait!
But the man never turnedperhaps hed never heard her. She chased as far as the swollen brook, stumbling helplessly at the edge. She couldnt swim, and anyway he was already gone beyond the water. Desperate, she stood on a log and strained her eyes as his figure slipped away, shrinking into the distance, until all that was left was the endless green field.
It was a neighbour, Mrs Jenkins, who found Dorothy there, knees in the mud, watching the far horizon. Mrs Jenkins shook her head.
Why on earth are you sitting out here? Off chasing ghosts again, are you?
That was George, Dorothy said, eyes fixed ahead.
Whos George?
The groom, remember, from the old estate. Always came with the young master.
Oh that lot dont be daft. Why are you waiting on him?
Im waiting for him.
What for, love? Hes got no time for you. I heard he married years agoliving over in Oakley now, with a brood of children. Sickly too, run over by a cart or some such. Must be dead by now, the state he was last seen in. Times have changed!
Dont lie, Dorothy said softly, her voice edged with quiet madness, and Mrs Jenkins took a step back.
Im not lying! Silly thing, she tutted, crossing herself. If you want to wait, thats your business. But hes long gone. Gone underground, by now.
Hes young, handsome, strong, Dorothy insisted, tapping her chest, her eyes bright with frenzy. And Im his wifeno children yet, of course. Never been with child.
You silly thing! That was years agohell be nearly fifty now! Mrs Jenkins tugged her to her feet. Come on, lets get you inside.
But Dorothy only laughed, a great, wild, tearing laugh, staring past Mrs Jenkins with eyes that saw nothing.
You wicked thingwhyd you lie to me? Why?
Mad, that one, Mrs Jenkins thought as she retreated. Poor soulGod help her, she muttered, making the sign of the cross.
From that day, the village called Dorothy touched. She worked her patch of earth in silence, more fiercely than ever, as though labour could quiet the pain that lived in her chest. In her moments of rest, she took her place on the step, staring out at the woodswhere, she believed, lay the great, unknown sea. And her eyes were so empty, a hollow calm that sent shivers through the hearts of anyone passing by.
While Dorothy still had strength, even on the hottest June days when the air was thick with the perfume of peonies and lime blossom, she would put on her clean blouse, brush out her streaked hair, and walk onto the meadow, standing for ages, fixed on that blue line where wood met sky. She was tall and no longer beautiful, but her stance held a patient dignity, as though she belonged not to years but to centuries. If anyone, out of pity or curiosity, asked who she was waiting for, shed answer with a soft, gentle smile:
For my happiness. Its there, beyond the trees. George promised hed come today.
That poor womans lost her mind, theyd whisper.
And only the wind stirred the leaves, only the river moved on in its slow, eternal path. Beyond the woods, beyond the fields and towns, the seaa place Dorothy dreamed of but never sawmurmured its ancient, distant song.
The door creaked open. Jane had come to re-light the fire and check on Dorothy. Dorothy fixed her faded, colourless eyes on her friend.
How are your feet today? Jane asked gently.
Dorothy mumbled something under her breath. Jane leaned closer.
Im sorry, loveI couldnt hear.
Oh, to die at last No, he wont come back. Theres nothing left now but to wait for the end
And yet, as the river flowed on and the seasons turned, Dorothys lifehard, small, and solitarywhispered the quietest of lessons: even if joy is only a fleeting gleam, even if we wait a lifetime and never find the happiness we seek, we are no less worthy of longing, or loving, or hoping. For sometimes, the strength to endure is the greatest measure of a human soul.
