THE MAN WITH THE BURDEN
I remember it vividly, that bleak November evening. Sleet hammered at the window, the wind howled down the old flue like some ravenous beast, but there in the clinic, my little wood stove was glowing merrily, the room bathed in warmth. I was just about to gather my things to leave when the door creaked mournfully and in the doorway stood George Thompson. Built like an ox, broad-shouldered and towering, yet he seemed ready to be toppled by that very wind.
In his arms lay his daughter, little Daisy. He set her down gently on the stretcher and stepped back, pressing himself against the wall, stiff and silent as a statue. My heart plummeted when I saw her. Her cheeks were flushed, lips dry and cracked, her small body trembling, mumbling, Mummy mummy She wasnt five yet. I checked her temperaturemy word, nearly forty degrees!
George, why did you wait? How longs she been like this? I asked sharply, already breaking open an ampoule, preparing the syringe.
He said nothing. Gaze fixed on the floor, jaw set rigid under stubble, fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. He looked miles away, trapped somewhere deep inside his own misery. It hit me thenthis man needed medicine as much as the child did. His soul was in tatters, carrying wounds no fever could match.
I gave Daisy the injection, rubbed her down, until gradually her breathing calmed. I perched on the edge of the stretcher, stroking her burning brow, and spoke quietly to George.
Stay here, would you? Whats the use traipsing off into this foul weather? You can stretch out on the sofa. Ill keep an eye on her.
He only shook his head, refusing to budge. There he stood, sentinel at the wall until the birds began to sing at dawn. All night I changed compresses, sipped her water, watched her fever slowly subsideand thought and thought
People in our village, Willowbrook, always talked about George. A year ago, his wife Catherine had drowned. She was beautiful, bright as a brook. After her death, George just turned to stone. He worked like three men, kept the house tidy, cared for Daisy, but his eyes were empty, dead. Whispered hellos and nothing more. Gossip spread that on that tragic day, theyd quarreled at the river and, fueled by drink, hed said something harsh. Catherine, crushed, had walked into the water, he didnt stop her. Since then he hadnt touched a drop, but guilt can poison a man far deeper than whisky. Folks spoke of George as the man with extra baggage. Only, the baggage wasnt his daughter, but the sorrow he dragged everywhere.
By morning, Daisy improved. She opened her clear blue eyesher mothers eyeslooked at me, then her father, and her bottom lip trembled again. George edged towards her, awkwardly brushed her hand, then snatched his own away, burned by the contact. He was frightened of her, you see? All his Catherine reflected back at him in that tiny face.
I kept them another day. Cooked some chicken broth, fed Daisy by the spoonful; she ate silently, calmly. Words had become rare in their house since the tragedy: just yes, no from Daisy, even less from her father. Hed pour her soup, cut her bread, all in silenceplait her hair with those rough, massive handsnot a word. The silence between them hung so thick, the whole house seemed to ring with sorrow.
It was the same day after day. Daisy got stronger, but I couldnt leave them be. Id pop by with scones, bring a jar of jam pretending Id nowhere else to put it, just so I could see how they managed. They lived like two strangers under the same roof. An icy wall stood between them, and nobody knew how to melt it.
Then spring arrived, and with it, a new teacher at the village school: Miss Olivia Graham, straight from London. Quiet and refined, with that faraway sadness in her brown eyes. Clearly, she had her own heartbreak. Nobody moves to a place like Willowbrook without reason. She took to the little ones, teaching them kindness and arithmetic, and Daisy landed in her class.
Sometimes, a small sunbeam breaks into the darkest room. Miss Graham noticed Daisy straight away, sensed her heavy silence. Gradually, day by day, she began to warm her. Shed bring Daisy picture books, gift her coloured pencils, read fairytales after lessons. Daisy, shyly at first, gravitated towards her.
One day, I dropped by the school to check the headmasters blood pressure. There they sat together, classroom empty apart from them. Olivia read aloud, Daisy curled against her, listening, face at peacea gentle joy I hadnt seen in her for ages.
George didnt like this at all; his face turned to granite whenever he saw Daisy with Miss Graham. Hed mutter Home, haul her away by the armno thank you, not even a goodbye. To him, Olivias kindness smelled of pity, which hurt worse than a slap.
One afternoon they crossed paths outside the village shop. Olivia and Daisy shared an ice lolly, smiles on their lips. George saw them, scowled. Olivia gave him a warm smile.
Good afternoon, Mr Thompson. Were just spoiling your little one a bit.
He glowered, snatched the ice lolly from Daisy and chucked it in the bin.
No need. Leave us to it. Well manage fine.
Daisy burst into tears and Olivia just stood frozen, her eyes full of pain and disappointment. George strode away, dragging his weeping daughter. My heart shattered to see it. Oh, George, you silly man. Hurting yourself, and your child too.
That evening, George came to me for heart drops. Pressure, he said. I poured him a glass, sat across from him.
Its not your heart, George. Its grief, strangling you, I said gently. You think youre protecting her with silence? Youre breaking her. She needs a kind word, warmth. Not just hot soup. Loves in a look, in a touch. Youre so scared to see her, to hold her. Let Catherine go, George. You cant live with the dead.
He stared at the floor, quiet, agony swimming in his eyes as he looked up.
I cant, Mrs Smith. I just cant.
And off he went. I sat thinkingsometimes, its far easier to forgive someone else than to forgive yourself.
Then the day came that changed everything. Late May, with hawthorn blooming and earth smelling fresh. Olivia once again sat with Daisy after lessons, painting on the school steps. Daisy drew a house, the sun, a big figureher dad. Beside him, a terrible black scribble, charcoal dark.
Olivia saw the drawing. Something inside her must have broken. She took Daisys hand and they walked to the Thompsons house.
I just happened to be passing, wondering if they needed anything. Olivia hesitated at the garden gate. In the yard, George, sawing logs, fierce and wild, splinters flying.
Olivia steeled herself, stepped into the yard. George cut the saw, turned around, face thunderous.
I warned
Forgive me, Olivia said softly. Im not here for you. I just brought Daisy home. But theres something I think you should know.
And she began to talk. Not loudly, but her words seemed to carry across the whole street. She told him about her own painher husband, lost in a car crash, whom shed loved more than life. Shed spent a year shut away, curtains drawn, unable even to want to live.
I blamed myself too, her voice quavered. If I hadnt let him go that day if Id asked him to stay I was drowning in it, Mr Thompson. Nearly lost myself. But then I realisedmy grief didnt honour his memory. He loved life. He wanted me to live. So I stood up, I forced myself to breathe, for him. You cant live among the dead when the living need you.
George listened, stricken. Little by little that mask of stone slid from his face. Then, suddenly, he hid his face in his hands, his whole huge frame shakingnot sobbing, just shaking to the core.
It was my fault, he rasped through his fingers. We werent fighting we were laughing. She, silly thing, splashed into the river, water freezing. I yelled, she laughed. Then she slipped on a stone, struck her head I dived in, hunted for her but she was already I couldnt save her. I failed.
Right then, Daisy appeared on the doorstep. She must have heard through the open window. She watched her father sob without fearjust limitless, tender love and compassion.
She ran to him, wrapped her little arms around his sturdy legs, and said in a clear, strong voice I hadnt heard from her in a year:
Daddy. Dont cry. Mummys on a cloud. Shes looking at us. She isnt cross.
And George dropped to his knees, clutching his daughter tight and wept, aloud, openly, like a child. She stroked his rough cheek, his hair, repeating over and over: Dont cry, Daddy, dont cry. Olivia stood by, tears in her eyestears that cleansed, not wounded.
Time passed. Summer melted into autumn, then back to spring again. And in Willowbrook, we gained a new familynot by law, but in truth.
One day, I sat on the garden bench, sun on my face, bees buzzing in the blossom. There they were: George, Olivia, and Daisy, hand in hand, strolling down the lane. Daisys cheerful voice chimed like a bell, her laughter bright as morning.
As for George you should have seen him. Upright, alive, light in his eyes as he looked at Olivia, at Daisy, and smiled that quiet, contented smile of a man whos found his treasure.
They stopped beside me.
Good afternoon, Mrs Smith, George greeted, voice warm as the hearth.
Daisy dashed over, offered me a posy of dandelions.
Theyre for you!
I took the flowers, eyes bright with tears, joy swelling in my heart. Hed let go of that weight at lastor perhaps, he’d been helped. Love had done its workboth a child’s and a woman’s.
They walked on, towards the river. And I thoughtperhaps that river is no longer a place of grief for them, but simply a river, a place to sit together and watch the water carry away all sorrow.
And what do you think, my dears? Can a person really pull themselves free of grief alone, or do they always need someone to reach out a hand?
