THE MAN WITH THE BURDEN
I remember it as if it were yesterday, that chilly November evening so many years ago. Rain mixed with sleet beat against the window, and the wind howled down the chimney like some hungry beast. Yet inside the surgery, my old stove crackled, and it was warm and safe. I was just about to pack up when the door creaked open, and in stepped George Somers. A bear of a man, broad-shouldered, but he looked as if that howling wind might sweep him clean off his feet. And in his armsthere, a small bundlehis little daughter, Maisie.
He brought her in and laid her on the camp bed, stepping back to the wall to stand statuelike, eyes fixed somewhere off in his own storms. I took a look at the girl, and my heart thudded to my boots. Her face was flushed, lips dry and chapped, and she trembled like a leaf, whispering over and over, Mummy mummy She was barely four, if that. I checked her fevergoodness, nearly 104!
George, why didnt you come sooner? How long has she been like this? I asked, stern, while my hands were already busy opening an ampoule, getting a syringe ready.
He didnt answer. He simply stared at the floor, muscles working under grey stubble, fists so tight they whitened at the knuckles. He wasnt here with us at all, not in that little room, but drifting somewhere out in his own sorrow. I looked at him just then and knewthere was more to tend than just Maisie. This man’s soul was torn to tatters, his wounds more dangerous than any fever.
I gave the little girl her injection and wiped her gently. Gradually she calmed, her breath steadying. I sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed her brow, then turned to George and spoke softly, You’d best stay here. You’ll sleep on the settee, and Ill keep watch with her. No need to tramp home in this foul weather.
He only gave a nod, but stayed pressed to the wall, the whole night through, like a sentry keeping a vigil. I changed Maisies compresses, gave her water, and saw to it the night passed as gently as possible. My mind wandered, turning and turning over their story.
People in our village had plenty to say about George. The year before, his wife, Catherine, had drowned. Shed been a pretty girl, as bright and clear as a bell. But after her passing, George seemed to petrifywalking about, but not living. He worked harder than three men, kept the house neat, looked after little Maisie, but his eyes were empty, lifeless. Never spoke to anyone if he could avoid itjust grunted hello through his teeth.
Some gossips went so far as to say he and Catherine had quarrelled by the river that dayhed been drinking, and in a moment of hurt shed gone into the water, while he just stood there. But from that day hed not touched a dropthough guilt, as everyone knows, can eat away at the soul far more than whisky ever could. Folk whispered about the man with the burdenonly the burden wasnt the little girl, but the sorrow he dragged along behind him.
By morning, Maisie improved. The fever broke. She opened her eyes, so purely bluejust like her mothersand looked at me, then her father; her lips trembled again. George came over and awkwardly touched her hand, snatching it back as if burned. He was afraid of his own child, you know. She was his Catherine looking back at himhis pain made flesh.
I kept them with me another day. Boiled a chicken for broth and fed Maisie by the spoonful. The child ate silently, as she had done every day since the tragedy, answering everything with a simple yes or no. Her father was even quieter. Hed pour her soup, cut her bread, all in silence. Hed plait her hair with those rough, work-worn handsalso without a word. And that silence in the house, so they say, hummed with grief.
So it went. Maisie grew well again, but I never let them out of sight. Sometimes Id drop by with a pie, or a jar of raspberry jam, pretending Id no use for it myselfbut really, I just needed to see how they managed. They lived together as if strangers, bound by an icy wall no one could break through.
Then, one spring, a new teacher arrivedMiss Olivia Sargent, fresh from the city. Quiet, graceful, with sorrow glimmering behind her gentle eyes. She came to teach the little ones at the village school, and Maisie was in her class.
You know how sunlight finds its way through the smallest crack? Olivia saw Maisies silent sadness right away and set out, little by little, to warm her heart. One day shed bring a picture book, another day a set of coloured pencils, or keep her after lessons to read fairy stories. Maisie was drawn to her as if to a patch of sunlight.
I remember going to the school to see the headmaster and spying the two of them alone in the empty classroom. Olivia read aloud, Maisie nestled closeher face serene, content, at peace in a way I hadnt seen for so long.
At first, George eyed this with suspicion. Hed come to fetch his daughter, find her with the teacher, and his face would turn to stone. Hed mutter, Home, and tug her away. Not a good day to Olivia, nor any thanks. He saw only pity in her kindness, which for him was worse than any slap.
One day he met Olivia and Maisie outside the shop, sharing an ice cream. He scowled, snatched the ice from Maisies little hand and chucked it in the bin. Leave it, will you. Mind your own affairs. Well sort ourselves. Maisie burst into tears. Olivia stood there motionless, pain and indignation flaring in her eyes. George turned and trudged away, daughter sobbing in tow. It near broke my heart to see such a scenefoolish man, I thought, youre ruining everything for both of you.
That evening, he came to me for some medicine. Its my heart, he muttered, pained. I poured him a glass, placed it before him, and sat across.
Its not your heart, George. Its your grief. You think silence will keep your daughter safeyoure wrong. Youre choking her. She needs warmth, a gentle word, not frost. Love isnt just hot soup and a tidy plaitits in your eyes, your touch. Let Catherine go. Let her rest. Its time for the living to live.
He listened quietly, eyes downcast, but then raised them to minethe pain in them so deep it pressed the very breath from my lungs.
I cant, Nurse. I just cant
He left then. I watched after him for a long while. Isnt it strange? Sometimes forgiving another is far easier than forgiving yourself.
Then came the day that changed everything. The end of May, and the air thick with the scent of hawthorn and wet earth. Olivia stayed after lessons with Maisie; they sat on the school steps drawing. Maisie made a picturea house, the sun, herself, and beside her, a big figureher father. Next to him, though, shed filled in an ominous, black shape.
When Olivia saw it, something seemed to snap inside her. She took Maisies hand and set off straightaway for the Somers cottage.
I happened to be passing just then. Olivia hesitated at the gate, nerves at odds. George was in the yard, sawing firewood with fierce abandon.
Olivia took a breath and stepped through. George paused, turning with thunderclouds on his brow.
I did ask you
Im sorry, she said gently. Im only bringing Maisie home. But Id like you to know something.
And Olivia began to tell him her own story. She spoke quietly, every word carrying loudly in that still afternoon. About the husband shed adored, lost to a terrible accident; how shed shut herself away for a year, curtains drawn, desperate only for oblivion. How she blamed herself; thought if only shed asked him not to go out that day. She nearly drowned in her own heartbreakand almost failed to resurface.
I blamed myself, too, her voice quivered. But then I understoodmy grief was betraying his memory. Hed loved life. He wanted me to live. I forced myself to get up, to keep breathing. For him. Because there are living souls who need you, George. One cant dwell with ghosts when the living are here.
George stood struck. His stony mask gradually slipped away, and he suddenly hid his face in his hands, shudderingnot crying, really, just shaking to his core.
It was me, he choked. We didnt quarrel. We laughed that day. She went into the river like a girl, with the water icy. I yelled to her, she just laughed… Then she slipped, hit her head… I dived in, hunted for her but she was gone. I couldnt save her. I failed her.
Just then, little Maisie appeared on the doorstep. Shed heard through an open window and stood, watching her father with such immense, child-like compassion that my own heart turned over.
She ran to George, wrapped her small arms tight around his legs, and spoke as loud and clear as Id ever heard: Daddy, dont cry. Mummys on a cloud. Shes watching us. Shes not angry.
At that, George dropped to his knees, gathered Maisie close and let loose the grief hed bottled up for a year, sobbing as a child might, while Maisie stroked his face, his hair, repeating, Dont cry, Daddy, dont cry. Olivia stood nearby, weeping, toobut these were healing tears, meant to wash the pain from all their hearts.
Time rolled on. Summer slipped into autumn, and then spring blushed across the fields again. And in our little Ashford, one more family came to benot in any official sense, but in truth.
I remember sitting one morning on my bench in the sun, bees humming in the cherry blossom. Down the lane they cameGeorge, Olivia, and Maisiewalking hand in hand, unrushed and smiling. Maisie chattered and laughed, her laughter ringing down the street like silver bells.
And Georgeoh, he was changed. Upright and open-eyed, light kindling in him once more as he looked at Olivia and his daughtera quiet, contented smile upon his lips, the sort worn only by those who have rediscovered lifes most precious treasure.
They stopped by me. Good morning, Nurse Simms, George said, his voice warm as a fire in January.
Maisie hurried over, offering a bunch of dandelions. These are for you!
I took the flowers, eyes glistening. Looking at them, my heart brimmed with joy. Hed finally cast off his terrible burdenor perhaps, just perhaps, hed been helped to do so. Helped by love, both a childs and a womans.
They carried on towards the river, not now a memorial to sorrow, but just a riverwhere folk can sit, talk softly of gentle things, and watch the water bear away the worst of the past.
And what do you think, my dearscan a person ever escape sorrow’s quicksand alone, or must someone reach out and take your hand?
