It was a bright summer day, the sun beating down upon the thatched roofs of Littleford. Sam Clarke walked away from the bus stop, a shabby canvas sports bag slung over his shoulder, the contents the modest belongings of a secondyear university student. He wore a cheap tracksuit he had earned himself by loading railway carriages for a few days, and with the few shillings he had saved he bought new boots for his mother and a small parcel for his sister.
He passed the old village hall and turned onto the lane that led to his familys cottage. At the gate a neighbour, Mrs. Margaret Blake, stood watching him, her silver hair fluttering in the wind. She looks right into the soul, Sam thought with a shiver.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Blake, he called.
Good afternoon, Sam, she replied, her voice as soft as an autumn breeze. She watched him down the winding path until the ancient oaks that lined his front garden came into view.
His mother, Mary, threw her arms around him, his little sister Lily leapt up, and their grandmother, Doris, shuffled forward, shaking her head.
Look how youve grown, my boy! Mary exclaimed, hugging him tightly.
Mom, we just saw each other a month ago before exams! Sam laughed, scooping tenyearold Lily into his arms. She squealed with delight.
Did you finish everything? Mary asked.
Indeed, Im now a thirdyear student, Sam replied proudly, and I still have my scholarship.
Handsome lad! Doris praised, patting his head.
Grandma, Im not a child any more, Sam blushed, and wheres Father?
Hes at the mill, of course, Mary said, admiring the delicate brooch Sam had given her. Thank you, love.
Look, Mum, isnt the dress gorgeous? Lily twirled before the mirror, trying on the new cardigan. All the girls at school will be jealous.
Everyones delighted, Doris smiled, wrapping a new knitted shawl around herself.
The family gathered around the low oak table for lunch. The conversation flowed, laughter rang out, and news was shared. Then Sams thoughts turned inward.
Mum, he asked Mrs. Eleanor Finch, his mothers close friend, why does our neighbour, Mrs. Blake, keep staring at me? Every time I step out, shes at the gate, eyes fixed on me, as if shed been expecting my return.
Your grandmother will tell you better than I can, Eleanor whispered.
Because you look much like your father, and he looked a lot like his father. Mrs. Blake adored your grandfather, the old woman said, gazing off into the distance.
Sam remembered how the village had all helped to raise the Clarke house together, how neighbourly ties were forged in those early days. He recalled the young couple who lived next door Tess and Victor who were always ready to lend a hand.
Tess had married very young, at eighteen, after being raised by a stern aunt who treated her as a servant from the age of ten. She kept the house tidy, cooked, and looked after her aunts children while the aunt worked. School was a luxury Tess could scarcely afford.
Her aunt was harsh, beating her for any minor fault. Once Sam saw Tess pull off her coat, revealing old scars on her arms. What happened to those? he asked.
Its a story of a cow I never managed to catch before I went weedpulling in the garden, she replied, shrugging.
Tess also spoke of a night when shed gone to the chapels graveyard and begged the saint to take her in, after her aunt had nearly beaten her to death.
Her aunts cruelty stemmed from a family feud: Tesss mother, Margaret, had taken a lover away from the aunts sister, and that lover became the father of Tesss cousin. He died under mysterious circumstances, and the aunts own mother soon after, leaving Tess an orphan.
When the aunt married a man named Victor, she sold her family home, leaving Margaret destitute. Victor, ten years older and fairly well off, became Tesss husband, though she never loved him. He praised her youth and skill, but his affection was shallow, more pride than passion.
Sam remembered the whispered warning of his mother: Do not be fooled by Margarets frailty; she was once a striking beauty with blue eyes, chestnut hair braided down to her waist. Men adored her, even if she later married a man who mistreated her.
He recalled seeing bruises on Tesss arms, wondering who inflicted them. Is that Victor? he asked.
Tess never spoke, she said, her eyes empty. Only the blue of her eyes held pain untold.
The war had taken Victor away. He enlisted, leaving behind a son, Peter, barely a year old, and a grieving Tess who could not bear another child.
Soon after, Victor disappeared, rumored to have fled to the front only to be declared missing. The village mourned, and the letters from the front ceased.
Tess would often sit on the cottages porch, tears staining her cheeks, asking Sam, Do you think Victor will ever come back? He could only shake his head.
Life in Littleford went on: the fields were ploughed, the harvest gathered, the village fête held each summer. When the expected letter from Charlie, Sams older brother who had gone to the front, finally arrived, Tess ran to the postwoman, Mrs. Valentina Val Hargreaves, begging to hold it.
Theres no such letter, Val snapped, though she knew the truth. It belongs to Mrs. Clarke, not you.
Tess wept, clutched the envelope, and whispered, Just let me see the handwriting.
Val eventually handed it over, warning, Dont smear it with tears.
The letter was an old, weathered triangle of paper, the ink faded but legible. It was Charlies last words, written before he fell in a shellfire. He spoke of his love for his wife, his longing for home, the apple tree they planted together, and a strange dream of a wandering blueeyed soul that called to him. He begged his wife, Tell Tess to let her soul rest, for I cannot bear to see her suffer.
Sam held the letter, his heart heavy, as Mary stared out the window, tears rolling down her cheek. Eleanor and Lily sat silently beside him.
The date, Mary said, voice trembling, is the day Charlie was reported lost.
Tess, upon hearing the words, named her newborn boy Nicholas, honoring the memory of the fallen soldier. She felt a strange peace, as if Charlies spirit had finally been released.
No more letters arrived. Neither Tess nor Mary ever married again. Yet they felt Charlies presence in the rustle of the oak leaves, in the warm summer breezes that brushed their faces.
One evening, as Sam lingered by the gate, the neighbours voice called, Sam, come here! It was Mrs. Blake, her eyes bright despite the years.
She thanked him, You look just like your father, she said, running a trembling hand through his hair.
Sam walked back to the garden, listening to the ancient oaks sway, feeling the echo of a blueeyed soul that never truly left. He thought, Love does not age, and it never truly dies.
The memory of that summer, the lingering heat, the whispered promises, and the quiet resilience of Littlefords people stayed with him, a testament to the enduring spirit of those who once walked the same lanes.
