The summer sun blazes overhead, and the air feels like a furnace. Simon walks away from the bus stop, a large sports bag slung over his shoulder, filled with the modest belongings of a secondyear university student. He wears a cheap tracksuit, the money for which he earned himself by helping unload railway carriages for a few days, and hes managed to bring a few treats for his family.
Simon passes the old village hall and turns onto the lane that leads to his home. At the gate a neighbour, Mrs. Margaret Whitby, watches him intently, her silver hair fluttering in the breeze. It feels as if shes looking straight into my soul, he shivers.
Good afternoon, MrsWhitby, he says aloud.
Good afternoon, Simon, she replies softly, like the rustle of an autumn wind. She watches him until he reaches the row of old birch trees that flank his house.
His mother, Elizabeth, throws her arms around him, and his younger sister, Lucy, jumps up, while their grandmother, Auntie Ethel, claps her hands. Look how youve grown, my boy! she exclaims.
Mother, we just saw each other a month ago before exams! Simon laughs, lifting his tenyearold cousin, Poppy, into his arms. Poppy squeals with delight.
Was that yesterday? Elizabeth smiles. Did you finish everything?
Yes, Simon says proudly. Im a thirdyear now, and my scholarships still good.
Handsome lad! Ethel praises, patting his head. You really have grown up. She blushes. Wheres Father? he asks, pulling out the gifts hes brought.
Hes at work, as always, his mother replies, admiring the delicate brooch he gave her. Thanks, love.
Poppy twirls in front of the mirror, admiring a new cardigan. All the girls at school will be jealous, she declares. Too bad its holidays!
Everyones pleased, Ethel says, wrapping herself in a fresh woollen scarf.
The family gathers around the table for lunch. Lively chatter fills the room, laughter and news flowing freely. Suddenly, Simon asks his mother, Mum, why does MrsWhitby keep staring at me? No matter where I go, she watches from the gate. She didnt even know I was coming, yet she seemed to be waiting.
Thats your grandmothers doing, Elizabeth whispers. Shes telling you something.
Its because you look a lot like your father, and he looked a lot like his own father, the old woman says, eyes drifting into the distance. MrsWhitby loved your grandfather.
She recalls how the village built the house together, how neighboursyoung couples like Margaret and Tomhelped one another. Margaret married early, at eighteen, after being raised by a strict aunt who treated her as a servant from the age of ten. She kept the house tidy, cooked, and cared for the aunts children, while the aunt worked. School was a rarity for Margaret; there was never enough time.
The aunt was harsh, beating Margaret for any mistake. Once, Simon sees a scar on Margarets forearm. What happened? he asks. I was pulling weeds and a cow knocked me over, she replies, shrugging as if it were nothing.
Later she tells how she once begged her mother at the cemetery to take her in, after a neighbour threatened her life. The aunts sister had once taken a young man away, married him, and that man became the father of Margarets child. He later died under mysterious circumstances, and the aunt, unable to bear the loss, fell into deep grief and never recovered. Thus Margaret became an orphan.
The aunt married a man she didnt love, and sold the family home. Margaret, with nothing but a name, married a neighbour, MrBaker, who was ten years older and a bit of a moneymaker. The house remains, still owned by Margaret, with the land and garden intact, though no one ever asks what she truly wants.
The aunt tells Margaret that she should know better whom to marry, but an eighteenyearold orphan has little choice she marries. Margaret runs the household well, learning everything she can, though she never loves her husband. He, in turn, likes her only because shes young, pretty, and capable.
Simon watches as Margarets oncebright eyes now look tired and grey, her hair now a soft ash. In her youth she was a striking beautyslender, with blue eyes that seemed halfface, chestnut hair braided down to her waist. Men admired her, and her husband was proud, though he often mistreated her.
Simon often sees bruises on her. Is that VasBaker? he asks. She remains silent, her blue eyes filled with unspoken pain.
His father, Peter, died before Simon was born, and Margaret never could have a child. VasBakers frustration turns violent; he beats her, boasts that he cant have a son, and the whole village knows. Margaret never cries out; shes used to bearing hardship alone.
Evenings often find the family gathered, singing together. Margarets voice, though rough, carries a sweet melancholy. Simons grandfather, Colin, once sang in the church choir, and the three of them blend their voices as if theyd rehearsed for years.
VasBaker, however, never sings. He talks only about his dwindling cows or the wheat harvest, or about eating more. He cares solely that the bowl never stays empty. He devours everything, smacking his lips.
Margaret watches him, tears welling, while he remains oblivious. He once turned away from Colins gaze, and Simon teases, Colin, you should notice Margaretshe cant take her eyes off you. Colin replies, Id tear her heart out if I did.
Later Colin goes off to the front, leaving baby Peter just a year old. The whole village sees him off. Simon remembers standing on the platform as the train rattles away, unable to let go of Colins hand. Colins eyes are full of love and sorrow, his dark hair slightly russet, his gaze deep. As they part, Simon sees Nikols eyes darken with grief.
Women chase after the departing trainmothers, wives, loversuntil he disappears. Some claim VasBaker avoided the front, feigning illness. Colin plants birch trees by the yard before he leaves, saying, This tree marks our home, our sons birth.
Ill return, he promises, with my wife and little Peter, and Ill have a daughter who looks just like you. He urges Simon to protect his son and not worry about him. Simon waits, the months slide by, hope keeping him alive.
One afternoon, Margaret, now called MrsWhitby, follows Simon to the station to see Colin off. She stands apart, pain hidden behind a stoic face, refusing to cry, fearing judgment. As they walk back to the village, she falls to her knees.
Forgive me, she whispers, I love your husband, I cant live without him. She asks about VasBaker, noting theyre as different as summer and winter. He replies that she cant see him, and that any tenderness she feels is barely tolerable.
They weep together, sitting on the grass, their cries raw. The shared grief eases their hearts a little.
Later, letters from the front become a lifeline. The village is spared the worst battles; people work the fields, plant, harvest, and tend the livestock. When a letter from Colin should arrive, Margaret rushes to the postwoman, MrsValerie, an elderly woman who knows every corner of the village.
Give me the letter, even just to hold it, Margaret pleads, tears in her eyes.
Theres no such letter, MrsValerie snaps. I wont give it to anyone but the wife, Galina.
Please, Im not just a stranger, Margaret insists, I need to see his handwriting.
Finally, Valerie hands over the envelope, warning, Dont smear it with tears. Margaret clutches it to her chest, waiting for Valeries return.
Simon asks, How did you know the letter would come?
Because I felt it, Valerie says. The war binds us all.
VasBaker later becomes a local constable, patrolling the lanes. Margaret hardly leaves her garden, ashamed to face the world. She shrinks into herself, hoping to be invisible. He continues to abuse, while she prays for forgiveness.
Letters become Margarets only solace. She wonders whether she has the right to take them, whether she could ever give them to someone else. Time passes without news; she stops checking the post, though hope still flickers.
Every morning she wakes hoping for a parcel. When their son, Petey, first speaks, he repeats, Dad, dad! and they cling to the promise that a letter will come soon.
One day, VasBaker disappears without a trace. No one sees him again. Margaret stands by the gate, watching the road, her blue eyes dry and hollow, as if winter has frozen her soul.
Simon tries to lighten the mood. What do you see out there, Margaret?
She looks at him with a gaze that seems to have melted away, then says, You dont see, do you?
No, I dont, he replies.
Neither do I, she whispers, tears spilling again.
Summer swelters, and Margaret sits under an apple tree in the yard. Sit down, Gal, she says, offering a seat. We have to tend the carrots while the rains still fresh.
You wont be digging today, and you wont tomorrow, she sighs, looking at Simon with such emptiness that he finally sits down, apologising.
MrsValerie enters, heavy as if carrying a sack of a hundred pounds. She hands Margaret a folded piece of paper. Your husbands heroically fallen, the first line reads. Margaret cant read further through her tears. Margaret loses consciousness; the postwoman revives her, discovering shes pregnant after VasBakers disappearance.
Months later, Margaret gives birth to a boy she names Nicholas. She releases Colins soul, feeling a strange peace. No more letters arrive; neither she nor Margaret marry again. Yet Margaret feels Colins presence in the breeze, in the sunrise, as if he watches over them.
Simon steps out of the house after hearing his grandmothers story. He wonders why Margaret and Nikol never heard each others thoughts, why love never bloomed between them.
The birch trees rustle as if theyre answering, he thinks.
A soft voice from behind the gate calls, Simon, come over! Its MrsWhitby, now thrivingher son grown, married, grandchildren visiting. She has offered to move closer to the town, but she refuses; her blueeyed soul cannot abandon the house she loves.
She looks straight at Simon, runs a wrinkled hand through his hair and says, You look just like him. She smiles gratefully and goes inside.
Simon lingers in the garden, listening to the wind through the birch leaves. For a fleeting second, he thinks he hears footsteps in the hedgesperhaps the blueeyed soul of Margaret searching for the love she lost.
Love does not age, and it never truly dies, he reflects, as the village settles into another quiet evening.
