The village was more of a hamlet, nestled on a small hill surrounded by moss and cranberries. Just four homesteads with roofs grey from the rain, covered with shingles, huddled beneath mighty oak trees, earning the village the name Oakhurst.
Only eleven souls lived in Oakhurst, surviving off their land, hunting, and fishing. The wealthiest among them was John Thompson, a frugal and hardworking man. He was pushing sixty, yet still robust and sinewy. That autumn, he managed to gather about fifteen bushels of cranberries, not alone, but with Peter. Peter was his son, just eighteen.
John’s two elder sons lived in London, having not visited home for over three years. Peter, although not eager to leave for the city, showed little inclination for country work. One morning, returning home at dawn, Peter told his father, “Send a matchmaker to Birchwood.”
“And to whom, dare I ask?” John replied sternly.
“The Smiths, to ask for Polly,” Peter said, knowing his father’s strict nature. “If you won’t send them, I’ll run away to the city with her.”
John felt no comfort from his youngest. He was unlike him—flighty and capricious, not fit to be a householder, but the last of his line. If Peter left for the city, he would have to manage alone. His wife, Martha, was quite frail, some illness having worn her down. Polly was a beauty, despite her father, Tom Smith, being a drunkard and a layabout. John had seen her during the summer haymaking. Tall, graceful, with blonde hair reaching her waist. Her large grey eyes looked like deep pools. What did she see in Peter? Yet, she would brighten any home. Martha could use her help.
Before long, they got married during the Harvest Festival. A month later, an official came and drafted Peter into the army. At Peter’s leaving, Polly wept as if he were lost to her. With Peter gone, Polly’s life in Oakhurst became unbearable. Her father-in-law started to pester her. At first, it seemed like jokes, a pinch here, a hug attempt there while she was milking cows.
It escalated to him lifting her skirt as she scrubbed the floor. She was silent, ashamed, fearing the invalid Martha behind the curtain. One day, as she was fetching hay, John crept up behind her, toppled her into the pile, and tried kissing her, reeking of garlic and moonshine. His scratchy beard smothered her, making her gasp for air as he groped. She couldn’t remember how she escaped his grasp, but when she did, she seized a pitchfork, aimed it at him, and breathed, “Back off! You old lecher! Forgive me, Lord!”
John stopped harassing after that but found every reason to criticize Polly. Her life became unbearable. Polly cried, confided in her mother at Birchwood, who could only console her, sending her back with, “Endure. Peter will return.”
Before heading back, Polly stopped at the village shop for kitchen supplies, picking up bay leaves, red pepper, and mustard powder as instructed by her father-in-law. Reluctantly, she trudged back. Wading through the snow in her boots, Polly pondered her troubles. It had been three months since Peter left. She missed his cheerful, playful nature. Though there were handsomer boys, they were coarse and rude; Peter was gentle, never uttered a harsh word. Yet, before they could grow close, his father now sought amusement in his place. “Not this! I must discourage the old fool. But how?” Deep in thought, Polly suddenly realized she’d arrived in Oakhurst.
John met her with grumbles about taking too long and buying the wrong things. She drank milk and retreated to her room, locking the door. The next day was wash day. The washhouse stood away from the house, near a small pond. Polly fetched water, lit the stove, and put some red pepper in her apron. Thinking it wasn’t enough, she added mustard. While cleaning up, she rubbed pepper and mustard on the bench, and filled a basin with her concoction. Even the fumes made her nose sting. Polly sneezed and dashed outside just as John approached, laundry under his arm. “You chilling the washhouse, you witch?” he yelled. Polly stepped aside into a snowbank, letting him pass silently, then ran back to the house, heart pounding, awaiting punishment for her prank.
John grumbled, suspecting poor ventilation or smoldering embers. Stirring the fire and dousing a spark, he lay on the bench. The heat mildly burned but soon turned into searing pain. Confused, he sat up, inspected the planks, and found nothing amiss. Instinctively scratching himself, he nearly toppled over—it felt as if stung by a wasp and whipped by nettles. Roaring like a bear, he dashed naked into a snowbank. The burning subsided but gave way to cold, sending him back indoors.
Inside, Polly rolled on the floor, stifling laughter. Martha, hearing the racket, peeked in, surprised to see Polly laughing for the first time since Peter left. Cracking a smile, Martha finally stood up for Polly, hearing about the prank. “Serves him right,” she chuckled.
Back in the washhouse, John pondered his misfortune. “Could something have spilled on the bench?” Deciding to rinse it, he scattered hot water over and reclined. All seemed well until he resumed his cleaning, the scent of pepper inflamed his nose and eyes, and the blaze returned, now intensified, as if he were seated on hot coals. Scrambling off the bench, he crawled to the door, falling headfirst into the snow. John returned home silently in the dark, skipping supper. Unable to sleep due to burning skin, he tossed on the creaky bed like a fish on a skillet.
Desperate, he opened the window, exposing his backside to the freezing air, seeking relief. He prayed no one saw him—John, the proud recluse, like a blackbird on a bough, mocking his dignity.
Beneath the window, his loyal dog, Buddy, perking up, licked John’s exposed skin. Startled, John fell back, crashing to the floor. Awoken by the noise, Martha and Polly, candle in hand, saw the scene and laughed and cried at the sight of John laid bare, with Buddy’s shaggy face peering in.
Afterward, John left Polly alone. She soon received a letter from Peter and left to join him at his posting.
Though old Mrs. Daria, recounting this tale, referred to the wife as Polly, I suspect she spoke of herself. It fits, as even in her eighties, her eyes twinkle with a playful spark.
