William set the heavy buckets of water on the bench in the porch of Mrs. Margaret’s cottage and turned to leave, but the old woman clutched his sleeve firmly, silently gesturing toward the house. He obeyed, stepping inside and settling onto the wide wooden bench by the door, waiting for her to speak.
Margaret, without a word, pulled a pot from the oven, glanced at the old clock on the wall as if to say it was time for supper, and ladled fragrant beef stew into a deep bowl. She added a slice of crusty bread, a knob of butter, and a chunk of sharp cheddar. After a moment’s thought, she set down a bottle of homemade elderflower wine. Her bent back, wrapped in a wool shawl, seemed frail, but in her sturdy wellies, she moved with surprising ease despite the warmth of the cottage.
William, lowering his voice, began:
“I’ll gladly eat the stew, but the wine—no thank you. Made a promise, Mrs. Margaret—not a drop. Swore on the Bible, told the vicar. After that night at the pub, drunk and jealous over Emily, caused such a row—don’t even know how I dodged jail. Had to pay a pretty penny for the broken stools. Mum said your back’s been aching, so I came to fetch water. I’ll eat, chop some wood, maybe find more chores. Mum sees me sitting by the telly and invents work like she’s plucking it from thin air.”
William chuckled at his own joke, then choked on the stew. Without hesitation, Margaret thumped his back with her tiny fists, sharp as nails. Coughing, he returned to his meal, then squinted playfully.
“Gran, how d’you sleep? Does your back straighten, or do you curl like a question mark?”
Margaret’s clear blue eyes sparkled with silent laughter as she waved away the question.
“You were a right beauty in your day!” William nodded toward an old photograph on the wall. “Thick hair, brows like rainbows, eyes like stars. My Emily’s a stunner too! Let me count her virtues—you tally on your fingers. Doubt you’ll have enough: lovely, tall, modest, kind, hardworking, tidy, thrifty, sings like a nightingale, dances like a dream, generous, never married, doesn’t drink or smoke, no gossip. Well, Gran, run out of fingers yet?”
William noticed her shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
“Your eyes, Gran—bright as dawn, full of life! You know Emily?”
Margaret shrugged, as if to say, *Who’s to say if you’re any good?*
“We’re not like your lot,” William admitted. “You obeyed your elders, feared crossing them. Us? One wrong word, and we’re off like rockets. Got opinions on everything. Dad asks my advice now. Mum treats me like the man of the house. Brothers scattered to the cities—I’m the youngest, still at home till I marry. But I want a wedding, a houseful of kids. Emily’s strong as an oak—I’m a vet, mind, so I’d know. She’ll have as many as she likes. Fingers all counted?”
The cottage warmth and full belly left William drowsy. Despite her aches, Margaret kept the place spotless—like a museum. The carved wooden bed, piled with quilts and lace-trimmed pillows, caught his eye.
“Imagine a bed like that for my wedding night! Though mightn’t need it—sleep like a log and forget the whole affair.”
He laughed, then sobered.
“Emily’s nearly done training, coming home soon. She’ll be a nurse—me tending beasts, her tending folk. Though Mum calls Dad a beast sometimes. Truth is, we’re all beasts at times. Heard how Tommy nicked Greg’s motorbike and dumped it in the pond? Not a beast? Or Pete smoking in the barn, nearly torched the place! But the worst—that’s Darren. Led Sophie on, got her in the family way, then brought a city girl home. Sophie nearly lost her mind. Yesterday, though, she’s smiling—says it’s a boy, God’s blessing. Wonder how Darren’ll walk past her house, knowing his son’s there. But I’d never leave Emily. Just want to hold her till we’re one. She’s proper, though—won’t cross that line. She’ll make a fine nurse—fix your back in no time. Gives shots gentler than a midge bite. When the council gives us a house, I’ll miss you, Gran. But I’ll visit—chat, help out. Got any more treats?”
Margaret grabbed the poker and pulled a pot of shepherd’s pie from the oven. The rich scent made William’s head spin. He seized a spoon, childishly tapping the table. Margaret beamed, eyes alight with joy at his delight.
“Lie down on the bed while I eat,” William winked. “Or is it just for show? Me and Emily’ll break it in someday.”
He choked again, but this time Margaret didn’t thump him. She longed to hug this lively lad, thank him for his warmth, for staying to share his thoughts. Her rough hands brushed his back, patted gently, then she kissed his crown.
William stretched, groaning.
“Who can work on a full belly? That bed’s calling me!”
Laughing, he headed out. Hauled logs, swept the porch, checked the pig in the shed, bowed to Margaret, and trudged home.
“Where’ve you been?” his mother scolded. “Emily called—you’re always nattering with Margaret!”
“Can’t just walk away! One thing leads to another,” he grinned. “Mum… was she born mute?”
“No, love,” she sighed. “During the war, she sang like a lark—went round villages with patriotic tunes. When the Nazis hanged partisans, she belted out *The White Cliffs of Dover*. They cut her tongue out. The resistance saved her. We thought she’d always been silent, till the councilman told us. Her village died out—ours thrived. The veterans’ office helped her buy this cottage. People can be worse than beasts, hiding in their corners, not caring. But she understands everything.”
“Mum, her eyes speak!” William exclaimed. “I talked of Emily, and she glowed. Mentioned Darren, and lightning flashed in her stare! And her hands—so gentle. She’s no kin, but feels like family. Doesn’t wave like mutes do—just… listens. Promised to fix her shed tomorrow, so don’t invent chores—I’m busy.”
**Sometimes the deepest connections are wordless, and the kindest souls speak through silence.**
