Martha Hawkins, 87, and Ethel Barlow, 84, had been sharing a modest stone cottage in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales for the past fifteen years. They were not sisters, nor had they ever been married into the same family; each had once lived alone in her own home. Yet the winter of age had taught them that companionship was cheaper than solitude. By pooling their dwindling pensionsabout £150 a month for eachand using half the wood they stocked together, they kept the cold at bay and always had someone with whom to exchange a word. The loneliness that once rattled their thoughts had softened, and they no longer talked to themselves as often as they used to.
They lived on the side of the cottage that belonged to Ethel because her walls were sturdier; Marthas old house, with its outbuildings, had been sold for firewood when the roof began to leak. For five years they had huddled around a single stove, never knowing what it meant to be truly without need. In younger days they kept a goat and a few chickens, but each season the work became harder. One summer they could not tend the vegetable patch, and by the end of the year even keeping the stove alight was a struggle.
Every Saturday, Samuel Sam Turner, Ethels thirtyfiveyearold grandson, arrived on his motorbike from Leeds. He carried a heavy canvas sack filled with fresh loaf, crusty bap, a tin of tea and a bag of sugarbasically the whole of their diet for the week. Occasionally they boiled potatoes on the old paraffin heater. When Sam stepped into the cottage, both women burst into tears.
If you keep crying, Ill stop coming, Sam warned, halfjest, halfplea.
Alright, well hold it in, they replied, wiping their faces.
Sam hurriedly unloaded the provisions, fetched water from the well, and stoked the fire so that all they had to do was strike a match. Anything else you need? Ill be back in a week, he called as he revved his engine and sped off, his boots kicking up dust.
Even the short summer evenings offered little sleep. They would lie quietly, listening to the night noises.
Cant sleep, Ethel? Martha would ask.
No, Ive dozed off earlier, but now the darkness keeps me awake.
What are you thinking about? the other would reply.
Everything, Martha would murmur.
And the light beyond? Ethel would add, Nobody really knows whats out there.
Never will, Martha would say.
Their bodies grew frail, yet their minds worked as sharply as ever, sometimes even clearer than in youth, as distance often brings perspective. Occasionally memory failed them, and they would stumble over words. One night, Martha rose and began to dress.
Where are you going? Ethel called out.
Home, Martha answered.
But this is your home!
No, I mean home, home, Martha persisted, shaking her head. She reached the door, grabbed the latch, stopped, turned back, stripped off her coat and lay down again. Ethel said nothing, sensing a brief, harmless confusion.
They refused to sink into longterm gloom. Ethel, with her bright eyes, often tried to lift their spirits.
Listen to my foolish thoughts, she would begin. The world isnt without good people. Sam brings us food, we have firewood, we live in a roof over our heads, we have a modest pension. What more could we ask for?
Its nice to sing, you have a grandson. I have no one, Martha would counter. When my limbs fail, Ill end up in a workhouse.
I wont abandon you, Ethel promised. Even in a workhouse there are people.
Marthas face brightened at those words, and Ethels cheeks glowed with a warm, gentle joy.
Both women had lived through the great wars. Martha had four sons; Ethel had two. Marthas husband died after a sudden bout of illness while she was working the fields. He had an inflamed appendix, and the nearest doctor was too far. He was taken on a shaky cart to the infirmary, but the infection was already too advanced. The loss left Martha a widow in her thirties. One by one, her sons fellfirst in the war, then to illness, then to a tragic accident on the farm. Each death knocked her to the ground, but she rose again, stubborn as a stone, until she reached eightyfive. Bitterness lingered, but she never turned cruel; she simply carried her grief like a quiet shadow.
Ethel lost her husband in a similar way, and one son never returned. The other came back, crippled from a mining accident, and settled in Sheffield, where he married and later died at thirtyseven. His widow remarried, and Sam stayed with his grandmother more often than with his own family. Ethel thanked God for the mercy of having a living descendant, a grandson whose efforts kept them afloat, and for the grandchildren that Sam was now raising.
One cold morning, as the frost melted under a weak sun, Ethel asked, Do we need much, Martha? A slice of bread and a cup of tea will keep us fed all day. Is there anything you want?
Nothing, Martha replied, shaking her head. If only God would give me a little more time.
The time will come, Ethel said gently.
As spring unfurled, the two women, still wrapped in heavy coats and shawls, would sit on the garden wall, soaking up the weak warmth and inhaling the earthy scent of freshly turned soil. The season reminded them of youth, of the excitement of new growth, of love that once burned bright, then dimmed, then finally settled into a soft, steady glow.
They would sit for hours in the same posturehands resting on a weathered stick, faces tilted toward the sun, eyes only occasionally flickering. When a conversation sparked, their faces lit up, and they would bite their lips in concentration.
The best time to die is now, one would sigh. The weather is warm, the flowers are blooming, the grass is green, the birds are singing.
Yes, the other agreed. The earth is soft, like a feather, easy to dig.
One morning, a sudden unease seized Martha. She lingered on the wall a moment longer than usual, then shuffled back into the cottage. Each step on the porch was a struggle; her hands trembled like the wings of a frightened bird. She leaned against the wall, made her way across the creaking floorboards, and collapsed onto her bed with a barely audible sigh.
Ethel immediately sensed something was wrong and followed her inside. Marthas face grew paler, her breathing shallower. Ethel understood that Marthas end was near and stayed by her side, offering what comfort she could.
Martha tried to sit up, but her body refused; she rolled onto her side, then onto her back, wincing with every small movement. Ethel checked on her repeatedly, then, realizing she could do little, settled into a wooden chair and watched over her friend.
As evening fell, Marthas eyes fluttered open, a faint smile crossing her lips. Her heart beat weakly, then steadied for a moment before falling silent forever.
Enough! Ethel shouted into the empty cottage, her voice echoing off the stone walls. Who am I left with now?
She wailed, We were like sisters! How can I go on without you?
Where will Sam be? Who will I have to argue with? she sobbed, her grief spilling into the night.
She stayed up until dawn, the night passing in a chorus of crickets. At first light, Sams motorcycle roared up the lane. His legs, surprisingly swift, carried him to the porch.
Angel sent you here today, Sam, Ethel whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Martha has passed.
Sams face went white. What will I do now? How do I live without her? he asked, his voice breaking.
Youll manage, Ethel replied, trying to be firm. Ill take you in for the winter. It wont be easy, but well get through it together.
Why does this have to happen now? Sam muttered.
Because the summers end is near, Ethel said, and perhaps the Almighty thinks it time for her to go.
Sam huffed, Again with that! He tried to hide his pain behind a forced smile.
In the days that followed, Ethel found a vigor she hadnt felt in years. She walked around the cottage, stoked the fire, and cooked as if she were a decade younger. It was as if Marthas spirit had slipped into her, lending new strength.
Ethel soon fell into a deep melancholy. The loss of her friend left a hollow she could not fill. For fifteen years they had become closer than blood, each a reflection of the others soul. They had never truly quarreled; each understood that they lived because they lived together, and each dreaded the thought of being alone.
Good for you! Youre all tidy! Ethel would tease Martha. And what about me?
Sam visited almost daily, sometimes staying the night. He brought fresh bap and dried fruit, which Ethel dipped in tea and ate. Even those simple comforts could not ease her sorrow.
One midsummer afternoon, while tidying the attic, Ethel heard a faint voice, Hey, old woman, youve been sitting here too long!
She flung open the doorway to the passage and found no one. She walked around the garden, pushing aside a clump of dock that grew where the vegetable beds once were, convinced she heard her friends voice. Perhaps she had imagined it; perhaps it was the echo of a memory so vivid it seemed real.
She laughed, She must have missed me, and felt a strange lightness as her arms and legs, suddenly unburdened, carried her back to the cottage. She opened the old oak chest, took out a bundle of freshly sewn clothes, laid them on the table and lay down on the bed.
Time lost its meaningwhether day or nightshe could not tell. Hours, perhaps days slipped by as she felt life ebbing, yet there was no pain, only a strange peace. In the quiet of her mind, brief, bright scenes flickered: a threeyearold girl chasing butterflies with her grandmother on a blooming meadow; a young husband in a crisp white shirt; her own children as they grew; the rhythm of shearing sheep, the clang of the forge, the smell of hay and linseed oil. Her life stretched both forever and in an instant.
When Sam arrived on his bike, he found his grandmother lifeless, his head resting on the table beside the bundle of clothes. He dropped to his knees and cried out loudly, his grief shattering the quiet of the Dales.
In the weeks that followed, the cottage stood as a testament to the bond they had forged. The stone walls, the lingering scent of firewood, the garden still sprouting wildflowersall whispered that love, even when it ends, leaves a lasting imprint. Ethel learned that the strength she thought she had borrowed from Martha was, in fact, a part of herself she had always possessed. And Sam, watching the sunrise over the hills, understood that the true wealth of life lies not in money or possessions, but in the moments of shared humanity that light even the darkest of days.
Thus, the tale of Martha and Ethel reminds us that companionship can soften the harshest winters, that grief is inevitable but not insurmountable, and that the simple kindness we extend to one another becomes the lasting legacy we leave behind.
