The warmth of another’s soul: A story in a country cottage
Nicholas set the heavy buckets of water down on the bench in old Mrs. Winifred’s porch and was about to leave when the elderly woman firmly grabbed his sleeve, silently pointing toward the cottage. He obediently followed and perched on the wide bench by the door, waiting to hear what she might say.
Winifred, without uttering a word, pulled a pot from the stove, glanced at the old clock on the wall as if hinting it was time for lunch, and ladled fragrant beef stew into a deep bowl. She added a chunk of bacon, an onion, and a thick loaf of brown bread with a crispy crust. After a moment’s thought, she placed a bottle of homemade cider on the table. Her hunched back, wrapped in a woolen shawl, seemed fragile, but in her wellies, she moved briskly despite the warmth of the hearth.
Nicholas, lowering his voice, spoke up:
“I’d gladly eat the stew, but as for drinking—no, thanks. I swore off it, Mrs. Winifred. Not a drop more. Kissed the Bible, promised the vicar. After that time I got drunk and acted a fool with jealousy over Lizzie—caused a right scene in the village hall. Don’t even know how I dodged the nick. Cost me a pretty penny for the broken chairs. Mum said your back’s been troubling you, so I came to fetch water. I’ll have a bite, then chop some logs, and maybe you’ve got other work for me. The minute Mum sees me near the telly, she invents chores out of thin air.”
Nicholas chuckled at his own joke but then choked on the stew. Winifred, quick as anything, thumped his back with her tiny fists, driving the cough out like hammering nails. Clearing his throat, he dug into the stew with gusto before squinting mischievously and asking:
“Gran, how do you sleep at night? Lies straight as a board or curled up like a bow?”
Winifred met his gaze with her clear blue eyes, a smile flickering in them, and waved her hand as if brushing the question aside.
“I reckon you were a right beauty in your day!” Nicholas went on, nodding at an old photo on the wall. “Thick hair, eyebrows like two rainbows, eyes like stars on a clear night. My Lizzie’s a proper stunner too! Let me count off her virtues, and you tally on your fingers—though I bet you’ll run out! Beautiful, graceful, modest, kind, hardworking, tidy, thrifty, sings like a nightingale, dances like a dream, never married, doesn’t drink or smoke, never gallivants about. Well, Gran, out of fingers yet?”
He noticed Winifred’s eyes crinkling with silent laughter, her chest shaking with mirth though no sound escaped—just warmth glowing in her gaze.
“Blimey, Gran, your eyes are alive, sharp as a tack for your age!” he marveled. “D’you know Lizzie?”
Winifred shrugged and spread her hands as if to say, *“Who can tell if you’re decent folk?”*
“Course, we’re not like your lot,” Nicholas admitted. “You obeyed your parents, feared crossing ’em. Us? We flap our gums and charge headfirst into trouble. Got opinions on everything. My dad asks my advice before lifting a finger. Mum treats me like the man of the house. Brothers all moved to the cities, so I’m the youngest—staying put till I wed. But I mean to tie the knot, fill the house with kids. Lizzie’s fit as a fiddle—vet’s word, she’ll bear as many as she fancies. Run out of fingers yet?”
Full from the meal and drowsy from the stove’s heat, Nicholas let his eyes wander. Despite her aches, Winifred kept the cottage spick-and-span—like a museum. The massive four-poster bed, piled with downy quilts, lace-trimmed pillows, and embroidered sheets, especially caught his eye.
“Imagine a bed like that for my wedding night!” He sighed. “Though might be too hot—sleep like a log and forget the whole business.”
He laughed and carried on:
“Lizzie’s finishing her training soon, coming back to the village, and then—wedding bells! She’s studying to be a nurse. Me treating animals, her treating folk. Though Mum calls Dad a beast sometimes. Truth is, we’re all beasts now and then. Heard how Johnny nicked Ewan’s motorbike and drowned it in the pond? Proper swine. Or Pete smoking in the hayloft—nearly torched the barn. Right charmer!”
But the worst, he reckoned, was Danny. Led poor Harriet on, got her in the family way, then swanned back from the city with a fiancée. Harriet near lost her mind—folks feared she’d do herself in. Now she walks around smiling, belly out, saying heaven sent her a boy. How’s Danny ever face her, knowing his son’s growing up down the road?
“But I’d never abandon Lizzie,” Nicholas vowed. “One look at her and I want to hold her so tight she melts into me. But she’s strict—no funny business before the vows. When she’s a nurse, she’ll fix your back in no time. Gives shots gentler than a midge’s bite. Once the council gives us a house, though, I’ll miss you, Gran. Won’t be next door. But I’ll always pop round—help out, natter. Got any more treats?”
Winifred deftly grabbed the poker and pulled a pot of mutton and pearl barley from the stove. The rich aroma hit Nicholas so hard he wrinkled his nose and grabbed his spoon, tapping it eagerly like a child. Winifred beamed, eyes alight seeing him relish her cooking.
“Go lie on the featherbed while I eat,” he teased. “Or is it just for show? Don’t worry—Lizzie and I’ll break it in proper one day.”
He coughed again, but Winifred didn’t thump him. Instead, she longed to hug this lively lad, thanking him for his warmth, for staying to share his thoughts. She ran her rough, worn hands over his back, gave a gentle pat, and pressed a kiss to his crown.
Nicholas stretched, groaning: “How’s a bloke supposed to work on a full stomach? Might just sack it off and nap in that bed!”
Chuckling, he stepped outside. He lugged in firewood, swept the porch, checked the pig in the shed, bowed to Winifred, and turned home.
“Where’ve you been?” his mother scolded. “Lizzie’s rung twice, and you’re still jawing with Winifred!”
“Try getting away from her!” Nicholas laughed. “Mum… was she born mute?”
“No, son,” she sighed. “In the war, she sang like an angel—went door to door with patriotic songs. When the Jerries hanged the partisans, she belted *‘We Shall Overcome.’* They cut out her tongue. The resistance saved her—stopped ’em finishing the job. We thought she’d always been mute till the vicar told us. Her village died off, but ours thrived—the council helped her buy this cottage.”
She shook her head. “Folks can be worse than beasts. Locked in their own worlds, couldn’t care less. But her—though she’s mute, she understands everything.”
“Mum, she speaks with her eyes!” Nicholas exclaimed. “I talk to her about Lizzie, and she lights up! And when I mentioned Danny—sparks flew! But her hands, Mum… so soft. She’s no kin, but feels like family. She doesn’t sign like mutes do—just thinks deep. Promised to mend her shed tomorrow. So don’t go inventing chores—I’m booked solid.”
