The Warmth of a Stranger’s Soul: A Tale in a Country Cottage
Edward set the heavy buckets of water down on the bench in Granny Margery’s porch and was about to leave when the old woman grabbed his sleeve firmly, silently gesturing toward the house. He followed obediently and sat on the wide wooden settle by the door, waiting for her to speak.
Margery, without a word, fetched a cast-iron pot from the stove, glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall as if hinting it was lunchtime, and ladled out a steaming bowl of thick beef and ale stew. She added a chunk of crusty bread, a knob of butter, and a pickled onion. After a moment’s thought, she set down a bottle of homemade cider. Her hunched back, wrapped in a woollen shawl, seemed frail, but in her wellies, she moved with surprising ease despite the warmth of the cottage.
Edward lowered his voice and spoke.
“I’ll gladly eat the stew, but the cider—no, thank you. I’ve sworn off it, Granny Margery. Kissed the Bible and promised the vicar. After that night I drank too much and made a fool of myself over Lucy at the pub—don’t even know how I dodged the police. Had to pay a pretty penny for the broken chairs. Mum said your back’s been aching, so I came to fetch water. I’ll eat, chop some wood, and if you’ve any other work, I’ll do it. Mum sees me near the telly and instantly invents chores out of thin air.”
Edward chuckled at his own joke but promptly coughed on a mouthful of stew. Margery, quick as a flash, began thumping his back with her tiny fists, as if hammering nails into wood. Catching his breath, he carried on devouring the stew before squinting mischievously.
“Gran, how d’you sleep? Back straight or curled up like a hedgehog?”
Margery looked at him with clear blue eyes, a flicker of amusement in them, and waved a hand as if brushing the question aside.
“I reckon you were a right beauty in your day!” Edward went on, nodding at an old photograph on the wall. “Thick hair, eyebrows like two rainbows, and eyes like stars in the night. My Lucy’s a proper stunner too! Shall I list her virtues while you count on your fingers? Though, mind you, you’ll run out—pretty, tall, modest, kind, hardworking, tidy, thrifty, sings like a nightingale, dances like a dream, generous, never married, doesn’t drink or smoke, and doesn’t go gallivanting. Well, Gran, fingers all used up?”
Edward noticed how Margery’s eyes sparkled with silent laughter, her chest shaking though no sound came out—just warmth in her gaze.
“Your eyes, Gran—bright, alive, younger than your years!” he marvelled. “You know Lucy, don’t you?”
Margery shrugged and spread her hands, as if to say, “Who knows if you’re any good?”
“Course, we’re not like your lot were,” Edward continued. “You obeyed your parents, feared crossing them. Us? If things don’t go our way, it’s all teeth and tempers. We’ve got opinions on everything. My dad asks my advice before doing a thing. Mum treats me like the head of the house. Brothers are off in the cities—I’m the youngest, still at home till I wed. But I want a big wedding, a house full of kids. Lucy’s fit as a fiddle—I’m a vet, mind, so I know—she’ll have as many as she likes. Well, run out of fingers yet?”
The hearty meal and the stove’s heat left Edward drowsy. Despite her aches, Margery’s cottage was spotless as a manor house. The enormous featherbed, piled with pillows and draped in lace, caught his eye.
“Imagine a bed like that for the wedding night!” he mused. “Though, maybe not—you’d roast like a Sunday joint and forget what you were about.”
He laughed, then added,
“Lucy’s nearly finished her training, then she’s back to the village and we’ll have that wedding. She’s studying to be a nurse. Fancy that—I tend the animals, she tends the people. Though Mum sometimes calls Dad worse than the livestock. Truth is, we’re all beasts at times. Heard how Jack nicked George’s motorcycle and drowned it in the pond? Right villain, that one. Then there’s Peter, smoking in the hayloft—nearly burned the barn down. Fine lot we are!”
But the worst was Liam. Led poor Olivia on, got her in trouble, then brought a bride from town. Olivia nearly lost her mind—folks feared she’d do something daft. But yesterday, there she was, smiling, belly out, saying God blessed her with a boy. I keep thinking—how’s Liam gonna walk past her house, knowing his son’s there? But I’d never leave my Lucy. Just looking at her makes me want to hold her so tight she melts right into me. But she’s proper—no funny business before the ring’s on. She’ll make a cracking nurse—have your back fixed in no time. Needles? Barely feel ’em. Still, when the council gives us a house, I’ll miss you, Gran. We won’t be neighbours. But I’ll pop round—help, chat. Anything else tasty in that stove?”
Margery grabbed the poker and pulled out a pot of steak and kidney pie. The rich smell hit Edward so hard he near twisted his nose off, shaking his head with delight. He grabbed a fork and drummed the table like a kid, making Margery beam, her eyes shining at his enjoyment.
“Lie down on that featherbed while I eat,” Edward winked. “Or is it just for show? Never mind—Lucy and I’ll break it in someday.”
He coughed again, but Margery didn’t thump him this time. She wanted to hug this lively lad, thank him for his warmth, for staying to share his thoughts. Her rough, work-worn hands smoothed his back, patted gently, then she kissed his crown.
Edward stood, stretching.
“Who can work on a full belly? That bed’s calling my name!”
He laughed and headed outside. Split logs, swept the porch, checked on the piglet in the shed, tipped his hat to Margery, and started home.
“Where’ve you been?” his mum greeted him. “Lucy called twice—still jawing with Margery?”
“How d’you walk away from her? One tale leads to another,” Edward joked. “Mum, was she always mute?”
“No, love,” she sighed. “During the war, she sang like a lark, going door-to-door with patriotic songs. When the Nazis hanged the resistance lads, she belted out ‘The White Cliffs of Dover.’ They cut out her tongue. The partisans saved her, stopped them shooting her. We thought she was born mute—only recently the councillor told us. Her village died out; ours thrived, so the Legion helped her buy this cottage. People can be worse than animals, hiding in their corners, not caring. But her—mute as she is—she understands everything.”
“Mum, she speaks with her eyes!” Edward exclaimed. “Told her about Lucy, and she lit up like a Christmas tree. When I mentioned Liam—sparks flew! And her hands, Mum—so gentle. She’s no kin, but being with her’s like coming home. She doesn’t flail like some mutes—just thinks deep. Promised to fix her shed tomorrow, so no inventing chores—I’m booked solid.”
