We lived together in a weatherbeaten cottage on the edge of a Yorkshire dale, two old women whose ages had crept up to eightysix and eightyfour. Though not kin, Margaret and Esther had each owned their own farms once, but for the past fifteen years they had pooled their dwindling resources, sharing firewood, food and conversation to keep the loneliness at bay. Their houses stood side byby; Esthers was the sturdier of the two, while Margarets had been dismantled for timber years ago, leaving her with only a lean shelter that had kept them warm for about five winters.
In their younger days they tended a modest herd of goats and a few chickens, but as the years went on the work grew harder and the garden lay fallow for two seasons in a row. By the end, even keeping the stove alight became a strain.
Once a week their grandson Samuelknown to them simply as Samrode up from Leeds on his motorcycle, bearing a sack of fresh bread, crusty rolls, tea and a lump of sugar. Those provisions formed the bulk of their meals; on rare occasions they boiled potatoes over a paraffin stove. When Sam arrived, the women would often burst into tears.
If you keep weeping, Ill stop coming, Margaret would say, halfjoking.
Very well, well hold our tongues, Sam would reassure, unloading the bag, drawing water from the well, and stoking the fire so that all they needed was a match. What else shall I bring next week? Just tell me, hed say, then bolt from the cottage, the motorcycles engine roaring away like a startled hare.
Even the short summer nights found them restless. Lying awake, they would speak softly to each other.
Cant sleep, Esther? Margaret would ask.
No, Esther replied. I napped early this evening, but now my eyes wont close.
What are you thinking of?
Everything, Margaret said.
And I think of the light beyond, Esther murmured. What lies there? No one knows.
Never will we know, she added, and the words lingered in the cool air.
Their minds stayed sharp, perhaps even keener than in youth, though memory sometimes faltered and they would lose their thread. One night Margaret rose and began to dress.
Where are you off to? Esther called.
Home, Margaret answered.
The home is right here! Esther protested.
No, Im going home, home Margaret persisted, shaking her head, then, reaching the doorway, paused, turned back, stripped off her coat and lay down again. Esther said nothing, sensing a fleeting shift in Margarets thoughts, a brief dislocation that soon passed.
They refused to sink into longterm despondency. Esther, with a dolllike demeanor, often brightened the gloom.
The world isnt without good people, she would say. Sam brings us supplies, we have firewood, a roof over our heads, a pension that pays us. What more could we ask for?
You can still sing, Margaret. You have a grandson. I have no one, Margaret would retort. When my limbs fail Ill end up in the workhouse.
Well not abandon each other, Esther promised. Even a workhouse has people.
Encouraged, Margarets eyes lit up, and Esthers face shone with a gentle, buoyant joy.
They spoke of the lives they had lived, as contemporaries of a bygone era, having weathered every storm together. Their children had grown just as the war loomed. Margaret had four sons; Esther, two. Margarets husband had died after a sudden illness while working the fields; a farmers stomach would not take the strain of the harvest, and he lingered in bed, hoping to recover, before being taken on a shaky cart to the infirmary where doctors diagnosed a burst appendix. One by one, Margarets four sons fell to disease and war, each loss striking her hard, but she never succumbed to madness. She rose again each time, the resilience of a seasoned oak, and lived to the age of eightyfive, her spirit never turning bitter, though a perpetual ache lingered.
Esther lost her husband and one son; the other returned, broken and infirm, finding work in a city cooperative before dying at thirtyseven. Her daughterinlaw remarried, and Sam remained a constant presence, his visits a lifeline.
Comparing fortunes, Esther thanked Providence for the mercy that had let her line continue: a grandson who tended to them, and grandchildren of his own now sprouting.
Come now, dear, Esther would say. What do we truly need? A slice of bread and a cup of tea will keep us full for the day. Anything else you want?
Nothing, Margaret would shake her head. Just a little more time from the Good Lord.
The hour will come when we all must go, Esther would promise.
When summers warmth arrived, the two women, still wrapped in heavy coats and shawls, would sit on a low wall, basking in the sun, inhaling the scent of damp earth. Spring came year after year, each blossom a reminder of renewal, yet the old women felt the chill even in bright daylight. The seasons fragrance once sparked childlike delight, later mingled with longing, and now whispered of decay.
They would sit for hours in the same posehands on a stick, faces turned toward the sun, eyes flickering only occasionally. When conversation sparked, their faces brightened, and they would bite their lips in concentration.
The worlds getting warmer, isnt it? one would remark. The grass is green, the birds are singing.
Yes, the other agreed. The soil feels as light as down, easy to dig.
One morning, a restlessness seized Margaret. She lingered on the wall, rose, and shuffled to the cottage. Each step on the porch was a labor; her hands trembled like a birds talons. She crossed the threshold, leaning on the wall, and collapsed awkwardly onto the bed, a faint moan escaping her lips.
Esther saw at once that something was wrong and followed her inside. Margarets face grew paler, her breathing shallow. Esther understood that Margarets time was drawing near and kept vigil over her friend.
Margaret tried to sit up, but the effort only sent her back onto her left side. She turned onto her back, uncomfortable, and let out a soft wail, her head bobbing against the pillow.
Esther came repeatedly, hoping to help, then, realizing her helplessness, settled on a nearby stool to watch. As evening fell, a strange calm settled over Margaret; her face lightened, her eyes wandered, and though her heart beat feebly, it still pulsed.
Soon the breath left her. Esther, fearing she would disturb the peace, stepped away. The house was silent save for the faint sound of Margarets last inhalation. Esther could not believe the sudden stillness, as if some unseen hand had lifted Margarets body from the bed.
Damn it! she shouted through the cottage. Who will I be left with?
She wailed, We lived like sisters! How shall I go on?
When would Sam return? Who would punish me? The questions swirled as she spent the night in restless contemplation, the dawn arriving unnoticed as nightingales sang.
At sunrise the motorcycles engine cracked awake the stillness, and Esthers legs, suddenly spry, carried her onto the porch.
The angels have brought you here today, Sam, she said, eyes wet. Margaret has passed.
Sams face turned ashen. What now will I do alone? he asked, his voice cracking.
You need not think of that, Esther replied, tears spilling. I wont leave you. Ill take you in for the winter.
I wish death had come sooner, she whispered.
Again Sam grumbled, Youre saying the same thing! He sighed, What else can I ask of you? Im yours, and my wifes a stranger, and Ill be a stumbling block in your family.
Theres no point arguing, he replied.
For two days Esther and Sam busied themselves with the chores, and Esther discovered a sudden spring in her step she had not felt for yearsperhaps Margarets spirit had lent her strength. Yet a deep melancholy settled over her, a yearning for the companion she had lost.
For fifteen years they had become nearer than blood, each seeing in the other a second self. They never quarreled without also forgiving one another. Both understood that they survived because they were together, and each feared the prospect of solitude.
Good for you, Esther! Youve got it all sorted! Margaret would have teased, had she been alive. What about me?
Sam visited almost daily, sometimes staying the night, bringing fresh rolls and dried fruit, which Esther would dip in tea and eat. Even those beloved treats could not fill the void left by Margarets absence.
One midsummer evening, as Esther was tidying the cottage, she heard Margarets voice, clear as a bell.
Hey, old woman! Youve been sitting here too long!
She opened the doorway to the hallwayno one stood there. She walked around the house, brushed aside the nettles that grew where the garden had been, and found nothing. Yet the voice lingered, as if Margarets echo had settled in the timber.
It must be my imagination, Esther thought, feeling her limbs grow weak. She edged to the cottage, opened the chest, retrieved a bundle of handsewn clothing, placed it on the table, and lay down on the bed.
She could not tell whether day or night lay outside, nor how long she remained thereperhaps a few hours, perhaps a full day. She felt life ebbing, not in pain but in a gentle surrender. Brief, bright images flickered across her mind: herself as a threeyearold girl dancing on a meadow with her grandmother, a young husband in a white shirt, her own children at work, the rhythmic clang of scythes in the field, the scent of straw, hay and linseed oil. Her life seemed both endless and fleeting.
When Sam finally rode back, he found Esther still, her head bowed over the bundle of clothes, and he fell to his knees, sobbing loudly.
Thus the tale of Margaret and Esther, two old women who clung to each other against the cold winds of time, remains a whisper among the hills, a reminder that even in the waning of years, the warmth of friendship can outshine the harshest of winters.
