One winters evening, long ago, I recall a night that seemed to hang forever over the little Yorkshire village of Hawthorn.
At first light, Ethel Whitaker slipped out of her cottage. Snow fell in delicate flakes, not a deep drifts, but enough to coat the fields in a soft veil. The sky offered no stars; a gloom hung low, and the moon struggled to peek through the clouds, only to be swallowed by the dawning light. By noon a shy sun had crept over the thatchroofed houses.
The day passed as any other. When dusk settled, Ethel made her way home, and a cold wind began to howl as grey clouds rolled across the heavens.
What on earth, she thought, when it was so calm a storm could not have sprung from nowhere? She had not yet reached the front gate when a whiteout took hold, blinding everything ahead.
Thankfully she was almost at the cottage. She pushed open the gate and whispered to herself, Its a good thing the snow hasnt yet piled into drifts. Yet the weather is no jest. The wind thrashed the yard, swaying a great oak by the gate. By grace she managed to step inside, shut the door, and breathe relief.
After dinner she climbed onto the hot stove to listen to the world outside. The wind screamed through the chimney, and she soon dozed. A sudden, insistent knock rattled the door.
Who would bring trouble at this hour? she muttered, pulling her woollen slippers onto her feet, and shuffled to the portal.
Whos there? she called.
Kind lady, open up, let me get warm, a man’s voice answered.
And who might you be? she asked.
George, a driver. Ive been stuck opposite your cottagesnow piled up, the road vanished. The blizzards relentless. I tried to clear it with a spade, but it kept falling again. Let me in, I promise I mean no harm. Im from the neighbouring hamlet.
Ethel hesitated; night was fast falling. Yet she eased the latch, and a tall, snowcovered man stumbled into the hallway.
Very well, come in, George, she said.
Thank you, madam. I feared youd turn me away and Id have to trudge on, he said with a smile, shedding the snow from his cap at the threshold.
Would you like some tea? Ethel offered.
Would be grand, Im chilled through, he replied, grateful.
She set a plate of fresh scones shed baked the day before, a cup and saucer, and fetched a steaming kettle from the stove.
Thank you, George said, and what is your name, madam?
Ethel Whitaker, she answered, her smile warm.
Do you live alone? he asked.
For five years now, she said. My husband left for the city after a quarrel over a pear orchard. No children.
And you? Any family? George probed.
None, he said sadly. I was once married, but it fell apart. I wont speak of it.
Seems we share a similar fate, Ethel said. Drink your tea, eat the scones; Ill set a place for you by the stove.
He settled on the heated hearth and soon the room was filled with the sound of his gentle snoring. Ethel lay awake, feeling the sting of loneliness that pressed against her heart. A stranger sleeps beside me, she thought, how sweet it would be to have my own loving husband, diligent and kind.
When dawn broke, she rose to stoke the fire and fry a few pancakes on the hot stones. George awoke, his eyes bright.
Nothing like a good breakfast after a nights chill, he said, smiling.
After they ate, Ethel prepared to go to her work in the village shop.
George, I wont lock the door. If you need to leave, just swing the latch. Theres a kettle on the stove and some boiled potatoes if youre hungry. Safe travels, perhaps well not meet again, she said.
Farewell, Ethel. Thank you for the shelter, he replied.
At lunch she returned to find George wrestling with his carriage, halfburied in snow.
You still here? she called.
It seems the battery has given out, and the road is still invisible, he answered.
Come in, have a bite. Ive only just finished my own lunch, and the snow is still falling, she said.
She asked where he could find a tractor to pull the carriage free. The depot down the lane opens at one, but after two theyll send a man with a plough. Lets eat first, then Ill take you there.
A strange kinship blossomed in Ethels mind; she felt a strange comfort sit beside this stranger.
George chuckled, Ive been hacking away with my shovel all morning.
Ethel noted the silver strands at his temples and the fine lines gathering near his eyes whenever he smiled. Hes only thirtyseven, yet the first signs of age are already there, she mused. How blessed a woman would be to have a gentle, courteous man in her home.
She escorted him to the depot, then turned back to her shop.
Safe journey, George, she called as he left.
You as well, Ethel!
That evening, as twilight fell early over the frosty fields, she saw a light glowing in her windows. Her heart leapt at the thought of being awaited.
Come in, madam, George said, the kettle whistling. Why havent you gone back yet?
The tractor will arrive tomorrow. No spare wagons are in the depot today. They promised one for tomorrow, he explained.
After supper, Ethel tended to her chores and retired to her bed. George lingered by the hearth, his thoughts heavy, then rose and slipped onto the bed beside her. She froze, unsure what to say, as he pulled the blanket over them both and held her close. She reached for him instinctively.
Silence stretched, then Ethel whispered, George, I could spend my whole life like this, with you.
He sat up, startled. Does that mean you expect me to marry you?
What? she asked timidly.
He answered, a hint of bitterness in his tone, I dont trust women. I was married once; my wife ran off. Ive known many women, but none that stayed. Youre not a wife, youre just a warm blanket. Ill be gone tomorrow, and youll find another.
Ethels eyes welled. You think Ive never had anyone? Ive had no husband, no children. I only want a family, a husband, children a proper life, she said, her voice breaking.
He muttered, Dont weep. Were strangers; what children could we have?
She fell silent, ashamed of her hope. The night passed uneasily; sleep eluded her.
At daybreak George prepared to leave. A tractor was due at six. Ethel stepped onto the porch to see him off.
Forgive me, Ethel, he said.
Farewell, George. If you ever get stuck again, I wont open the door, she replied, though a cry rose in her throat, fearing what the future might hold for him.
He drove away. When she returned from her midday break, the carriage was gone. Hours turned, and he never returned. She confided in her friend Clara, who lived nearby.
Ethel, youre pregnant! Clara laughed, Go straight to the city doctor.
Ethel thanked the heavens, relieved that the storm had brought her a child. She visited the doctor, who confirmed the news. Gratitude filled her for the accident that had led George to her doorstep.
When her son was born on schedule, the nurse asked, What shall we call the little lad?
Stewart, Ethel said, perhaps hell be called Stephen when he grows. Hell bring joy to my old age.
The nurse chuckled, Dont think of old age yet, love; you have a baby to raise first.
Had I a husband, hed be here, Ethel sighed.
On the day of discharge, Clara called to say she could not fetch Ethel and the baby, though she had brought a parcel. Ethel fretted how she would get back to the village by bus with an infant, but the nurse promised an ambulance.
She gathered her few belongings, cradling the newborn, and stepped into the wards hallwayonly to halt, rooted to the spot. There stood George, a bouquet of flowers in his hand, with Clara watching slyly beside him.
Ethel, Ive decided Im your husband and I wont let anyone take your child or you away, George declared.
Ethel handed the baby to him, smiling through tears of joy. The tears that fell were not of sorrow but of a longawaited happiness, finally fulfilled.
