We lived together in a modest thatched cottage on the edge of a small Yorkshire village, two old women sharing a roof for as long as we could remember. I was seventytwo, she was seventyfour. Neither of us were related; once we each kept our own homes, but about fifteen years ago we decided to pool our dwindling resources. One furnace burned twice as slowly, the coal lasted longer, and we finally had someone to chatter with instead of the hollow silence that once gnawed at our minds.
We settled in Ethels cottage because her walls were sturdier; Margarets house, with its many leanto barns, had been taken down for firewood. For five winters we warmed ourselves with that fire and knew not of want. In our younger days we kept a goat and a handful of chickens, but as the years wore on the work grew harder. By the second summer after the arrangement we could no longer tend the garden, and by the end of the year even stoking the stove became a strain.
Once a week our grandson, SamSamuel Turner, a thirtyfiveyearold motorcyclist from Leedscame to visit. He rode in with a sack brimming with fresh bread rolls, a tin of tea, a lump of sugar, and sometimes a pot of potatoes cooked over a kerosene lamp. When he arrived the two of us would weep.
If you keep crying, Ill stop coming, Sam would say, halflaughing.
Alright, well keep it together, wed soothe him.
He would unload the provisions, fetch water from the well, heap kindling into the stove so that all we had to do was strike a match, and then hed shout, Anything else you need? Ill be back in a weekjust let me know. With a quick kick of his bike hed disappear down the lane, his coat flapping like a weatherworn flag.
Even in the short summer evenings sleep eluded us. We lay in the hush and whispered to each other.
Cant sleep, Ethel? Margaret would ask.
No, Ethel replied. I dozed off earlier, but now my eyes stay open.
Whats on your mind? Margaret would press.
Everything, Ethel said. And the world beyond what does it look like? No one will ever know.
And never will they, Ethel answered.
Our bodies grew frail, yet the mind held on with a clarity that sometimes seemed sharper than in our youthperhaps because distance sharpens sight. There were lapses, however; we would lose our thread and begin to babble.
One night, Margaret rose and began to dress.
Where are you off to? Ethel called.
Home, she said.
This house is yours! Ethel protested.
No, Im going home, home Margaret muttered, shaking her head. She reached the doorway, clutched the latch, then stopped, turned back, stripped off her coat and lay down on the bed. Ethel said nothing then or later, recognizing that Margarets thoughts had taken a sudden, fleeting turn.
We resisted lingering in melancholy. Ethels smile, bright as a dolls painted face, kept the gloom at bay.
Listen to my foolish brain, she would start. The world isnt without kindness. Sam brings us food, we have firewood, we live in our own home with heat and light. We receive a pension. What more could we ask for?
You have a voice, a grandson. I have no one, Margaret would reply. When my limbs fail Ill end up in the workhouse.
I wont abandon you, Ethel promised. As long as I can move, youll have me. And even in the workhouse there are people.
These words lifted Margarets spirits; she looked around with brighter eyes, while Ethel glowed with a gentle joy and love.
We spoke often of life. We were of the same generation, having weathered every great event together. Our children were of age when the war broke outfour sons for Margaret, two for Ethel. Margaret had lost her husband; he fell ill with a stomach complaint during the haycutting season. A farmer in those days could not pause work for a sicknesshe pressed on until his strength failed, then was left to the cold stove in hopes of recovery. Margaret finally hauled a horse and a rickety cart to the infirmary, where doctors diagnosed a gangrenous appendix.
One by one, all four of Margarets sons died. How could she bear such loss without breaking? Each time the news knocked her unconscious and the neighbours would pour water over her. Yet, as if forged from some indestructible alloy, she rose again, lived on, and eventually reached eightyfive. No bitterness took root, only a lingering sorrow that never left her heart.
Ethel lost her husband and one son; another returned, crippled but alive. He settled in the town, married, and died at thirtyseven. His widow remarried, and Sam stayed with his grandmother. Comparing her fate with Margarets, Ethel thanked the Almighty for mercy: her line was not cut off at the root, she still had a grandson whose labours kept them alive, and that grandson now had children of his own.
Dear, Ethel would say, how much do we truly need? A slice of bread and a cup of tea will fill us for a day. Is there anything you lack?
Nothing, Margaret would shake her head. Only a blessing from God to let us die this summer.
Time will come, and we shall pass, Ethel promised.
When the days grew warm, the two of us, still wrapped in winter coats and shawls, would sit on a low garden wall, bask in the sun and inhale the scent of fresh earth. Spring returned year after year, yet we felt the chill even in bright sunshine. The scent of spring once meant rebirth and childlike delight; later it spoke of loves yearning, then faded, and finally whispered of decay.
We would sit for hours in the same posehands on a wooden stick, faces tilted toward the light, eyes flickering only occasionally. When a conversation sparked, our faces lit up, our lips moving earnestly.
The world feels ready for us to die, one would remark. The weather is warm, the flowers bloom, the grass is soft.
Yes, the other would agree. The soil is as light as down; its easy to dig.
One morning, a sudden unease seized Margaret. She lingered on the garden wall, then rose and shuffled back into the cottage. Each step up the porch was a struggle; her hands trembled like a birds wings. She clutched the wall, shuffled across the strawcovered floor, and collapsed sideways onto the bed, a faint moan escaping her lips.
Ethel, noticing the change, hurried after her. Margarets face grew paler, her breathing shallow. Ethel understood that Margarets time was near and kept a vigil at her side.
Margaret tried to sit up, but her body gave way and she fell back onto the same side. She turned onto her back, wincing, and whispered against the pillow.
Ethel came to her repeatedly, offering what little help she could; realizing her own power was limited, she settled on a nearby bench and watched.
Evening brought a strange calm. Margarets eyes opened, a pallor lifting from her face, and she gazed around as if content. Her heart beat weakly, then steadier.
Ethel slipped away to avoid disturbing the peace. Margaret never woke again.
When the night deepened, Ethel heard only Margarets single breath in the cottage. She felt an unexpected surge of strength, as though some unseen hand had lifted her from the chair and placed her beside the bed. Her heart thudded three, then four times, and ceased forever.
Damn it! Ethel shouted, her voice echoing through the thatched walls. Who will look after me now?
She wailed, How could we have lived like sisters! When will Sam return? Who will I punish with whom?
She thought on this until dawn broke, the night passing in a chorus of nightingales.
At sunrise Sams motorcycle roared up the lane, his legs carrying him out onto the doorstep as if rejuvenated.
Angels have brought you here today, Sam, Ethel said, her voice trembling. Margaret has died.
Sams face went ashen. What shall I do now? he asked.
I dont know how to live alone, Ethel sobbed, sinking onto the steps.
Dont worry, Gran. I wont leave you. Ill take you in for the winter, Sam promised. May God grant me peace this summer.
Again with the same words! Sam grumbled. What else can I say? Im yours, but your wife is a stranger to me, and Ill be a burden in your household.
Enough of that, Ethel muttered.
For two days Sam tended to the cottage, and Ethel seemed to regain a youthful vigor she hadnt felt in years. She moved about, stoked the fire, cooked, as if a new spirit had entered her. Perhaps Margarets essence had passed into her, lending fresh strength.
When Sam left, a deep longing settled over Ethel. It was a sorrow for a person, not just for loss. Fifteen years of shared life had bound the two women tighter than blood; each saw the other as a second self. In all that time they never quarreled or blamed each other. Both understood they survived only because they were together, and each feared the prospect of solitude.
Good for you! Youve got it all sorted! Margaret would have teased, were she still here. What about me?
Sam visited almost daily, sometimes staying the night. He brought fresh rolls and dried biscuits, which Ethel dipped in tea and ate. Yet even her favorite treats could not quell the emptiness.
One midsummer afternoon, as Ethel was quietly putting away the cottages supplies, she heard Margarets voice clear as a bell: Hey, old woman! Youve been sitting here too long!
Ethel flung open the screendoor to the hallwayno one stood there. She walked around the house, waved a stick at the nettles growing where the garden beds had beennothing. Still, the voice lingered in her ears. Had she imagined it? Had the memory of Margaret been so vivid that it seemed to speak?
It must be my imagination, she thought, and her limbs grew limp. She shuffled to the cottage, opened the chest, retrieved a bundle of fresh clothes, laid them on the table, and lay down on the bed.
Time lost its meaningday or night, hours or days. She felt life ebb away, but there was no pain, only a strange peace. Brief, bright images flickered through her mind: herself at three, running with her grandmother across a blooming meadow; a young husband in a white shirt; her own children; the rhythm of the loom, the sweep of the scythe, the clang of the forgeso vivid she could almost dance to it. The smells of straw, hay, and linseed oil filled her senses. Her life seemed both endless and fleeting in the span of a heartbeat.
When Sam returned on his bike, he found his grandmother lifeless, his head falling onto the table beside the bundle of clothes. He let out a cry that echoed through the quiet cottage, mourning the loss of the two women who had steadied each others days for so long.
