The Snow No Longer Burned
31st January
The snow no longer stung the soles of my feet perhaps because Id stopped feeling them altogether. The wind was the worst of it, cracking across my face, hands and neck with a wet, whistling slap, biting straight through my thin nightdress into my chest. A mass of white hair, heavy and clotted with snow like icicles, dragged at my scalp. The storm shrieked and battered, confusing me so much that I lost track of my own back garden. Pressed up against the frozen boards of the fence, I crossed my arms over my chest and sobbed into the darkness:
Oh, let me die already! Please, Lord, take me! Let me die
I would have, too turned rigid from cold, if it hadnt been for my neighbour, Margaret. Shed popped out to check whether her cow had started calving, when she noticed my door swing open, lamplight leaking onto the snow.
Daisy! What are you doing, out there in the dark?
But I just stood, hidden by the apple trees and the blizzard, eyes screwed shut, caught in a loop: die, die, let it end.
Margaret dashed across to my gate, voices muffled by the howling wind.
Daisy! Where are you, for Gods sake… Daisy!
Even if Id wanted to, I couldnt have replied. Instead I gave a dry groan, slid down the fence, and buried my tangled white head on my knees. I shrank inwards, tears biting into my hollow, grey cheeks. Then someones arms heaved me up and tried to drag me along, but Id stiffened, cold through and through.
Foolish old bird! Ill be right back! Margaret snapped, rushing home for her husband. Together, they lugged me back inside.
Since then, I havent left the bed. The next morning, a young nurse arrived. She looked at my ninety-one-year-old body with surprise: not a cough, not a chill, just frostbitten feet. Leaning over me, she asked:
You should be in hospital. Shall we ring for an ambulance?
I watched her black hair, cheeks flushed pink with cold and shook my head, slow and stubborn.
Im not going anywhere. Leave me be, dear. Dont waste your time on me. Theres nothing left for me. Off you go, love.
And so I lay, two weeks drifting in blankets. Why did I step out that frozen night, barefoot and in my nightdress? They all said it was my own foolishness, but to me it felt like something mysterious, maybe fateful. The night before, Id sat on the bed, unraveling an old woollen sock in the yellow glow of the lamp. My old fingers worked by memory, but my mind was miles away. My eyes fixed on the wall, I smiled oddly drawn back to memories that spiraled deep and far.
There was never much good in my life, not from childhood. Just ceaseless work and want except one brief, dazzling spark of happiness, a single plunge into love.
His name was Gregory.
Greg Greg, love I lisped through cracked lips, smiling wider and wider to some faraway sweetness.
Did I dream, or was I awake? I was back in the field beyond the copse, at the edge of the old manor. I shielded my eyes and searched the rye field, waiting. He had promised to come. A tangle of hope and fear twisted in my belly. Then, in the shimmer of the summer heat, I saw a male shape. I ran, tears streaming, completely and utterly joyful:
Greg! Greg!
With those dreams still clinging to me, I drifted into sleep. But in the dead of night, I woke restless, fizzing with something dark and urgent. One look at the window: blizzard still raging. Pushing back the blanket, I groped along the wall, found the door, and stumbled into the blinding snow.
Just for a moment just for a moment
I went, bare feet numb, squinting blindly into the white squall over our village. I reached with my hand as though begging for someone.
Greg!
The cold jolted my body, everything seized inside. My feet struck the icy steps; I groped onward, eyes fixed on the fence, calling for him, fighting the storm.
Greg! Im here! Greg!
I made it to the gate, searched beyond then, finally, the cold bit through. I couldnt move my toes. In a panic, I staggered along the fence toward the entrance, still half-smiling.
Just a quick look from here too
But the gate had vanished into the storm. I turned in pointless circles, only finding trees, fence, and snow up to my knees. I got lost. I gave up. Thats how Margaret and her husband found me.
Margaret has stopped by a lot since, bringing food, lighting the stove, chattering quietly. The nurse comes too, changing the bandages, smearing some ghastly ointment on my feet, prodding me to check my temperature. I do what Im told, but in the silence after they leave, I stare at the ceiling with empty eyes. The only sounds are the crunch of boots outside, distant dog barks, the creak of a cart, the laughter of children home from school.
Mostly, I drift between waking and sleep. I open my eyes is it dawn, or night again? The logs pop in the fireplace, water plinks steadily off the eaves. Oh, Lord, why cant I die already? Let me die I think this over and over.
From the earliest days, I knew this chilling truth: my fate is like a steep, muddy slope, thick with brambles and stones. All you can do is tumble down, bruising yourself on every root and pebble. No one to catch you, no one to help you climb back up to the sun. Thats how everyone around me lived too. I never expected to escape. For me, life became a weary fall, and the only thing left was to grit my teeth and endure.
That year, spring came spitefully slow. Instead of warmth, we got bitter winds and endless rain that turned the roads into sticky, impassable muck. The snow finally melted away in May, revealing shrivelled earth, like an old, cracked pelt. The birch leaves stayed furled for ages; the orchards stood black and bare, skeletal against the sky. I remember trudging home along the muddy lane from the well, the heavy buckets clattering on my yoke, splashing their icy water over my cracked, bare feet.
Across the street, a huddle of men smoked under the dripping fence, grumbling low, eyes flicking in my direction. I kept my gaze down. Id long since grown used to being invisible, just another drab brushstroke in a dismal landscape.
Daisy! Old Aggies voice cut the air a steely, bossy sound you couldnt ignore. Run over to the shop! Tell Mr. Cooper to send his best chintz for Miss Charlotte, the one with the flowers. Dont dawdle, weve guests from London tonight, and well need extra flowers for the table.
Without a word, I set my buckets on the step, wiped my hands on my grimy apron, and set off for the edge of the village. I was twenty-two, and already it felt like my whole life had slid past, barely noticing me. Twelve years before, after both my parents died, the sharp-tongued widow from the manor had taken me in as a servant, for a crust and a bed. Id been a scrawny, battered child with frightened eyes, flinching from every noise. Now I was a tall, tough young woman, my back set, hands always rough and strong, never looking anyone in the eye. The light had long since gone out in them.
I worked from dawn to dusk, until my legs felt poured full of molten metal, my ears buzzing, my arms throbbing. Chopping firewood in the sleet, milking goats in a freezing shed, shovelling heavy clay for the oven, laundry in the river till my fingers went numb. Pulling weeds in the kitchen garden when the sun baked the world and the sour-sweet smell of currants spun my head. I couldnt eat a single berry the mistress counted every one and thrashed me with nettles if any went missing: Not for the likes of you, layabout! I learned to keep my head down, lips tight, hands busy, hoping shed leave me be if I worked hard enough.
On Saturdays, Id heat the copper bathhouse, lug gatefuls of water from the river, and stoke the furnace till the heat made my head spin. Id scrub that old womans back with a bristly brush, sweat soaking through my thin shift, until I thought Id keel over. Shed grumble and hiss, sometimes pinching my side, but in her good moods, shed pat my cheek with her fat, steamy hand and call me her strong old cart-horse. It didnt bother me. I knew nothing else, and Id forgotten how to be angry. Some wall had grown between me and the rest of the world built of exhaustion, indifference, all hope buried long ago. I didnt care what I wore, who spoke to me, what rags I got at Christmas. I couldnt be bothered with the other girls gossip or the boys stares. And Margaret, the mistress, had come to rely on me so much she couldnt have managed a single day without.
Once, while I stood on a stool, stretching to clean the high mirror, the old lady looked me up and down.
Daisy, dyou reckon I should find you a husband? Would you like that?
I stepped down, wrung out my rag, answered flat as ever:
Whatever you wish.
Or would you rather stick to spinsterhood?
Doesnt matter.
Well, well! she slapped my shoulder. For you, spinsters best! A houseful of children squawking and crawling about, its no life. With those hips, youd have a dozen! God help you not like my Charlotte, poor girl.
She went to cross herself, thinking of her daughter, then gave up as someone called her away. Shed have married me off just for the sake of change, but couldnt bear to lose a good worker.
But even that talk never troubled my mind. I drifted through each day with my soul half asleep. For all my brute health, hunger or longing never stirred in me, like other women. That wall was too thick. Men and boys got used to my blank face and hefty stride; their eyes slid off me after a while. Old John the groom once said: Daisys beauty isnt for mortals shes mad, set aside for God. And so it went, until, just once, by accident, I looked over the wall and glimpsed the other world.
That summer, when the sun finally warmed the hayfields, we waited for important guests at the manor. Miss Charlotte was to meet a young London gentleman who, rumour had it, intended to marry her. They sent me to the meadow to pick daisies for the parlour. My bare feet slithered through glossy grass, when a stranger stepped into my path. He was smartly dressed, waistcoat over a linen shirt, black boots shining. His hair shone with pomade, and his eyes sparkled with cheek. He was Greg, the groom from the neighbouring estate, travelling with the young gentleman. He planted himself in my way, looking me over like a horse at a show.
Good day, beautiful, he drawled, eyes sliding from my brown arms to my plain blouse and high chest.
I ignored him, stepping aside, but he shifted too, blocking my way again.
What is it? I muttered, eyes locked on my toes.
Whats your name?
If you need to know, you already know, dont you? I replied, brushing past.
Greg didnt give up. He started showing up with the young master every week. I heard his booming, bold voice on the drive, felt his sticky, relentless gaze as I scrubbed or cleaned in the scullery. He turned up at the well, in the yard, on the back step. Hed fire off jokes, poke at me, but I kept silent, recoiling as if he wasnt even there. Once, grabbing flour from the store, he lunged out, caught me round the ribs and pressed me against the sacks. I didnt scream. Something old and animal reared up in me. I shoved him so hard he flew into the wall, cracked his head on the posts. I just looked down at him in surprise.
Well, thats what you get
I straightened my shoulders, tugged down my skirt, and left him lying in the damp straw. He stared after me, pain and something sharp flickering in his eyes more than lust, a pricking curiosity. He liked the shrieking girls who threw themselves at him. But I didnt fit the script.
Did I feel anything for Greg? Hard to say. What happened was new to me, blurry, without clear want or fear. He barely crossed my mind but something inside me began to flicker. I started to smile again, craving the rush hed sparked in me by accident. I would rise early and stare at the sunrise over the meadow, milk the cow, stop to marvel at the dew on the grass. I even wanted to lie down in the greenery and laugh from the sheer abundance of life. But duty snapped me from such dreaming, and Id hurry back to work. A month went by in this way.
Gregs efforts misfired. He snatched a kiss once in the cellar and got a heavy slap for it, so heavy he lost the urge to try again. Yet, persistence makes the heart notice. Once, catching him offering to carry my buckets, I surprised myself by smiling up shyly. Another time, he glimpsed me watching from the window as he groomed the horses. Not much, but enough to keep hope alive. Still, our story if you could call it that was brief.
One day, Greg defended a farm boy caught nicking apples from the manor orchard. The mistress ordered the stablehand to thrash him. I saw it, and some old pain twisted my face. I ran over, trying to shield the boy, but the groom pushed me away. I snatched up a stick and almost thumped him from behind. The crowd froze. At that moment, Greg dashed in, grabbed the whip, and struck the grooms chin.
Clear off! Ill tell the lady myself! Off with you!
The women rushed to soothe the crying child, asking for his name. He mumbled, then shrank with a sob.
Mum died yesterday… died!
It hit me like a brick to the face. I clapped a hand to my mouth, memories of my own childhood flooding me. I retreated to my box-like room, tore at my blouse, snapped the string of my old cross necklace, threw myself on the bed, and wept, clinging to the thin mattress. I wept for myself, for powerless rage, for a longing for something nameless and lost.
Greg found me, opening the creaky door and sitting by my side. He said nothing, only wrapped his arms round my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I didnt push him away. I let his warmth steady me. My tears kept spilling, but the sobs stopped. Quiet, I listened to him breathe.
Whats out there, beyond the woods? Whats next? I whispered at last.
London, he replied, a little baffled. Big city, shops, churches, tanneries.
And after that?
Another city. Theres a railway. Then they say the sea, but thats far away.
I went quiet again. I had never seen the sea. I was scared to cross a river, much less set off for the coast. Yet all at once, I yearned to see it, to escape this place where Id been beaten, worked raw, called nothing but draught-horse behind my back. To be someone, not a thing. I turned to Greg, wrapped his head in my rough, cracked hands, and for the first time ever looked him straight in the eyes.
Will you take me with you? Will you marry me?
Greg hesitated. He was careless, loved to show off for the village girls, but not one for bold promises. He shifted, looking away, muttered about waiting, about needing to get some money together. But I was already changed. Some dam had burst. I pulled him in, kissed him myself, whispered that Id risk any gossip, do anything, just to be with him, to leave. That night, I lost my copper cross, the little one Id worn since childhood the string snapped and it slipped into the dark. I never searched for it. So be it, I said, strangely resolute.
Greg returned twice more. We met in secret in the hayloft, behind the orchard, by the river. I bloomed. My step grew lighter, the colour came back to my cheeks, a shy but real smile tugged at my lips. For the first time, I wanted.
Soon, it ended. Charlottes wedding was a noisy affair, after which the family left for London, Greg with them. I wasnt told; it was the cook who finally, almost gently, said: Hes gone, Daisy. With the family. Dont wait.
But wait I did. Every evening I crept to the lane, searching the horizon by the woods. I stood for hours, arms folded, staring until the stars faded in. I stopped eating and sleeping. My hollow cheeks grew translucent, my eyes fever-bright, wild. Aggie the housekeeper shouted at me, slapped me, threw pots, but I just smiled, lost in some other world. I was sure Greg would come home. He had to.
The summer drifted by, thick and airless. Autumn came, grey, drizzling, thick with mist and rotting leaves. I grew addicted to watching that line of trees on the skyline, believing that if I waited long enough, Greg would return. I didnt ask about him, and if others spoke, I didnt care. I knew cruel forces kept him from me, but if we ever shared a single glowing day, surely he longed for it, too. Surely he would come if I waited. I spoke little, worked even harder, then sat in silence, gazing at nothing as the seasons blurred and spilled together. Time ran on. I waited.
One day, in late October, when the trees stood bare and the fields lay black with damp, I was digging in my little patch when I looked up. At the fields very edge, a lone man walked by the wood. My heart clenched. Greg? I dropped the spade and ran, tears streaming, flailing arms:
Wait! Wait!
He never turned; probably couldnt hear me. I reached the swollen stream, ran along the bank, desperate. I couldnt swim, and he was already far off. I climbed onto a log, wagging my head, staring for a last glimpse. I nearly wept afraid if I blinked, hed dissolve entirely. Already his brown head, his blue shirt, blurred into nothing. Desperate, I tiptoed higher. Gone. All I saw was mile upon mile of green meadow.
A neighbour, Mrs. Potter, digging up raspberries nearby, found me there.
What are you sitting out for? Come on now
That was Greg, I said, not blinking.
Whos Greg?
The groom from the manor. He always travelled with the young master.
The estate next door? she frowned. What you on about, love?
Im waiting for him.
Wait for what? she sighed. Hasnt the time for that passed? Word is, he married years back, even before the war. Lives over in Elmford, same as always.
Dont lie, I said softly, and something dark and heavy flickered in my voice, so Mrs. Potter jumped.
Whos lying here? Youre touched in the head, poor soul! Spit for luck! she spat, crossing herself. My husbands brothers seen him himself crippled years now, poor fellow. Barely stands. Wifes got five children to feed. Hes probably gone already, he was so ill last time we heard. Whyre you laughing?
Ha-ha-ha! I burst out, sitting in the mud, hair wild, skirt bunched, knees pale in the sun. My laughter split the air: loud, cracked, not quite human.
Mad thing, laughing like that! Mrs. Potter crossed herself, backing away. That mans long buried by now and youre grinning! Lord help you.
Hes young, handsome, strong I said, tapping my chest, my eyes gleaming. And do you know who I am?
Who then?
His wife. And we havent got children yet havent even started.
Youre off your rocker. Its decades since he was young! He must be nearly fifty! Mrs. Potter tugged my arm. Come on, now.
I just laughed, blank and shining.
Whyd you lie to me, eh? Why?
Poor womans lost her wits, Mrs. Potter thought, crossing herself, shuffling away.
After that, the village started treating me as daft. I no longer wept, no longer waited quite as desperately as before. If anything, I worked harder than ever, throwing myself into chores, trying to drown the ache. But sometimes Id sit on the doorstep, staring at the woods, dreaming of the sea beyond, my eyes fixed in a bottomless, empty calm. People crossed themselves and walked around me.
Even in June, when the air was thick with the scent of lilies and honeysuckle, Id put on a clean blouse, comb my long silvering hair, and wander out to the meadow, watching where the band of trees met the sky as if rooted there for centuries. If anyone, out of pity or curiosity, asked who I waited for, Id reply softly, with a gentle smile:
For my happiness. Its there, beyond the woods. Greg promised hed come today.
Poor soul! Mad old woman
All the while the wind whispered in the trees, the river rolled on lazily, and far, far away, beyond the woods, beyond the fields, beyond all the towns, there rumbled the unknown sea, whose sound and sweep I never knew except for its gentle, beckoning name.
The cottage door creaked. Margaret came to set the fire. I turned empty, colourless eyes on her.
Well? How are the feet? she asked.
Mumbling, I couldnt answer. Margaret leaned in.
Whats that? I cant hear you.
wish it would end already No, hell not come now. All thats left is to goMargaret squeezed my hand, her grip warm and sturdy. Hes not coming, love. But I am. Im here.
I watched as her world settled around me: the clock ticking, logs settling in the hearth, lamplight flickering on her kindly face. My chest tightened, and a tear, warm and living, slid down my cheek.
That evening, after Margaret left, I drifted againhalf-waking, half-asleepcarried on the tide of memory. Snowfield and hay meadow, muddy lane and laughing stream, all blurred until it was neither winter nor spring, but the endless country of longing. I heard Gregs laugh, the jingling harness, my own steps over dew-slick grass.
Somewhere, then, I felt another handrough, familiarcurl into mine. My heart leapt. I tried to open my eyes, and for a moment I saw him beside me: young, shining, blue shirt billowing with sunlight, eyes lit by that reckless spark. He smiled, and I was seventeen, breathless with hope.
He whispered, Time to go, Daisy. Come with me.
I stood easily, barefoot and unafraid, pressing through a gentle mist that glowed with the honeyed gold of summer mornings. My old body was left behind in the tangled sheets. Out I stepped, through the rickety door that had always stuck in the damp weather, into fields bursting with poppies and tall, waving rye. The woods parted before us, bright as a promise. The salt wind of the unknown sea trembled in my lungsbrighter, sweeter, realer than anything before.
Hand in hand, Greg and I walked beyond the boundary of the world, where no one is forgotten, no longing goes unanswered, and the snow no longer burns.
