The snow was no longer biting at my bare feetId stopped feeling them entirely. Only the wind lashed my face, hands, and neck, whipping me like a cruel lash and knifing my chest beneath my dressing gown. My hair, once brown and now faded to a wispy grey, was weighed down by clumps of snow and felt just like icicles. The blizzard howled and struck at me relentlessly, and I couldnt tell anymore where I was going. Id become lost in my own garden. Pressing my back against the icy fence, I folded my arms across my chest and began to mutter:
I wish I would just die… Take me, Lord. Let me die already
I truly would have perished out there from the cold that night if my neighbour, Mary, hadnt come out to check on her cowwondering whether it was calving. She saw the glow coming out through the crack in my door and that it had blown open.
Daisy! What are you doing out here in the dark?
But I just stood at the far corner of the garden, hidden by the trees and swirling snow, eyes clenched shut, mumbling over and over: Let me die, let me die…
Mary rushed over, bursting through my gate.
Daisy! Where are you? Daisy, for heavens sake! Daisy!
I couldnt have answered even if Id wanted to. With a low moan, I slid down the fence, mumbling something incoherent, and rested my tangled grey head on my knees. I shrank into myself, tears running down my sunken cheeks. Then, someone caught hold of me, tried to drag me insidebut I had become stiff and numb, old and frozen through.
Oh you silly old thing! Stay there! Marys voice rang out, and she dashed off to fetch her husband for help. Together, they managed to haul me into my house.
Ive been bedridden since then. The next morning, a young nurse came by. She seemed surprised that, at ninety-one, I hadnt taken ill, just frostbitten feet. Leaning over me, she said,
You ought to go to hospital. Should we call for an ambulance, then?
I stared sadly at her black hair, her cold-pink cheeks, and shook my head firmly.
No need. Ill lie here. Dont waste your time on me, love. Im fine. Off you go.
And so, for two weeks, I stayed in my bed. But why did I even go outside that night, barefoot and in my nightdress? People say I brought this on myself by being daft, but I saw something fateful in itsomething almost mystical. The evening before, I had sat on my bed, unravelling a knitted sock by the dim light of the lamp. My old hands always remembered the pattern. My mind wandered elsewhere; my gaze was glassy, fixed on a spot on the wall. And I was smiling, but it was a strange, haunted sort of smileat memories long gone.
Nothing good had ever happened in my life, not since I was a child. There had only ever been work and hardship, save for one brief sunbeam among the mirea single flash of love.
His name was George.
George Georgie I whispered with half-closed lips, my smile growing stranger and wider with each passing memory.
I couldnt tell, that evening, whether I was dreaming or rememberingI saw myself walking onto the fields, past the hedge where the landladys gardens ended. Shading my eyes from the sun, I would watch and wait for him as long as I could bear. He said hed come. Inside me, hope and dread twisted together. And in the shimmering light over the field of wheat, I would see the shape of a man. Id run to him, overjoyed, shouting George! George!
Lost in those dreams, I fell asleep. Sometime after midnight I woke, restless. A glance out the window: blizzard, rattling panes. I shrugged off my blankets, stretched out my arms, and, feeling my way through the gloom, went to the door.
Ill be quick, just a minute
I stepped outside, the door nudged open with my bare foot, not knowing myself. I squinted blearily at the white storm swirling over the village. Again, I stretched out my handas if reaching,
George!
Cold stabbed through my body, even my guts turned to ice. My feet found the frozen steps and I stumbled into the path, all my attention fixed ahead, beyond the fence, fighting through the wind.
George! Im here! George!
I reached the fence, looked over, walked this way and that… And thats when the numbing cold reached my feetI knew Id be unable to move them soon. I tried to hurry, running along the fence to the gate, still smiling.
Ill be quick Just check from the other side
But I never found the gate. I wandered in circles in the garden, losing all sense of direction. Wherever I turned, there was another tree, a bit of fence, or knee-deep snow. In the end, I gave inas my neighbours found me there.
Mary came to see me, bringing food, saying a few words, lighting the fire. The young nurse would come, dress my feet, spread a foul-smelling ointment, insist on taking my temperature. I did as I was told, but once I was alone, I gazed up at the ceiling with empty eyes. I listened to the street: the barking of dogs, the creak of a cart, children chattering on their way home from school.
More often than not, I dozed. Id wake to find it duskor dawn again. The wood crackled in the stove; the roof would drip as it thawed. Lord, how much longer must I live? Just let me die I thought again and again.
From the very start, Id learned one blunt and terrible truth: my fate was a steep, muddy slope, overgrown with brambles. The only way was downnever up, never back to where the sun shone. No one would lend an arm or catch you, nor help you climb back to the light. Everyone around me lived like this; I never expected otherwise. Life was nothing but a long, weary tumble, and the only thing to do was grit your teeth and endure, so you didnt scream.
That year, the spring was bitter and late. It came not with gentle warmth but with cold winds and endless rain, turning roads into impassable quagmires. The snow finally melted in May, exposing yellowed, sodden earth, like an old, battered hide. The birch trees took an age to leaf, the orchards stood bare, blackened as if scorched by flames. I remember, pinning up my heavy, damp headscarf, I trudged along the muddy lane from the well. My pails swung from my yoke, splashing icy water onto my cracked, bare feet. On the other side of the street, men huddled by a lopsided fence, smoking under the miserable drizzle, muttering and glancing my way, but I passed by with my head down. Id long learned to be invisiblea ghost in this drab, grey world.
Daisy! Granny Agness shout cut through the damp airthe old farmworker, who once served with me at the landladys house. Her voice sharp, insistent: Quick, go to the shop! Tell Stanley we need some printed cotton for the young lady. The best, with flowers! And dont be slowweve guests from town this evening! And fetch some flowers!
I quietly set the pails on the porch, careful not to spill a drop, wiped my hands on my grimy apron, and set off to the edge of the village. I was twenty-two then, but it felt as if life had already passed me by. Twelve years agoafter my parents diedthe stingy, querulous landlady had taken me in for a bit of bread. Back then, I was a scrawny, bruised slip of a girl, wide-eyed, fearful at every sound. Now Id become a tall, strong, silent woman, heavy hands, head always bowed, all light long since gone from my eyes.
I worked from dark to darktill my legs throbbed leaden, till my ears rang. I chopped wood through icy autumn rain, milked goats in a freezing shed, trampled clay for the stove, scrubbed laundry at the river till my fingers turned numb. I weeded the garden under burning sun, with currants and raspberries hanging low, scent thick, dizzying. But I darent touch a single berrythe landlady counted each one, and for every missing fruit, shed sting me with nettles. Not for you, you freeloader! So I learnt not to look, plucked weeds savagely, bit my lip so I wouldnt cry, and tried to be goodto be left in peace, at least sometimes. My slender back darted endlessly among the lush, steamy greenery, but the fruit was never for me.
On Saturdays, Id stoke the bath-house. Lug heavy, slippery pails from the river, overheat the boiler till my head spun. Then, in the steamy gloom, Id scrub the old womans broad, sagging back till darkness crept in behind my eyes and my stomach churned with nausea. Granny would turn, showing one shoulder, then the other, making me go over the loosened flesh again and again. Id climb up on tiptoes or kneel to reach her shoulder blades. I dried her off, dressed her in clean clothes, and, mustering every ounce of my strength, led her back indoors. My head would spin with exhaustion; shed grumble, pinch me, and sometimes, in a rare good mood, pat my cheek and call me her workhorse. I didnt mind. Id never known anything else. Some heavy, invisible wall separated me from the worlda wall built of fatigue, indifference, long-buried, dead hope. I didnt care what I wore, or what was said to me, or what rags I got for holidays. I found no joy in evening gatherings, felt nothing for the sly pinches and jests of the village lads. I was never still, and the old woman couldnt manage without me now.
One day, seeing me on a stool, stretching to clean the high mirror, the old landlady pondered aloud,
Daisy, perhaps we should get you a husband? How about it?
I stepped down, wringing out my cloth, and replied with indifference,
As you wish.
Or you could stay a spinster?
Makes no difference to me.
Ha! Youd be better off that way, love. No squalling brats or mess about. With those strong hips, you could have a dozen kids! Count yourself luckymy Pauline was never so built.
She hesitated, almost crossing herself as she thought of her daughter, then was called away by Paulines shrill voice. She left it at that.
But that conversation stirred nothing in me. My soul sleptdull, peaceful, mindless. I was big and healthy, but I wanted nothingnever even let myself dream. Some strange barrier put me apart. Behind it, I lived peacefully enough. Soon enough, the men grew accustomed to my blankness, my heavy gait, my unapproachable air. They left me alone. Old Tom, the groom, once said, Daisys beauty isnt for mena holy fool, that one. She must belong only to God. And so it might have remained, but things changed one June, when I peered, for a moment, over that walljust to look at life from the other side.
It began when the air grew warm and the meadows burst with thick, vibrant green. We were expecting important visitorsyoung miss Pauline was to receive a suitor from London. I was sent to pick daisies. As I walked down the bank towards the river, treading barefoot through the slick grass, a stranger blocked my way on the narrow path. He wore a jaunty waistcoat over a finely-sewn shirt, shining boots so bright that even the cloud couldnt dim them. His eyes were bold, twinkling, his hair neat and gleaming with pomade. It was Georgethe groom from the neighbouring estate, come with young Mr. Collins. He stood astride the path, looking me up and down as though I were a horse at market.
Good day, beautiful, he grinned, his eyes trailing over my strong arms and broad chest.
I didnt meet his gaze. I stepped aside, but he blocked my way again.
What do you want? I said quietly, staring at the ground.
Whats your name?
If you knew it before, thats enough. Nothing for you to worry about! I replied, skirting him like a tree trunk.
George didnt give up. Every week, hed come with Mr. Collins. Id hear his brash laugh in the yard, feel his eyes on me as I whitewashed the walls or scrubbed endless dishes. Hed show up everywhereby the well, the barn, the back stepsdropping jokes, trying his luck, but I ignored him each time. Once, fetching flour from an empty shed, he jumped out and grabbed me. I didnt screama primitive instinct woke in me. I shoved him so hard, he hit the wall and slid down, clutching his head. I wasnt frightened. I just looked down at him quietly and said,
Well, that serves you
Then straightened my headscarf, dusted my skirt, and walked away. He watched me go, rubbing his head, something new flickering in his eyesnot just desire, but burning curiosity. He was used to girls throwing themselves at him. I wasnt what he expected.
As for me? I cant say I felt much for him specificallybut something inside was shifting. It wasnt love, and I didnt even think about him when he wasnt there. He was only a spark for something to wakena bright, tender yearning to live.
I smiled more after that. I wanted to feel whatever it was hed stirred in my chest. I began to wake before dawnto glimpse the light rising over the fields, milk the cow, and stand, watching the mist burn off, watching the dew sparkle on the grass. Sometimes I wanted to fling myself down and laugh for the sheer thrill of being alive. I didnt know what I wantedjust to live, that was all. Only, once I noticed myself idle, I scolded myself back into work. And so the weeks drifted by.
Georges efforts led nowhereexcept for a single stolen kiss in the cellar, after which he got a sharp slap for his trouble. He didnt try again, but his persistence hadnt gone in vain. One day, as I emptied water from the pails and saw him waiting to help, I smiled at him, shyly, from beneath my brow. Another time, he caught me watching him a long while, as he fussed with the horses. It meant nothing, but he was hopeful. Still, if this could be called a story, it was a short one.
One day, George stuck up for a boy caught stealing turnips in the garden. The landlady ordered the groom to flog him. My whole face trembled as I watchedI tried to offer my own arms for the lash, but the groom shoved me aside. So I grabbed a log, intending to strike him from behind. The crowd froze. I crept forward. Just then, George dashed up, snatched the whip from the groom, and struck his beard instead.
Out, now! Ill tell the lady myself! Go on!
The women rushed to comfort the weeping boy, asking his name, trying to console him. The boy choked out something and then whimpered,
My mum died yesterday Shes gone
Hearing it, I clapped a hand over my mouth. Like a brick to the face, memories of my own childhood crashed over me. I was that child again. Ripping the collar of my blouse, the thin string of my cross broke at my neck as I darted to my little room and collapsed on the bed. Sobs shook my shoulders; my fingers dug into the flat pillow. It was pity for myself, bitter rage, longing for something I never had and couldn’t even name.
George found me there. He crept in, opened the creaky door, and sat beside me. No wordsjust put his arm around my quivering shoulders. And, for the first time, I didnt push him away. I leaned into his warmth, feeling the strength of his young body, and went still. Tears still coursed down my cheeks, but I was quiet now, listening to his breathing.
I whispered, Whats out there, beyond the woods? What comes next?
The city, he replied, a bit surprised. A big city. Grand houses, shops, cathedrals.
And past that?
Then more cities. Theres a railway, you know. After thatits the sea, they say. Far off, somewhere.
I said nothing. Id never seen the sea. I couldnt even swim the river. But suddenly, I wanted to see it. I wanted to leave this place, where I was beaten and worked until my hands bled, where I was a workhorse with no real name. I wanted to become a person. Slowly, I turned to him, cupped his face in my rough, cracked hands, and looked him in the eyetruly lookedfor the first time.
Will you take me with you? Would you marry me?
George faltered. He was carefree, loved to brag, but not for anything serious. He fidgeted, looked away, said we should wait, that it was complicated, money was tight. But I was done listening. Something inside me broke free. I became someone brave, impatient, almost mad in resolve. I pulled him close, kissed him, whispered that I didnt care what people thoughtthat Id do anything just to be at his side, to leave this place. That night, I lost my childhood crossthe string snapped, and it vanished into the night. I didn’t look for it. So be it, I said quietly, with a strange, resigned dignity.
George visited me a few more times. We met in secreta shed, the old cellar, the willow thickets beyond the lane. I blossomedI walked with my head up, cheeks pink, eyes shining. Even learned to smile again, though awkward, as if relearning it.
Then suddenly, it ended. Paulines wedding was noisy, full of drunken guests, and the young Mr. Collins took his bride to London. George left with them. I wasnt even told. The kitchen maid let slip, pitying me, Hes gone, Daisygone with his master. Not coming back.
I waited. I stood at the end of the lane every evening, staring down the dusty road towards the woods, arms crossed over my chest, watching until the dusk fell and stars flickered up. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. My face became gaunt, my eyes fever-bright. Granny Agnes shouted at me, called me names, pushed me, threw a bowl at me, but I only smiled that blissful, empty smile. I was certain: he would come back. He just had to. I felt it in every cell of my battered body.
Summer passed, sweltering and fraught with storms. Then came a grey, soggy autumn. Id walk out every day to the edge of the field, peering at the blue line of woods against the sky. I was sureif I waited and waited, he would return. I asked no one about him, and paid no attention if they said anything. I believedsome cruel force kept him from me. And I knew, if there had ever been such bright, warm days as the ones I spent with him, he must miss them too. Who wouldnt long to feel alive? So I kept waiting, sure all I needed was patience. I became quieter, more withdrawn. My days, months, years blurred together. I waited.
One afternoon at the end of October, with the trees bare and the fields black with rain, I was digging in my garden when suddenly I straightened. At the very edge of the field, near the woods, I glimpsed a lonely figure. My heart skipped. I thoughtit was George. Dropping my spade, I ran, arms outstretched, calling his name in a hoarse, broken voice:
Wait! Wait!
The man didnt even turn; he probably didnt hear. I reached the swollen riverbank, skittered along the edge. I couldnt swim, and he was already far off, on the other side. Balancing on a log by the waters edge, I strained to watch his retreating back. I blinked hard, afraid a single tear would make him vanish. Already his head, once so fair, was just a blur against his shirt, growing hazy in the distance. I lifted up on my toes, desperate to be just a little closer. I strained my eyes, but he was gone, melted away. Only the endless, green field remained.
A neighbour found me there, muddy and damp. She came over, shaking her head.
What are you doing, sitting there like that?
It was George, I said, without looking up.
Which George?
He used to come here, the groom, with young Mr. Collins.
The lad from the old manor? Really, now! Whats the point?
Im waiting for him.
Whats the point of waiting? Hes busy. They say he married ages ago, before the war. Lives in Oakley, just as before.
Youre lying, I murmured, my voice so hollow and wild that she took a step back.
Im not! Silly woman! Pffmy own brother saw him there not so long ago. Loads of kids, the lot of them. Poor, too, barely scraping by. Hes probably dead by nowhe was in a bad way. Why are you laughing?
Ha-ha-ha! My laughter rang out, hoarse and cracked. My hair a mess, skirt twisted, bony knees gleaming white in the sun. The sound was loud, rawnot really human at all.
Crazy! Shes laughing! The mans in his grave by now and shes grinning. Lord bless her soul! The woman crossed herself and backed away.
Hes still young, beautiful, strong, I said, pointing at my own chest, my eyes burning fever-bright. And medo you know who I am?
Who?
His wife. We just never had children, because I never carried one.
Daft old thing. Its been donkeys years since he was young. Hell be nearly fifty now! the woman tugged at my arm. Come on, lets get you home.
But I kept laughing, peering with cloudy, unseeing eyes:
Whyd you lie? Why?
Poor woman, she thought, backing away. As mad as a hatterGod protect her, and she stalked off, crossing herself again and again.
From then on, everyone in the village openly called me touched. I stopped crying, stopped waiting the way I used to. I worked in my tiny patch of earth, harder and more fierce than before, as if sheer effort could smother the ache inside. When I rested, Id sit on my doorstep, gazing at the woodseven in June, sweet with peony and linden, Id put on my cleanest, whitest shirt, comb out my thinning hair, and walk into the meadow to look long at the blue line where woods met sky. I stood there, still strong but now shapeless, rooted in the ground, waitingnot for years, but for centuries, it seemed. And if anyone asked, out of pity or curiosity, Who are you waiting for, Daisy? Id answer quietly, with a soft, clear smile,
My happiness. Its there, beyond the woods. My George always promised hed come today.
Bless her! Poor woman
And only the wind rustled in the trees, the river rolled its slow, eternal waters, and somewhere far, far awaybeyond the woods, fields, and citiesthe sea murmured, the sea Id never seen, nothing but a dream with an enchanting, distant name.
The cottage door creaked. Mary came to light the fire. I turned my faded, colourless gaze her way.
So, how are those feet? Mary asked.
I mumbled something she couldnt catch. She came closer.
Eh? Didnt quite hear that.
I just wish I could die already. No, hes not coming back. All thats left is to dieMary, her face shaped by years of patient kindness, only sighed. She didnt argue with mejust busied herself with the fire, coaxing the flames to life, then pressed a steaming mug into my hands.
Youre still here. That counts for something, Daisy, she murmured, her voice steady as the ticking clock.
I sipped in silence and watched out the frosted window, where a sliver of sun pierced the grey, lighting sparkles on the old pear tree. In its branches, a few stubborn leaves clung, trembling stubbornly in the wind. My thoughts wanderednot to George, nor the sea, nor childhoods vanished sweetnessbut to all the ordinary moments that shaped this long life: the sting of nettles, the coolness of river water, the warmth of a mug between work-swollen hands.
Wasnt that something too? I closed my eyes and breathed, listening to the hush. Then I did something I hadnt done in years: I whispered, almost unwillingly, Thank you. I didnt know to whom, or for what.
Mary squeezed my arm, just once, before bustling out to feed her cow. In the quiet afterward, the house settled around meold timbers, the shifting light, the promise of another day, even if the world outside remained numb and indifferent. I set my empty cup down and, for the first time, didnt waitfor anyone, for anything. I just listened to my own heartbeat, soft and stubborn, pulsing in the hush. Outside, above the trees and the edge of the village, a lark rose, invisible and insistent, and the song floated down, as sure as the morning.
I smiled, as if meeting an old friend. In that moment, I realized: sometimes happiness isnt a person coming down the path, or a dream you chase beyond the woods. Sometimes its quiet, unexpecteda brief warmth in the bones, a memory that doesnt ache, the steady promise of dawn through the frost.
I pulled the quilt up to my chin, closed my eyes, and let the sound of the lark carry me. The blizzard had passed, leaving the world hushed and shining. For the first time in all my long waiting, I felt readyfinally content just to be, and to rest.
