Unforgiven

I sit in my little village clinic, listening to the floorboards creak on the walltap, tap, tap, tapas if they were counting the beats of life itself. I wonder how many stories have passed through these walls, how many tears this old cot, wrapped in a thin oilcloth, has soaked up.

The door sighs open with a mournful groan, as if the cold has made it shrink. In the doorway stands Ethel Crain, upright as a post, dry and hardened, a woman from whom you could never coax a tear. I have watched her for forty years, and her face has stayed stonelike, her eyes two shards of ice.

She steps in silently, removes the damp kerchief from her greying hair, hangs it on the peg as if it were a medal, and takes the edge of a chair, sitting straight, hands folded on her knees, fingers knotted together.

Good morning, Mrs. Carter, she says, her voice flat and steady as a stretched canvas.

Good morning, Ethel. What brings you here? Is your heart playing tricks?

She pauses, staring out at the grey rain streaking the window, then whispers so softly I barely hear:

Frederick is dying.

My heart drops to my heels. Frederick Crenshawher Frederickwas the man who should have become hers forty years ago. The whole village knows their tale like a dark folk story. Their houses sit opposite each other across the river, two banks that have never met. For forty years they have lived on opposite sides, never exchanging a word or a glance. If Ethel walks the right bank to the shop, Frederick waits until she disappears before crossing to the left. A silent, icy war, colder and scarier for its stillness.

The district doctors came, Ethel continues in the same stonecold tone. They say he has only two or three days left. Hell linger.

I stare at her, bewildered. Why has she come to me? To inform? To celebrate? There is no joy in those frozen eyes, no sorrow eitherjust a barren emptiness, like scorched earth.

I used to visit him, Mrs. Carter. Now Im here because of him.

I am speechless. Ethel? Frederick? It feels as if our river will flow backward!

She seems to read my thoughts, a bitter smile curling one corner of her mouth.

His neighbour, Agnes, arrived this morning. She says hes calling me, asking for forgiveness before he dies. I came. I think Ill go and look into his eyes one last time, let him see I havent broken. I wont forgive.

Silence settles in the clinic, and I can hear my own heart thudding loudly. Ethel stares at a point in the distance, her hands clenched until her knuckles turn white. I realise that in this very instant the dam she has built over forty years is cracking.

Hes lying there, dried out, skin clinging to bone. His eyes are sunk, breathing only in fits. He saw me, his lips trembled, but he cant speak. He just looks, and in his eyes theres not fear, Mrs. Carter, no. Theres a deathly longing, as if hes dying not from illness but from that yearning. He reaches out his hand, dry as an autumn twig

Ethels stonecold cheek finally yields a single, slow tear, heavy and salty from decades of grief.

And I I couldnt. I couldnt take his hand. I stand over him like a statue, and the words of my father echo in my ears. You remember my father, Paul? He always said, Ethel, Ill give you away to Frederick and Ill be at peace. Hes a reliable lad. When Frederick returned from the city with his cityslick ways, my father fell ill and died a week later. His last words to me were, Girl, never forgive betrayal. Never. So I never forgave. I stand over Frederick as he fades, wanting to shout, I wont forgive! Hear me? Not for myself, but for my father! The words choke in my throat, a lump of anger and hatred. What kind of person am I, Mrs. Carter? What have I become, stonehearted? He dies and I never even offered my hand. I turn and leave.

She covers her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking in silent, dry sobs. She does not cry; she simply crumbles inside. All her pride and strength crumble into dust on my old wooden chair.

I approach quietly, pour water into a crystal glass, add a few drops of valerian, and hand it to her. Her fingers tremble, the glass clinks against her teeth, and she drinks in one gulp.

My whole life, Mrs. Carter, I have lived with this grievance. It kept me warm like a stove, stopped me from feeling sorry for myself. I held my house tight, my garden never had a weed. All to spite him, to make him see I can live without him. And now hell diewhat will be left? What will I live with? Nothing but emptiness

I look at her, and my own soul feels unsettled. Its funny how we carry a grudge like a child, nurture it, and it eats us from inside. We think its our strength, but its really our cross, our prison.

Go to him, Ethel, I say softly. Gonot for him, but for yourself. Not for forgiveness, just to be near. Dying alone is terrifying.

She meets my gaze, eyes full of such pain that my own chest tightens.

I cant, Mrs. Carter. I cant. Im stone, not a person.

She leaves as silently as she arrived, fixing her wet kerchief and disappearing into the grey drizzle.

The whole evening I wander in a daze, thinking of them, of the river that split their fates, of pride that outweighed love, of my fathers curse. I cannot sleep, tossing and turning until dawn, when I decide Ill go to Frederick myself. Ill give him a painrelieving injection and simply sit. Not as a field nurse, but as a human being.

I pull on my coat, lace up my boots, and cross the little bridge to the other side. Morning is already bright, a mist hanging over the river like shredded milk. I approach Fredericks cottage, heart pounding, fearing Im late.

The back door is unlocked. I slip in. The house smells of old timber, herbs, and chicken broth. I freeze. Where does the broth come from? I peek into the kitchen and see

Ethel bustling at the stove, wearing a faded housecoat, hair tucked under a scarf. Her face is weary but alive, not stone. She sees me, flinches, and presses a finger to her lips: Quiet, Mrs. Carter. Hes asleep.

I tiptoe to the bed. Frederick lies pale but breathing evenly, not dying. On the nightstand sits a cup of rosehip tea and a broken biscuit.

Ethel and I walk into the kitchen. She shuts the door and collapses onto a stool, exhausted.

After you, Mrs. Carter, Im going home, she whispers. Ive been pacing from corner to corner, feeling a beast gnawing inside me. Then I realised it wasnt angerit was fear. I was terrified hed leave and Id be left with this stone in my heart. It felt as if my fathers portrait were looking at me, shaking his head, not wanting his daughter to burn her life in hatred.

She sighs, a breath that feels like release.

I took the broth Id prepared for the morningchicken stock, a little teaand went to him. Night had fallen. I thought if he were to die, at least I could be there as a person. I entered, he was moaning, asking for a drink. I kissed his lips, fed him with a spoonful of broth. He swallowed, then opened his eyes, looked at me, and said clearly, Ethel my little bird forgive me. He wept. Can you imagine, Mrs. Carter? This proud, stonehearted woman wept.

What about you? I ask, breathless.

Ethel looks at her tired hands resting on her lap.

I did nothing. I sat beside him, held his hand, and stayed all night. I never said I forgive you. I couldnt lie to myself. I didnt forgive him for my father, for forty years of burned life. Its not something you can erase like chalk on a board. But I sat, holding his hand, feeling the anger melt away, drop by drop. It was as if I, not he, was being healed. By morning he slept peacefully, his fever broke. Hell live, I think My sworn enemy, perhaps.

Six months have passed. Autumn turned to winter, winter gave way to spring, and now summer sits at its height. The sun burns, grass sways, bees buzz over cloverpure bliss.

Frederick eventually recovers, though not instantly. Ethel helps him onto his feet, and she crosses the river every day, bringing milk, baking pies, saying nothing. He eats, thanks her, and she nods and goes. The whole village watches in hushed awe, afraid to disturb this fragile, newborn truce.

I once walked past the Crenshaw house from the far end of the village, near the Hawthornes, and stopped, tears welling in my eyesbright, warm tears. Under an old, sprawling apple tree, a pair sat together. They were old, silverhaired. He was carving a little wooden whistle for the local children; she peeled new potatoes into a bowl and told him quietly about the cucumbers that had sprouted this season. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on their faces, hair, hands. A deep peace settled around them, so complete you could hardly breathe out loud.

He no longer called her my bird, and she no longer looked at him with youthful love. They were simply two neighbours who, at the end of their lives, finally understood something deeper than forgiveness or resentmenta warmth in a offered hand, a cup of broth, the simple act of being together.

They saw me, smiled.

Mrs. Carter, have a seat! shouted a now robust Frederick. Ethel is bringing out a cold swig of cider from the cellar!

I sit, sip the sharp, lively cider, watch them, watch the river glinting in the sun, and wonder tell me, dear friends, was this unforgiveness? Or the highest form of forgiveness that needs no words? What do you think?