I Never Forgave

I sat alone in the little village surgery, listening to the old hinges on the wall creak once, twice, once, twice as if they were counting out the very heartbeat of the place. I wondered how many lives had passed through those doors, how many tears the battered wooden cot, wrapped in oilcloth, had soaked up.

The door gave a plaintive squeak, as if the cold itself had drawn a breath. In the doorway stood Ethel Kinsley, as straight as a pole, dryhearted and without a single tear to spare. I had watched her for forty years; her face was chiseled from stone, her eyes twin shards of ice.

She entered without a word, slipped the damp kerchief from her grey hair, hung it on the peg as if it were a medal, and perched on the edge of a stool, back rigid, hands folded on her knees, the bony fingers interlaced.

Good day, Mrs. Sampson, she said, her voice always even, as flat as a stretched canvas.

Good day, Ethel. What brings you here? A restless heart? I asked.

She stared out at the grey rain falling in sheets, then whispered so softly I scarcely heard:

Frederick is dying.

My heart dropped into my shoes. Frederick Frederick Kettle. He was the man she had been meant to marry forty years before. The whole village remembered their tragic tale as if it were a dark folk story. Their cottages stood on opposite banks of the River Avon, as if the water itself kept them apart. For four decades they lived like two shores that never met, never sharing a word or a glance. If Ethel crossed the right bank to the shop, Frederick would wait until she slipped from sight before stepping onto the left. A silent, icy war, more frightening for its quiet.

The district doctors came, Ethel continued, her tone as hard as stone. They said he has two or three days at most. Hell be exhausted.

I could not grasp why she had come to me. To report? To celebrate? There was no joy in those frozen eyes, no sorrow either only a void, like a scorched field.

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

I was speechless. Ethel? Frederick? It felt as if the river itself would run backward!

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

His neighbour, Mildred, came this morning. She says he called for me, wants forgiveness before he dies. I thought Id go, see his eyes once more, let him know I havent broken. That I havent forgiven.

Silence settled over the surgery, my heart thudding loudly in the stillness. Ethel stared at a point in the distance, her hands clenched until the knuckles whitened. I realized that in that very instant the dam she had built over forty years was about to burst.

I came and he lies there, skin and bone, eyes sunken, breathing only in fits. He saw me, his lips trembled, but he could not speak. He only stared, and in his eyes there was not fear, Mrs. Sampson, no. There was a deathlike melancholy, as if it were not the illness but that sorrow that was killing him. He reached out a hand dry as an autumn twig

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

And I I could not. I could not take his hand. I stood over him like a statue while the words in my ears rang like a bell. Do you remember my father, Paul? He considered Frederick a son. He always said, Ethel, Ill give you to Fred and Ill be at peace. Hes a sturdy lad. When Fred returned from town with city airs, my father fell ill and died a week later. His dying words were, Daughter, never forgive betrayal. Never. So I have not forgiven. I stand over Fred as he fades, wanting to shout, I will not forgive! Hear me? Not for myself, but for my father! The words choked in my throat. I felt a rage and hatred toward myself. What sort of person am I, Mrs. Sampson? What stone has replaced my heart? He dies and I have not even offered my hand. I turned and left.

She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, dry sobs. She did not weep; she simply fell apart inside. All her pride, all her strength, crumbled into dust upon my old wooden chair.

I moved quietly, poured water into a crystal tumbler, added a few drops of valerian, and handed it to her. Her trembling fingers clinked the glass against her teeth as she drank it in one gulp.

My whole life, Mrs. Sampson, I have lived with this grievance. It warmed me like a hearth, kept me from wallowing in selfpity. I held my home like a fist, my garden never knew a weed. All to spite him, to show he could see I could live without him. And now he will die, and what will remain? What shall I live with? Only emptiness

I looked at her, my own soul uneasy. Such is the fate, my dears, of nursing a grievance as if it were a child; it eats you from within. You think it is your strength, but in truth it is your cross, your prison.

Go to him, Ethel, I whispered. Go. Not for him, but for yourself. Not for forgiveness, but simply to be there. Dying alone is a terror.

She lifted her eyes to me, filled with such torment that my own insides tightened.

I cannot, Mrs. Sampson. I cannot. I am stone, not a woman.

And she left, as silently as she had arrived, slipping her damp kerchief back on and melting into the grey veil of rain.

The whole evening I walked in a daze, turning the thoughts of them over and over: the river that split their fates, the pride that outran love, my fathers curse that lingered like a shadow. Sleep would not come; I tossed and turned until dawn. By morning I decided I would go to Frederick myself. I would give a painkilling injection and simply sit by his side. It was not a nurses duty, but a human one.

I threw on my coat, tightened my boots, and crossed the footbridge to the other side. Morning was already light, a mist hovering over the Avon like fresh milk. I approached Fredericks cottage, heart hammering, fearing I was too late.

The back door stood ajar. I slipped inside. The house smelled of old timber, herbs, and chicken broth. Where did that come from? I peered into the room and saw my god!

By the stove, Ethel was bustling about in a faded dressing gown, her hair tucked under a kerchief. Her face, though weary, was alive, not stone. She saw me, startled, and pressed a finger to her lips: Shh, Mrs. Sampson. Hes asleep.

I tiptoed to the bed. Frederick lay pale but breathing evenly, not like a man at deaths door. On the nightstand lay a cup of rosehip tea and a cracked biscuit.

Ethel and I moved to the kitchen. She shut the door and sank onto a stool, exhausted.

After you, Mrs. Sampson, she whispered. Ive been pacing the rooms, unable to find a place for myself. It feels as if a beast gnaws inside me. Then I realised it isnt anger, its fear. Im terrified he will go and I will be left with this stone in my heart, as if my fathers portrait were watching and shaking his head, disapproving of my hatred.

She sighed, and that sigh felt like a release.

I took the broth Id prepared for the night and went to him. If he were to die, at least I could see him off as a human. I entered, he was moaning, asking for a drink. I kissed his lips, fed him with a spoonful of broth. He sipped, sipped then his eyes opened, he looked at me, and said clearly, Ethel my little bird forgive me. And he wept. Can you imagine, Mrs. Sampson? This proud stonehearted woman wept.

What about you? I breathed. What did you feel?

Ethel looked at her hands, worn and trembling on her lap.

I did nothing. I sat beside him, took his hand, and stayed the whole night. I never told him I forgive you. I could not lie. I have not forgiven him, for my father, for those forty years of burning grief. You cannot erase that with chalk. Yet I sat, holding his hand, feeling my anger melt away, drop by drop, as if I were the one being healed. By dawn he slept peacefully, his fever broken. He will live, perhaps, my old enemy softened.

Ah, my dears it has been half a year since. Autumn gave way to winter, winter to spring, and now summer sits at its height. The sun beats down, the grass sways, bees buzz over clover pure bliss!

Frederick recovered, slowly but surely. Ethel helped him onto his feet, and each day she crossed the river to bring him milk, bake pies, all in quiet devotion. He would eat, say Thank you, Ethel, and she would nod and go. The whole village watched in hushed awe, afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had finally blossomed.

I remember walking from the far end of the village, past the Zachary farm, and choosing a shortcut past Fredericks cottage. I stopped and saw a scene that brought tears to my eyes bright, warm tears.

Under an old spreading apple tree, two figures sat. He and she, both greyhaired, hands busy he carving a little wooden whistle for the children, she peeling new potatoes into a bowl, chatting softly about her cucumber crop. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting their faces, hair, hands with gold. A stillness surrounded them, a calm that seemed to ask us not to breathe too loudly.

He no longer called her bird, and she no longer looked at him with the fevered love of youth. They were not husband and wife, merely two neighbours on opposite banks who, near the end of their days, understood something essential: that a warm hand and a cup of broth can mean more than any apology.

They saw me and smiled.

Mrs. Sampson, have a seat! shouted Frederick, now considerably stronger. Ethel will fetch a cold curd from the cellar!

I sat, sipping the sharp, cooling curd, watching them, the river sparkling in the sun, and I thought tell me, dears, what was this? Unforgiveness? Or the highest form of forgiveness that needs no words? What do you think?

If you enjoy my recollections, stay with me. Let us remember, weep and rejoice together.