The Bloke with the Trailer

I remember that November night as if it were yesterday. Rain and sleet hammered the windows, a howl rose through the ducts like a starving wolf, and in the infirmary the old woodburner sputtered, casting a feeble glow. I was just about to finish my rounds when the door creaked and a massive figure stepped inGeorge Sommers, broadshouldered and grim, as though the wind itself might blow him off his feet. Clutched in his arms was a tiny bundle, his daughter Emily.

He set her gently on the cot and retreated to the wall, frozen like a statue. My heart lurched as I stared at the little girlher cheeks flushed, lips cracked, chin trembling, and she whispered a single word over and over: Mum mum She was not yet five. I took her temperaturenearly forty degrees!

George, why have you just stood there? Has she been like this long? I asked sharply, already pulling an ampoule and loading a syringe.

He said nothing. He stared at the floor, a scar running under his unshaven cheek, his fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. It was as if he were not there at all, lost in some bitter grief. I realised then that it wasnt only the child who needed treatment; the mans soul was torn to shreds, his wounds deeper than any fever.

I gave the injection, massaged her back, and slowly the childs breathing steadied. I settled beside the edge of the cot, rubbing her hot forehead, and whispered to George, Stay here. The storms out therewhy risk it? Sit on the sofa; Ill watch over her.

He only nodded, never moving from his spot. He stood by the wall until dawn, like a sentinel. All night I changed dressings, gave Emily sips of warm water, and my mind kept turning over his story.

In the village of Littlebrook they whispered all sorts of things about George. A year earlier his wife, Catherine, had drownedshed been as bright as a mountain stream. After her death he seemed to turn to stone, moving through life without truly living. He worked three jobs, kept the house tidy, tended to his daughter, yet his eyes were empty, his mouth never uttered a word beyond a mechanical greeting.

Rumours said theyd quarreled on the riverbank that fatal day, that George, drunk and angry, had said something cruel and watched her step into the water. He never stopped her. Since then hed swore off drinking, but guilt is a heavier poison than any spirit. The whole village looked at him and his little girl as the man with the broken wagonthe wagon being the relentless grief he hauled wherever he went.

By morning Emilys fever broke. She opened her clear, cornflowerblue eyesjust like her motherslooked at me, then at her father, and her lips trembled again. George approached, clumsily grasped her hand, and recoiled as if burned. He was terrified of her, for she reflected every fragment of Catherines memory and his own pain.

I kept them for another day, brewed a thin chicken broth, and fed Emily from a spoon. She ate quietly, only replying with monosyllabic yes and no. Her father poured soup, cut bread, even tried to braid her hair with his rough, calloused fingersall in silence. The house seemed to hum with their unspoken sorrow.

Days passed and I watched them constantlyoffering pastries, a jar of jam as an excuse to be near. They lived like two strangers under one roof, a wall of ice between them that no one seemed able to melt.

In spring a new schoolmistress arrived from the cityOlivia Spencer, a quiet, refined woman with a hint of melancholy in her eyes. She, too, carried a hidden past, fleeing the comforts of town for our remote valley. She began teaching the village children, and Emily soon joined her class.

Then, as if a sliver of sunlight had pierced the gloom, Olivia noticed Emilys silent grief. She began, slowly, to coax the girl out of her shellbringing picture books, colourful pencils, staying after lessons to read fairy tales. Emily clung to her, seeking the warmth shed never known.

One afternoon I walked past the empty classroom and found the two of them there, Olivia reading while Emily leaned against her, listening intently. The calm on Olivias face, the quiet joy in her eyes, was something I hadnt seen in years.

At first George watched the bond like a wolf eyeing its prey. He would come for his daughter, see her with the teacher, and his face would harden. Home, he would bark, grabbing her arm, offering no greeting, no goodbye. He saw only pity in Olivias kindness, and to him pity felt like a slap.

One day they collided at the village shop. Olivia and Emily emerged, licking icecream cones, when George stormed past, scowling. Olivia smiled brightly, Good afternoon, Mr. Sommers. Were just treating your daughter.

George snatched the icecream from Emilys hand and flung it into the rubbish bin. Mind your business, he snarled. Emily began to cry, Olivia stood frozen, hurt and angry. He turned and stalked away, his daughter sobbing behind him. My heart ached at the sightthis mans stubborn pride wrecking both his own life and his childs.

That night he slipped into my cottage asking for a dram of brandy, saying his heart felt heavy. I poured him a glass, set it before him, and whispered, It isnt your heart thats crushing you, George. Its the grief you keep swallowing. You think silence protects your daughter, but it kills her slowly. She needs gentle words, warmth. Youre carrying your Catherine like a cold stone. Let her go. Live.

He lowered his head, silent, then looked up with a torment so vast it stole my breath. I cant, Evelyn, he whispered. I cant

He left, and I watched his silhouette fade into the night, wondering how often we struggle more to forgive ourselves than others.

Then came the day that turned everything. Late May, the countryside flooded with blossom and the scent of fresh earth. Olivia stayed after school with Emily; they sat on the schoolyard steps drawing. Emily sketched a house, a bright sun, and beside the figure of a father a dark, blackened smudge.

Olivia stared at the picture, something inside her snapped. She took Emilys hand and led her to the Sommers cottage.

I happened to be passing by, intending to check if they needed anything. I saw Olivia hesitating at the gate, then moving forward. In the yard George was sawing wood, the blade biting furiously, splinters flying.

Olivia entered. George stopped, turned, his face as grey as storm clouds. I asked you

Forgive me, Olivia said softly. Im not here to argue. Ive come because I need you to hear something.

She spoke, her voice low but clear enough for the whole lane to hear. She told him of her own lossa husband she loved dearly, taken in a crash. She had shut herself away for a year, curtains drawn, staring at the ceiling, longing only for death. I blamed myself, she confessed, tears spilling. I thought if Id kept him, if Id begged him to stay I would have saved him. I drowned in that sorrow, George. Then I realized I was dishonouring his memory. He loved life; he wanted me to live. So I forced myself to stand, to breathe, for his sake, for the love we shared. You cannot live with the dead while the living need you.

George stood, his hardened mask cracking. He covered his face with his hands, shiverednot with tears, but with a tremor that ran through his massive frame. Its my fault, he croaked. We were laughing that day she ran into the river, the water was icy. I shouted, she giggled, then she slipped on a stone, hit her head I dove, searched, but she was already gone. I didnt save her.

At that very moment Emily slipped out onto the porch, having heard everything through the open window. She stood, eyes wide, not with fear but with a childs boundless compassion. She moved to her father, wrapped her small hands around his sturdy leg and said, Daddy, dont cry. Mums on a cloud. Shes watching us. She isnt angry.

George fell to his knees, clutched Emily to his chest, and sobbed like a child. Olivia wept beside them, her tears now washing away pain, not adding to it.

Time passed. Summer yielded to autumn, then spring returned. Littlebrook gained a new familynot on paper, but in heart.

One sunny afternoon I was sitting on my garden bench, the beeladen cherry trees humming, when I saw them walking down the laneGeorge, Olivia, and Emily, hand in hand, moving slowly, smiling. Emily chattered nonstop, her laughter ringing like church bells through the village.

Georgeif youd seen himwas a different man. He stood tall, shoulders back, a light in his eyes, looking at Olivia and his daughter with a gentle grin, the sort of smile reserved for those who have finally found their treasure.

They drew level with me, stopped, and George said, Good afternoon, Evelyn. His voice carried a warmth that could light a room.

Emily rushed over, thrust a bunch of dandelions into my hands. For you! she cried.

I took the flowers, my eyes already wet. He had finally unhitched his dreadful wagon. Loveboth his childs and Oliviashad freed him.

They walked on toward the river, and I thought how that water, once a reminder of loss, now simply flowed, inviting anyone to sit on its banks and let the current carry away the bad.

So tell me, dear friends, can a man pull himself from the mire of grief alone, or must someone reach out a hand?

Evelyn Sutherland.