The Empty Life of Daisy

The snow no longer stung my bare feet I couldnt feel them anymore. Only the wind sharp as a riding crop lashed my face, arms, and neck, seeping right through the threadbare nightgown that was all I wore. My grey hair, tangled and thick with snow, had grown as heavy as icicles. The storm howled, blinding and bitter, and I hardly knew which direction I was going lost in my own little yard in Norwich. Pressing my back against the cold wooden fence, I crossed my arms over my chest and started to wail quietly:

Oh, let me go, Lord! Take me, take me quickly Please let me die, let me go.

I would have died that night, frozen solid right there, had it not been for my neighbour, Helen, whod gone outside to check on her cow thinking it might be calving. She spotted my door swinging open, yellow light spilling out.

Daisy! Is that you out there in the dark? she called.

But I stood in the furthest corner of my garden, veiled by the old apple tree and swirling snow, eyes squeezed shut, repeating softly to myself, let me die, let me die, as if bewitched.

Helen came rushing, flinging open my creaking gate. She shouted, exasperated: Daisy, where are you? Daisy, for heavens sake!

Even if Id wanted to answer, I couldnt. I just sank down against the fence, my body heavy and stiff as a stone. Mumbled noises, my silver head buried in my lap, tears pouring down my hollow cheeks. Then arms, strong and urgent, tried to pull me to my feet, but my body had frozen through. You daft old woman! Hold on, Ill fetch Tom, Helen said, and hurried off to fetch her husband. Together they carried my frigid body inside.

After that, I took to my bed. In the morning, a young district nurse came surprised, really, that at ninety-one, I hadnt caught pneumonia, only had serious frostbite on my feet. She looked down at my old, ruined face and said, You ought to go to the hospital for a bit shall I call an ambulance?

I stared at her black hair, her cheeks pink from the cold, and shook my head stubbornly. No, leave me be. Dont waste your time on an old woman like me. Ill stay here. You go on, pet.

So I lay there, day after day, drifting in and out of a thin, miserable sleep. Why had I gone outside that night, barefoot, in nothing but a nightgown? Some said it was just the muddled foolishness of old age, but I felt it was something more mysterious, almost fateful. Earlier that evening, I had been sitting at the end of my bed, unravelling an old woollen sock in the weak light of the lamp. My gnarled fingers worked deftly, yet my mind drifted far away. My gaze was fixed on a spot on the wall; I smiled, a strange, haunted smile, at some distant memory.

There was never anything good in my life, really, not since childhood. Only work, and endless need. Just one flash of joy, brief but blinding a single spark of love in the long night.

His name was George.

George… My George, I would murmur with my thin lips, smiling all the wider, all the more inscrutably.

That evening, Im not sure if I was dreaming or caught between worlds, but I saw myself in a field beyond the woods where the big houses land ended. I shaded my eyes, staring into the distance. Waiting, just waiting. Hed promised hed come. Inside rattled a feeling of hope and terror and longing. Then, through the haze over the ripening wheat, I saw him a man in the shimmering light. I ran, truly happy for once, calling, George! George!

Lost in these half-dreams, I drifted into sleep. But in the dead of night I awoke, restless, uneasy. I glanced through the window a blizzard rattling the glass, the wind howling. I threw back the blanket, reached out into the darkness, and stumbled to the door.

Ill just be a minute just a minute

I went out, pushing the door with my bare foot, not really thinking. Peering, half-blind, into the white vortex swirling over the village, I reached out again, as if reaching for someone.

George!

The cold burned my body, freezing me to the core. My bare feet found the icy stone steps and I made my way down to the garden path. Without hesitation, I went forward, calling through the storm, George! Im here! George!

I reached the fence, peered over, ran back and forth and at last realised my feet had grown numb, that soon I wouldnt move at all. I hurried along the hedge toward the gate, still smiling madly.

Ill just check the other side

But by then, I couldnt find the gate. I paced in circles around the yard. Everywhere I turned another tree, another fence, or Id stumble knee-deep into the snow Thats where Helen and Tom found me.

Helen came afterwards, bringing food, lighting the fire, fussing over me. The nurse did my dressings, spread stinging ointment over my ruined feet, insisted on thermometers and tablets. I did as they told me, but whenever I was alone, I simply stared up at the ceiling, eyes blank. I listened to the outside world: dogs barking, a sledge on the road, the chatter of children returning from school.

I dozed, more and more. Id wake and realise it was daytime, or again the deep darkness of night. The fire would crackle in the hearth. The roof dripped softly. Lord, when will I go? I thought over and over. Please let me die

From childhood, Id learnt one simple, dreadful truth: my lot in life was a steep, slippery hill, slick with clay and thick with brambles. You could only fall hitting stones and roots as you tumbled down. No shoulder to lean on, no hand to pull you up. Everyone lived like that here, and I never expected ought else. I accepted that life was just a long fall downhill, and the only thing left was to grit your teeth and hope you didnt cry out.

That year spring came late and mean. It brought no gentle heat but cold winds and endless rain, turning the lanes to impassable muck. The snow melted in May, leaving the ground brown and sodden an old, worn hide. The trees stayed black and bare for ages; the gardens looked burnt. I remember trudging back from the pump with buckets on a yoke, cold water slopping onto my rough, split feet. Across the lane, under a tilting fence, the men smoked and muttered to themselves under the drizzle, glancing my way. I passed them without looking up. I was long used to being invisible, a part of the grey, joyless landscape.

Daisy! Old Mrs Agnes, another worker from the big house, called out with her usual bark. Run to the shop now, tell Charlie we need the best cotton cloth for the missus! No dawdling! Weve got guests from London dinner tonight and mind you pick some proper flowers!

I set the buckets down, careful not to spill a drop, wiped my hands on my rough apron, and headed off down the track. I was twenty-two then, but it felt as if life had passed me by, not even brushing me with its wing. Orphaned young, Id been taken in by the lady of the house, who needed help for a crust. I was a scrawny, battered girl, terrified of every sound and word. Id grown into a big, strong young woman, silent, with hands like shovels and eyes always downcast, the light long gone from them.

I worked from dawn until dusk. Until my ears rang and my feet ached like lead. In autumn rains, I chopped kindling; in winter I milked goats in that numb shed, kneaded cold clay for the oven, scrubbed in the icy river until my fingers stopped working. I weeded the garden beneath the harsh sun, the scent of berries thick as honey in the air but not a single berry dared pass my lips; the lady counted them all, and would whip me with nettles for stealing. Not for the likes of you, lazy thing! she barked. I learned not to look, not even notice. I tore weeds from the ground, bit my lip so as not to cry, eager only to please, so I might be left in peace for once.

On Saturdays, I heated the bathhouse, staggering with heavy, sloshing tubs from the river, stoking the fire until the heat made me dizzy and the world swirled red. I scrubbed her flabby back while she grumbled and pinched me, and if she was in a good mood, shed pat my cheek and call me her workhorse. I didnt even mind anymore. My life was a barricade of exhaustion and indifference with no hope left behind it. I didnt care what I wore, who spoke to me, or what rags the lady gave for Christmas. I found no pleasure at the girls gatherings after the chores, felt nothing for the boys clumsy advances. There was always work, work, work and soon enough, the lady couldnt do without me.

One day as I dusted the high mirror on a kitchen stool, she asked, offhand, Daisy, shall we get you wed then? Would you want that?

I stepped down, squeezed out my rag, and replied flatly, Whatever you wish, maam.

Or shall you end a spinster, eh?

Makes no odds to me.

Thats right, she said, slapping my shoulder, a spinsters better, less fuss. With hips like that, youd have a dozen brats to lug round! Not like my Polly, poor thing

She seemed torn, glad to have me, but enjoying the idea of giving me away just as much. She furrowed her brow to think, but then her daughters voice called, and she left it for another day.

The whole idea stirred nothing in me. My soul was asleep, quietly and simply. Big and healthy as I was, I never wanted anything for myself not even the simplest needs. There was an invisible wall between me and the world. It suited me just fine. The men got used to it, too my uninviting ways made sure of that. Her beautys for God, not us honest folk, muttered Old Sam, the groom. It might have gone on like that, but then something happened the wall cracked, briefly, and I peered out at the world, just for a moment.

It was early June, the air finally warm, the meadows lush and green. We expected distinguished company the ladys sickly daughter would be meeting a London suitor, or so the gossip went. I was sent to pick daisies for the parlour. As I headed down the slick slope to the river, feet slipping, a stranger blocked the narrow track. He was in a smart waistcoat over a bright shirt, boots shining even in the gloom. He had cheeky, greedy eyes and tidy blond hair, slick with pomade. That was George, the groom from the neighbouring estate, arrived with the London visitor. He surveyed me openly, as if assessing a mare at market.

How do, beauty, he said with a lopsided grin, looking me up and down, lingering on my sun-browned arms and the lines of my body under the faded blouse.

I stepped to the side without even glancing at him, but he matched my move, holding the path a moment longer.

What do you want? I muttered, eyes fixed on the ground.

Whats your name? he asked.

If you know it, you know it. Otherwise, none of your business, I replied, and walked round him as if he was just another gate post.

George didnt give up. Every week, with the London gent, he came. His loud, showy voice spilled through the yard. Id feel his eyes like syrup on me as I whitewashed the walls or scrubbed the endless plates. I found him, again and again, hovering near the well, the barn, the back porch. Hed say something crude, try to pinch me; Id just move, wordless. Once, in the empty barn, he lunged from behind the door and grabbed me round the waist. I didnt scream. Something ancient and animal woke inside me: I shoved him away so hard he crashed into a post, clutching the back of his head. I stared down, cold and silent.

Serves you right, I said, straightening my scarf, brushing down my skirt, and leaving him on the straw.

He sat a while, rubbing his head, something new burning in his eyes not just lust, but a sharp, burning curiosity. He was used to easy girls. Me sturdy, silent, unknowable hed underestimated.

As for me? I wasnt exactly indifferent, but hadnt the simple, girlish curiosity the others did. The feelings that rose in me were strange not desire, just a vague, dizzying warmth. Georges pestering forced something awake in me light and frightening, all at once.

I started smiling more. I wanted to feel that restless ache in my chest again, the one hed conjured up by accident. Id get up early to see the dawn mist over the fields, milk the cow, gaze at the sun rising behind the woods, dew sparkling in the grass. I wanted to fall into that wild green and laugh, strong and young. I had no idea what I wanted simply to live, I suppose. But Id jerk myself back to the washing or the weeding before I got too soft. Thats how June went.

George made no great headway although he did steal a kiss in the cellar, only to earn a sharp slap that took the mischief out of him for a while. But his persistence had a strange effect. One day, as I poured out water from the yoke and saw him come to lend a hand, I smiled just faintly, but he saw. Another time, he caught me watching him through the kitchen window as he worked with the horses. It meant nothing and everything. George wasnt giving up hope. Ours was never quite a romance or if so, a fleeting one.

One day, he protected a village boy accused of stealing turnips from the estate fields. The lady told the head groom to whip the boy. I saw it, and my whole body shook. I ran over, desperate to shield the child, but the groom shoved me away. I grabbed a stick, ready to strike, but the crowd stared, frozen. Then George darted up, snatched away the whip, and whacked the grooms beard.

Off with you! Ill tell the lady myself. Off, now! he shouted.

The women gathered round the sobbing boy, calming him.

My mum died yesterday, he choked out.

Those words struck me like a brick to the chest: all those old wounds tore open, the grief of my own childhood slamming into me. I ran to my tiny room, flung myself onto the bed, and howled shoulders shaking, hands clutching the worn mattress. I sobbed out my helplessness, my fury, my longing for something Id never even named.

George found me. He slipped in quietly, sat beside me on the bed. Said nothing, just put his arm gently round my trembling shoulders. For the first time, I let him. I leaned into his warmth, his strength. The tears still fell, but my wailing softened. I sat there, listening to his breathing.

Whats beyond the woods? I whispered.

London, he said, a little thrown. Big city, tall houses, shops, churches.

And past there?

Another city. Then theres the rail, and then, the sea, they say. Far off.

I was silent. Id never seen the sea barely dared swim a river. But now, suddenly, I wanted to see it. I wanted to be anywhere but here, where Id been beaten and worked to the bone, known only as the workhorse, even my name forgotten. I wanted to be a person. I turned to George, took his face in my cracked hands and, looking in his eyes for the very first time, I asked:

Will you take me? Will you marry me?

He hesitated, as boys do. Talked of needing money, needing time, that it wasnt as easy as just running off. I barely listened. Something inside me had snapped free. I was wild with determination. I kissed him first, told him I didnt care what people thought. All I desired was to leave, to be with him, to be new. That night, the old copper cross Id worn since childhood snapped from its thread lost forever in the dark. I didnt look for it. So be it, I said, oddly calm, as if fate had been decided.

He visited twice more. We met in secret behind the barn, in the old cellar, amongst the willows at the fields edge. I blossomed my walk grew light, my cheeks flushed, there was a shine in my eye, a halting smile that surprised even me.

Then it ended. The ladys daughter was married off in a fine, rowdy wedding, the London gentleman swept her away. George, of course, went with them. No warning; the cook told me sighing, Hes gone, Daisy. Chasing after his betters. No use waiting.

But I waited. Every evening, I walked to the lanes end, staring down the road vanishing into the woods, arms folded across my chest. Id stand until the sky darkened and the first stars appeared. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. My gaunt face turned transparent, eyes burning with a feverish light. Old Agnes scolded and pelted me with a bowl, but I only smiled vacantly. In my shattered certainty, I believed hed come back. That he had to. I could feel it in my bones.

Summer blazed past, ripe and humid. Autumn followed all grey drizzle, fog, and wet leaves. Id gaze at the line of trees meeting the sky and imagine that if I waited long enough, George would return. No one could convince me otherwise. I said little, eyes vacant, lost in my own thoughts, desperate to finish every chore so I could go back to watching and waiting.

Late October, trees bare and fields black with rain, I was working in my vegetable patch when I saw a lone man on the edge of the field, near the woods. My heart stopped. Could it be George? I threw down my spade and hurried, arms wild, calling out hoarsely,

Wait! Wait!

He did not turn perhaps couldnt hear. I reached the swollen stream, didnt dare cross, but found a fallen log and craned forward, watching as he vanished into the distance. My eyes strained, desperate not to lose sight of him, not even to blink. Soon, he was gone, nothing left but the endless green.

A neighbour, old Maggie, found me sitting on the ground. She shook her head.

What are you doing sitting there, love?

That was George, I answered, unmoving.

Which George? The old groom, years ago?

Im waiting for him. I kept my eyes on the woods.

Oh, love that was years ago. Hes married long since! Lives over in Crosswoods with a house full of children, so they say. Lucky to be alive lame from an accident years back. Might not even be with us anymore. Whats so funny?

Laughing, I sat there on the earth, hair tangled, knees bare. The laugh burned not joy, but a sharp, jagged sound.

Shes lost her marbles, poor thing, Maggie muttered, backing away. God help her. Best not to upset her, I reckon

After that, the village spoke openly of me as the mad old dear. I didnt cry, didnt wait in the same way anymore. I worked my small patch of ground more fiercely than ever, as if trying to bury the ache inside me. But for hours Id sit on the step, gazing at the woods, sure that the sea was just beyond. There was such emptiness in my eyes that people crossed themselves and hurried by.

When I was still able, on bright June days, with the scent of peonies and lime flowers in the air, Id dress in my neat, clean blouse, brush out my long greying hair, and walk to the edge of the meadow, staring at the place where the blue of the woods met the sky. Upright but faded, I seemed rooted to the spot, enduring as the earth, waiting not for years but for centuries. Sometimes, out of pity, someone would ask, Who are you waiting for, Daisy? And Id answer softly, with a gentle smile,

My happiness, love. Its there, beyond the trees. George promised me hed come today.

Theres the mad one that poor soul!

Only the wind in the treetops and the rivers gentle wash disturbed the silence, and somewhere, far, far beyond the woods, beyond the fields and cities, the great sea murmured the sea Id dreamt of, but never known, except for its secret, distant name.

The door groaned. Helen stepped in, arms full of kindling for the fire. I turned my empty, colourless eyes to her.

How are the feet then? she asked.

I muttered something. Helen stepped closer.

Whats that? Couldnt hear you.

Wish I could go now Hes not coming back, is he? Nothing left for it but to dieHelen set down her basket, knelt beside me, and squeezed my hand in her warm, rough grip. No, Daisy. Hes not, she said, her voice steady and kind. The fire cracked, swallowing the silence. It was the first honest thing anyone had spoken to me in years.

I sat very still, trembling. The truthsharp as salt in a wound, but clean, clean in a way I had almost forgotten.

The storm outside had died down. Somewhere, a bird laughed at the first blue slice of evening. The world went pale and gold. Helen hummed soft and low as she fed the flames. Her presence washed through the shabby room, ordinary and enormous; it rooted me, if only for a moment.

Something shifted. I looked at Helen, really looked, and saw her face lined by age and rain and kindness. A thread, thin and unexpected, tugged through my chest. I remembered Georges laughter, and the sweet ache that had made me feel alive for just a moment, long ago. For the first time, I wonderedhad I waited not for love, but for the promise of it? Had I known, even then, that happiness was always meant to pass through me, not stay?

Helen poured two cups of tea and pressed one in my hands. It warmed my curled fingers. Together, we sat and watched the fire until the room glowed with forgotten peace. I listened to the ordinary joysher talk of hens, the taste of hot bread, the wildflowers in her yard. I realized that for all my waiting, small mercies had visited me every daya neighbors knock, a borrowed shawl, a hand to hold in the cold.

For the first time, I let go. Not of memory, but of longing. Outside, the wind rattled the apple tree and scattered its last blossoms across the mud. The world went onbrutal and beautiful bothand I was still here, heart ticking faintly beneath the old nightgown, alive in a quiet room.

Thank you, Helen, I whispered.

She squeezed my hand again, and I closed my eyes. My breath smoothed out, deep and calm as rain. Over the rooftops, the sun spilled gold onto the fields; I imagined the edge of the woods brightening, the distance between me and the sea finally vanishingnot in the coming of anyone, but in the gentle, final hush of peace Id waited all my life to find.

And somewhere, I thought, in the hearts green country beyond memory, I was running barefoot through summer grass, singing Georges name into the endless light, laughing into the windfree at last.