The Empty Life of Daisy

The snow no longer stung her bare feetDorothy couldnt feel them now. Only the wind lashed at her face, her throat, her thin, trembling arms, slicing straight through her chest, barely protected by her nightdress. White hair, heavy with snow, clung to her scalp like little frozen ropes. The blizzard shrieked around her, stinging her skin, and Dorothy had lost all sense of where she was, lost upon her own back garden. She pressed herself against the icy wooden fence, folded her arms across her chest, and began to wail.

Oh, let it end, Lord, let it end now! Please, just take me already

She might have died that night, swept away by the cold, if not for her neighbour, Mary, who had come out to see to her cow. She saw Dorothys door swinging open, a slant of warmth thrown out into the white storm.

Dorothy! Are you out there, love? Faffing about in this weather?

But Dorothy stood hunched in the far corner, hidden by the trees and the shrieking wind. Her eyes squeezed shut as she kept repeating, Let it end. Let it end.

Mary sprinted over, flinging open the garden gate, her voice rising to a shriek.

Dorothy! Where are you, woman? I swearDorothy!

But Dorothy had slipped to her knees, her cries now just hollow moans, forehead pressed to her shivering knees. Tears streamed down her cheeks while her body seemed to fold in on itself.

You foolish old bird! Ill fetch helpdont you move! Mary snapped. She rushed back for her husband, and together, they dragged Dorothy inside and stretched her upon the hearth rug.

She didnt get up after that. Next morning the young nurse cameLouise, rosy-cheeked from the cold, her black hair shining. Louise frowned to see Dorothy, so oldninety-onenot even with a cold, only her feet frostbitten. She bent over, voice gentle.

You ought to be in hospital. Shall I call an ambulance?

Dorothy stared at the nurse, so young, so lively, and she shook her head, the silver hair trembling.

No, Ill not go. Ill stay right here, duck. And dont you waste your time, my dear heart. Leave me to myself, love. Go on, off you pop.

There Dorothy lay her days for two weekspuzzled faces asking the same question: why did she stagger out that night, barefoot in her nightdress, into the snow? People said it was foolishness. Dorothy herself, though, felt there was something morea strange, fateful force. The previous evening, shed sat upon her bed, unravelling an old woollen sock, fingers moving out of habit. Her mind was far away, her glassy eyes fixed on a patch of wall, smiling at something distant, haunted by memory.

There had never been any joy in her life. All work and want, and only one short-lived shaft of lightone fleeting, desperate burst of love.

His name had been George.

George Georgie she mumbled, an odd, skewed smile stretching her wrinkled mouth.

Maybe she was dreaming, maybe not, but shed imagined treading the field beyond the wood, right where her mistresss estate ended. Dorothy shaded her brow, stood long, peering out, waiting for himhed promised to come. Her stomach knotted with hope and dread. Shed seen his figure, blurred by heat or mist, out in the rye. Shed run for him, wholly happy, shouting, George! George!

Lost in those memories, Dorothy had drifted to sleep. But in the deep night, she woke, restless, creeping from her blankets. The wind rattled the window, slicing through the glass. Dorothy flung aside her covers, groped through the gloom, pushing through the door.

I wont be long, just a moment

Barefoot, she shuffled into the white gale. She squinted out, blinded by the flurries. Her hand stretched forwardsearching, pleading.

George

Cold scalded through her bones. Her numb soles clinked on frozen stones as she crossed the yard, eyes fixed beyond the fence. She pushed on, battling the storm, calling out.

George! Its me! George!

She reached the fence, peered over, dashed this way and that and only then felt her feet go numb, so frozen she could no longer move. In panic, she stumbled along the fence, still smiling.

Its fine Ill check this side too

But the gate was lost to her now. The wind spun her in circles. She staggered into trees, tripped on roots, her feet sinking into knee-deep drifts. She was hopelessly lostand soon collapsed. It was there the neighbours found her.

Mary brought hot food, tended the fire, fussed over Dorothy, who obeyed every word, but when she was alone, she lay with wide, vacant eyes searching the ceiling, ears pricked to the world beyond her window: the barking dogs, the squeal of rusty carts, the tinkling laughter of children coming home from school.

Often, she slipped into a half-sleep. The fire spat in the grate. Water dripped from the eaves. Lord, let it end let it end, she thought again and again.

From the earliest years, Dorothy had learned the bitter truth: her fatea steep, muddy embankment thick with brambles. There was only down, tumbling into pain and bruises. No-one would catch her, no-one would keep her from falling. So lived all around her; she expected nothing else. Life was a long, hard tumble, and all one could do was grit ones teeth in silence.

Spring that year came late and cruel. It brought not gentle sun but more biting wind and endless rains, turning the lanes into seas of mud. By May, the snow was gone and the sodden earth looked like an old hide. The trees in the orchard still stood stark and black. Wrapping her wet scarf tighter, Dorothy tramped from the well, buckets on a yoke slopping icy water over her feet. By the battered fence, men smoked, hunched in the drizzle, with sidelong glances at her. She passed them by, eyes to the ground. Shed long ago grown used to being invisible, swallowed by the greyness of the village.

Dorothy! The voice of old Agnes, her fellow servant from the manor, sliced through the damp airsharp and irritable as cheese wire. Quick! Off to the shop with you! Tell Alf to bring the best cotton print for the young lady! And dont dawdle! Shell have guests from the city for supper. Pick some flowers, too!

Dorothy slid the buckets onto the step, careful of each drop, wiped her hands on her filthy apron, and set off toward the edge of the village. She was twenty-two, though life felt as though itd passed her by already. Twelve years since her parents died, the shrill, tight-fisted widow at the manor had taken her for a bite of bread. Back then, shed been a scrawny, frightened wisp of a girl, flinching at every word. Now she was tall, broad-shouldered, silent, her hands heavy and cracked, her gaze always lowered and dulled.

She worked from dawn to duskuntil her legs rang hollow and her head throbbed. She chopped wood in the autumn rain, milked goats in frozen sheds, made clay for the hearth, did the washing in icy water until her fingers froze solid. She weeded the garden under the blazing sun, amongst the hanging clusters of currants and raspberriesnever daring to taste a single one, for the widow counted every berry, and stung her with nettles for even a thought. Dorothy learned not to look sideways. She tore weeds up, bit her lip to keep from crying, desperately hoping to please, if only for peace. All day her spindly figure flickered through the steaming garden, with berries dangling just out of reach. She bore it.

On Saturdays, she stoked the bathhouselugged dripping buckets from the river, heated the stones until the air quivered. In the choking mist, she scrubbed her mistresss flabby back with wiry sponges until her head spun and her gut churned. The old woman moved slowly, shifting to be scrubbed on each side, made Dorothy kneel and reach, always scolded or pinched her, yet sometimes, when cheered, called her a good little shire horse, even patted her cheek. Dorothy was used to it all. There was a thick, invisible wall between her and the worlda wall of fatigue, indifference, and hope buried long ago. She no longer cared how she looked, what rags she wore, or who talked to her. She shunned village girls gatherings, shrugged off the lads pinches and teasing. Shed never known another life. The old woman needed her as much as anyone ever had.

Once, watching Dorothy on a stool, stretching up to polish a tall mirror, the old lady mused, Dorothy, perhaps I should marry you off. Would you like that?

Dorothy climbed down, wrung out her cloth, answered flatly, As you please.

Or will you die an old maid?

Doesnt matter.

Exactly! The widow clapped her shoulder. Its for the bestelse youd spawn a fleet of brats, with those broad hips of yours! Not like my Polly.

She almost crossed herself, thinking of her daughter, but was distracted by a shout from inside and left her musings.

That conversation stirred nothing within Dorothy. Her spirit slumbered, dumb and stubborn. Sturdy as she was, she never hungered for moresome invisible wall separated her from desire. And behind that wall, life was tolerable. The lads, too, gave up on her unreadable beauty and indifferent stride, left her alone. Old Ted, the groom, once said, Dorothys beauty isnt for menshes saint-touched, she is. And so it wouldve gone on, if not for a chance encounterthe one time she looked over that wall.

It was early June, the meadows thick with green. The manor prepared for city guests. The young mistress, sickly and pale, was to welcome a suitora young man from Manchester, so they whispered. Dorothy was sent to pick daisies from the grass. She picked her way bare-footed down the slippery slope, and on the river path was stopped by a strangera lad in a fancy waistcoat and shiny boots that gleamed even in the drizzle. His smirk, his carefully parted blond hair slicked back with pomade, his bold eyesthey all marked him as George, the groom from the next estate, come with the young gentleman.

A fine day, my beauty, George called, his tone thick with amusement as he looked her up and down, taking in her strong arms and high bust beneath her faded blouse.

Dorothy moved around him, expressionless.

Whats your name, then? he pressed.

Who named me knows it already. Youve no need to know, she said, brushing past him as if he were merely a fence post.

George, not put off, returned each week. Dorothy heard his booming voice in the yard, felt his gaze on her as she whitewashed walls or washed up in the scullery. He was always in her wayby the well, the shed, the back stairs. Hed tease, try to pinch her, but shed move aside, stolid as if he werent there. Once, fetching flour from the barn, he grabbed her in his arms, pinning her back against the sacks. Dorothy didnt cry out. Some primal spark flashed in hershe shoved him off, sending him sprawling against the wall with a thud. She wasnt frightened, just looked down at him blankly.

Well, youve done it now, havent you, she muttered, fixing her scarf and walking out, leaving him glowering on musty hay. He rubbed his bruised head, peering after her, something sharper than lust troubling his eyes. He was used to chattering girls throwing themselves at him. But this onesilent, broad, implacablewas something else.

Dorothy, for her part, wasnt entirely immune to him, but she felt no girlish fancy. What she felt was foreign and new. He was just the start of her sudden awakeninga burst of yearning for something she couldnt name.

And she smiled more often now. She rose early to watch the sunrise over misty fields, milking cows and pausing to gaze at the first golden rays. She wanted to drop into that green softness and laugh for pure youth and strength. She didnt understand herself, only that she wanted perhaps just to live. Remembering work, shed soon leap up, getting on.

A month passed. Georges overtures got him nowheresave a stolen kiss in the scullery that ended in a ringing slap. Yet bit by bit, his persistence left its mark. Once she caught his eyes as he worked the horses, and she smiled from under her brow. On another day, she watched him long and hard through the parlour window. It meant little, but George pressed on, hoping. Their affair, if it could be called that, was brief.

One day, George intervened when a boy was caught stealing in the master’s field. The widow ordered the groom to flog him. Dorothy trembled at the scene, ran over, desperate to take the blows herselfbut the groom shoved her away. Then she seized a log, ready to swing. The crowd fell silentshe crept up, fierce. George rushed in, snatched the whip from the groom and lashed out.

Clear off! Ill tell the mistress myself. Get lost!

The women clustered round the weeping boy, asking after his name, soothing him. He mumbled and then cried out, My mum died yesterday shes gone!

At those words, Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth. Childhood memories struck her like a brick. She saw herself in that boy. Ripping her collar, tearing her little cross, she staggered to her garret and fell upon her cot, weeping with wrenching sobs, clutching the thin coverlet. Her grief was for herself, for a feral rage and a longing for something lost, something she never even understood.

George found her. He crept through the house, opened her creaking door, and sat beside her. He said nothing, but put his arms round her hunched shoulders. For the first time, she didnt push him away. She pressed close, feeling his warmth, trembling. Her tears still flowed, but the howls ceased. She sat quietly, listening to his breath, and suddenly whispered:

Whats out beyond the woods? Whats there?

He blinked in surprise, The citybig as you like. Grand houses, shops, cathedrals.

And past that?

Another city. The trains go all the way. Then the sea, people saya long way still.

Dorothy fell quiet. Shed never seen the sea. She couldnt even swim a river. But nowshe wanted to see that sea. She longed to leave, run from the beatings and blisters, from her shire horse nickname and forgotten name. She wanted to live, to be someone. Turning towards George, her hands rough and cracked, she cradled his face, asking, looking straight into his eyes for the first time:

Will you take me? Marry me?

George was startled. He liked to brag, may have cared for her, but marriage? He fidgeted, looking away, mumbling of waiting, hardship, saving up a bit. She didnt listen. An inner dam had burst. She was changed nowreckless, wild with new resolve. She pulled him to her, kissed him, whispered she didnt care what people said. Anything to be beside him and leave this place. That night she lost her old cross, the chain snapping into the dark. She didnt search for it. So be it, she murmured, a strange, fateful ring to her voice.

George visited twice more. They met in secrethayloft, root cellar, the willow copse beyond the lane. Dorothy began to blossomher step lighter, her head held high. A glimmer of life shone in her eyes, colour crept into her cheeks. She learned to smiletentatively, shyly, as if discovering joy for the first time.

Then it all ended. The mistresss wedding was a raucous, drunken affair, and the young baronet swept his bride away to London. George, of course, went with them. Nobody told Dorothyshe learned from the cook, who patted her arm and said, Hes gone, Dorothy. With the young master. Might as well chase the wind.

Dorothy waited. Every evening, she watched the dusty road, hands clasped, staring into the dusk until the first stars sprang out. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Her face thinned, eyes hollowing but burning with a feverish light. Old Agnes grew impatient, bullied her, called her simple, chucked dishes at her. Dorothy only smiled, unblinking and beatific. She believed: George would return. He must. She felt it in her bones.

Summer dragged on, thick and sweltering, then the grey autumn brought endless foggy rain. Dorothy would watch the blue line of woods on the skyline, convinced that waiting would bring George back. She ignored all gossip. If anyone told her news, she didnt hear it, just smiled. She knew, deep down, that some cruel force kept him away. And if those bright dayswhen shed kissed Georgehad happened, then surely he must remember, must long for them too. She just needed to wait. She worked fiercely, barely speaking, losing herself in chores. In every free moment, shed gaze past everything, not seeing, lost in distant thought. Days, months, years muddled together. Dorothy waited.

One day in late October, the trees stripped bare, the fields black with wet, Dorothy, busy in her own garden now, suddenly looked up. At the fields edge, by the forest, she saw a lone man. Her heart skippedsurely it was George. She abandoned her spade and sprinted, arms flailing, yelling hoarsely.

Wait! Waitplease!

The man did not turnperhaps couldnt hear. Dorothy reached the swollen brook and fumbled at the bank, unable to swim, watching his shape dwindle. She clambered on a half-sunken log, straining to see. His fair head and shirt merged into a fading dot in the rain. She stood on tiptoe, stretching to be nearer. She squinted, but he was gone, lost to the horizon, with only the endless green meadow staring back at her.

A neighbour, old Martha, found her sitting there, knees whitening in the cold.

What you sat down for? Why did you run off?

It was George, Dorothy answered without turning.

George who?

The groom used to come with the young baronet.

Oh, him? Martha scoffed, What ever for?

Im waiting for him.

Whats the point? the old woman sighed. Hes long moved on. Married, children everywhere. Poor as church mice, last I heard. Maybe hes gone, for all we know. Whyre you laughing?

Dorothys laughter rang outloud, cracked, almost inhuman. Her hair untidy, her skirt bunched, knees glowing pale in the sun. She laughed until Martha crossed herself, muttering.

You poor thing Cuckoo, God bless you, Martha thought, backing away.

From that day, the village called her soft in the head. Dorothy no longer wept or waited in that frantic way. She worked her ground in silence, fiercer than ever, as if labouring could drown the heartache. In rare idle moments, she would sit on the step and gaze at the wood, dreaming that somewhere beyond was the sea. Her eyes were so empty and bottomless that people blessed themselves and kept their distance.

Before she grew utterly wasted with age, Dorothystill upright in mid-June, as the air throbbed with roses and lindenwould pull on her clean blouse, brush her long silver-streaked hair, and walk into the meadow, staring for hours at the blue seam where the woods met the sky. Shed stand, patient and upright, as if rooted to the land, waiting not for years but for centuries. If ever someone would ask, out of pity or curiosity, whom she waited for, she would reply, her voice soft with hope and a tiny, pure smile:

My happiness. Its over there, beyond the wood. George promised to come today.

Poor dear! Soft in the head

And only the wind stirred the tall trees, the river rolled on with its slow, eternal water, and far awaybeyond fields and citiesthe sea crashed, a promise Dorothy would never know, save for its name that hummed at the edge of her mind.

The door creaked behind herMary came to lay the hearth. Dorothy cast her those vacant, colourless eyes.

Howre your feet? Mary asked.

Dorothy only mumbled, voice withering.

Eh? What was that?

wish it would end. Hes not comingnot anymore. Only death is left for me nowMary tucked a woolen shawl around her shoulders, her hands gentle as petals.

Try to rest, Dorothy. Ill bring your tea soon.

Dorothy nodded, eyelids heavy, drifting. In the hush, the old woman heard the sigh of wind at the eaves, the whispering shift of snow thawing in gutters. Somewhere in the village a bell tolledfaint, regular, fading into the hush like all the vanished voices of her life.

She closed her eyes.

The fire played behind her eyelids, and suddenly she was young again. Sun on her back, the meadow wide, golden. Larks tumbling overhead. She walked, barefoot over green, feet untouched by cold, strong again. Someone waited therehalf-shadow, half-lightunder a willow. Georges smile showed clear as red berries and she reached for it, her heart tripping for the first and last time.

She walked forward, not looking backpast the orchard, past the fence, over the rippling rye, through the deep hush of the wood, to the farthest limit of that promised land.

At dawn, Mary found Dorothy still, hands folded in her lap, a faint trace of that shy, secret smile lingering about her lips.

And outside, beyond the window, the thaw had come at lasta gleam of sun on the sodden earth, snowdrops breaking through, and far away, the first redbreast sang.