TWO ELDERLY LADIES LIVED IN A COTTAGE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE…

Two old women, Mary Carter and Edith Hawthorne, shared a modest cottage on the edge of a sleepy Yorkshire village. Their combined pension was a meagre £170 a month, barely enough to keep the hearth burning. Mary was eightysix, Edith eightyfour; they were not kin, but for fifteen years they had chosen to pool their resources, cutting fuel consumption in half and sharing the few words that eased the emptiness that had begun to gnaw at their minds.

They lived together in Ediths sturdier stone house after Marys thatched cottage was gutted for firewood. For five winters they survived on the splintered heat, never feeling the sting of want. Once they kept a small farmgoats, chickens, a vegetable plotbut each year the work grew harder. By the second summer they could no longer tend the garden, and by autumn even lighting the stove became a struggle.

Once a week their grandson, Sam Whitaker, a burly thirtyfiveyearold from Leeds, arrived on his motorbike with a sack of fresh bread, scones, tea and a bag of brown sugar. Those provisions, supplemented occasionally by a boiled potato cooked on the oil stove, were the only food they truly ate. When Sam stepped through the door, tears would well in their eyes.

If you keep crying, Ill stop coming, Mary would warn, halfjoking, halfpleading.

Alright, well stop, Sam would sigh, his voice softening as he hurriedly unloaded the groceries, fetched water from the well, and stacked logs by the fire so the women would need only a match to kindle it. Anything else you need? Ill be back in a weekjust tell me.

The short summer nights offered no sleep. Lying quietly, they would whisper to each other.

Cant sleep, Edith? Mary would ask.

No, Im wideawake. I dozed early, now I cant close my eyes.

Im the same Whats on your mind?

Everything.

And Im thinking of the afterlife whats it like? No one knows.

We never will, Edith would answer quietly.

Their minds grew dimmer, yet the sharpness of memory sometimes surprised them, as if looking from a distance made the past clearer. At midnight Mary rose, shuffling toward the door.

Where are you off to? Edith called.

Home.

Your home isnt here!

No Im going home, home Mary muttered, stumbling to the threshold, grabbing the latch, then stopping, turning back, stripping off her coat and collapsing onto the bed. Edith said nothing, sensing a fleeting disorientation in Marys mind.

They refused to sink into despair. Edith, as bright as a doll, would often say, Listen to my foolish optimismthere are still good people. Sam brings us supplies, the wood is there, we have a roof, a warm hearth, a pension. What more could we ask?

You can sing, you have a grandson. I have no one. When my limbs fail, Ill end up in the workhouse, Mary would retort, her voice cracking.

I wont abandon you, Edith promised, even if we end up in the workhouse together, well still be together.

Marys spirits lifted, her eyes brightening, while Ediths face glowed with a gentle joy.

Their lives had spanned a century together. Marys four sons had all perished, one after another, during the war and the hard farming years. Her husband had died of a burst appendix after a terrible bout of dysentery in the fields; she had hauled him to the village infirmary on a rickety cart, too late. Edith had lost her husband and one son; the other returned halfcrippled, found work in a factory, married, and died at thirtyseven. Her widowed daughterinlaw remarried, and Sam now lived with them, bringing occasional visits.

Edith thanked the Almighty that her line was not cut cleanly like Marys. She still had a grandson whose children now toddled about, keeping the household alive.

Darling, Edith would say, we need so littlejust a crust of bread and a cup of tea, and were content. Is there anything you truly want?

Nothing, Mary would shake her head, if only God would grant me a little more time.

Time will come, and well go when it does, Edith whispered.

When spring warmed the fields, the two women, still bundled in their winter coats, would step onto the garden path, sit on a low wall, and soak up the sun, listening to the scent of fresh earth. The season once filled them with the innocent joy of childhood, later with a bitter longing, and finally with a quiet acceptance of decay.

They would sit for hours, hands resting on a wooden stick, faces lifted toward the light, eyes flickering only occasionally.

Cant you see? Its time to die, Mary would murmur one evening, the warmth, the flowers, the singing birds

Yes, Edith agreed, the soil is soft as down, easy to dig.

One summer morning, anxiety seized Mary. She shuffled to the cottage, each step a battle, her hands trembling like birds talons. She clambered onto the bed, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Edith, noticing the change, hurried after her, finding Marys face pale and withdrawn. The realization that Marys days were numbered settled over them like a heavy fog.

Mary tried to sit up, only to collapse onto her left side again. She turned onto her back, sighing, her head bobbing against the pillow. Edith hovered, offering help she could not give, then settled on a nearby stool to watch.

By evening, Marys breathing slowed, her eyes fluttered open once, then dimmed. Edith stepped back, heart pounding, as if trying to hold the very air around her. The room fell silent, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire.

Damn it! Edith shouted, voice echoing through the cottage, Who am I left to with? She screamed, How could we have lived like sisters and now

She wondered aloud when Sam would return, who would punish the fate that had taken Mary. The night stretched on, the house bathed in the mournful trill of nightingales, until dawn crept in.

At sunrise, Sams motorbike roared up the lane. His legs, suddenly spry, carried him onto the porch.

Angel, youve brought us today, Edith said, tears spilling, Marys gone.

Sams face turned ashen. What what now? How am I to live alone? He sank onto the steps, sobbing.

Dont think about that, Gran, Sam replied, gripping her hand, I wont leave you. Ill take you in for the winter.

I wish Id died this summer, Mary had whispered in her last breath, God, spare me.

Sam huffed, You always say the same thing. He tried to explain, Im your kin, but your wifes family is different; Ill be a burden, Ill just be a stump in the garden. Mary barely heard, her voice fading.

The two spent the next two days in a blur of chores. Edith moved around the house as if a decade younger, stoking fires, cooking, her vigor oddly renewed. Did Marys spirit awaken me? she wondered.

When Sam finally left, a deep ache settled over Edith, a longing she could not name. Fifteen years of sharing a roof had forged a bond tighter than blood; each saw the other as a second self. Never once had they truly quarreled; they lived because they were together, fearing the void the others absence would leave.

Good for you! Youre gone! Edith jeered at Marys memory one night, And what about me?

Sam visited often, almost daily, sometimes staying the night, bringing fresh rolls and dried fruit for Edith to dip in tea. Yet even those comforts could not fill the hollow left by Mary.

One midsummer afternoon, as Edith was tidying the cottage, a voice seemed to call from the garden, Hey, old woman! Youve been hiding too long! She opened the back doornothing but the familiar hedges. Yet the voice lingered, as if Mary herself were whispering from beyond. Edith felt a chill, her limbs trembling, and she lingered by the old chest, pulling out a bundle of handstitched clothing, laying it on the table before slipping onto the bed.

She lost track of time, unable to tell whether hours or days passed. Her lifes moments flashedher as a threeyearold chasing butterflies in a meadow, her young husband in a crisp white shirt, her childrens laughing faces, the rhythmic thud of scythes in the fields, the smell of hay, linseed oil, fresh rain. The memories swirled, bright and fleeting, as her breath grew shallow.

When Sam returned on his bike, he found Edith motionless, her head resting on the bundle of cloth. He fell to his knees, sobbing loudly, the sound echoing through the empty cottage.