Two Old Women Residing in a Quaint Cottage…

Martha and Ethel, both in their eightiesMartha eightysix, Ethel eightyfourhad been strangers until fifteen years ago, when the old thatched roof of Ethels cottage proved sturdier than Marthas, the one that had been stripped for firewood. Together they kept the hearth alive, a sliver of white light that burned twice as slowly, their rations stretched, and their voices found someone to echo against the silence that had begun to ring in their heads. Alone, each had started to hear a phantom bell in her mind, and so they began to argue with themselves.

They settled under Ethels roof because her walls held firm, while Marthas house, with its crooked extensions, collapsed into a pile of timber. For five long winters they warmed themselves on that fire and never felt want. Once they had a small farma goat, a clutch of chickensbut each year the chores grew heavier. By the second summer they could no longer tend the garden, and by the end of the season even feeding the fire became a struggle.

Once a week their grandson SamuelSam to those who liked shortcutsrolled into the lane on his motorbike, a battered Triumph loaded with a sack of fresh loaf, crumpets, a tin of tea and a bag of sugar. Those supplies were the bulk of their diet; occasionally they boiled potatoes on a kettletop stove. When Sam arrived, the two women burst into tears.

If you keep crying, Ill stop coming, Martha warned, her voice trembling.

Alright, well stop the sobbing, Sam soothed, unloading the provisions, drawing water from the well, stacking logs so they would only need to strike a match. Anything else you need? Ill be back in a week. Just let me know, he said, sprinting out of the cottage like a startled hare, revving his engine and disappearing down the lane.

Even the short summer nights left them sleepless; sometimes they lay in the dark, listening to each others breaths.

Cant sleep, Ethel? Martha whispered.

No, Ive dozed off early, but now sleep has fled.

Im restless too What are you thinking about?

Everything, Martha replied.

And Im thinking of that other light Whats it like? No one knows.

Never will they know, Ethel said.

Their bodies grew frail, yet their minds worked with a clarity that sometimes seemed sharper than in youthperhaps because distance gave better perspective, though memory occasionally slipped, leaving them tangled in their own sentences. One night Martha rose, pulling on a cardigan.

Where are you off to? Ethel called.

Home.

But your home is here!

No Im going home, home Martha muttered, stubbornly shaking her head, then reached for the door, paused, turned back, stripped off her coat and lay down on the bed. Ethel said nothing, sensing a brief, harmless shift in Marthas consciousness.

They refused to linger in long melancholy. Ethel, bright as a doll, would often say, Listen to my foolish mindthere are good people still. Sam brings us food, we have firewood, we live in our own house, warm and bright. The state pension keeps us afloat. What more could we ask?

You sing well, you have a grandson. I have no one, Martha replied. When my limbs fail, Ill end up in a workhouse.

I wont abandon you. As long as Im breathing, youll have me. Even the workhouse has people, you know.

Martha cheered at those words, her eyes brighter, while Ethel glowed with a gentle, joyous warmth.

Their children had gone off to war. Martha had raised four sons; Ethel two. Martha lost her husband after a sudden illness while he was cutting hay; a farmer would not pause his work for a sick man, so he pressed on until collapse. He was taken on a shaky cart to the nearest infirmary, where doctors found a perforated appendix. One by one, Marthas sons felleach death a hammer to her heart. Yet she never cracked completely; after each blow she lay unconscious, only to be revived by neighbors pouring water over her. She seemed forged from some indestructible metal, rising again and again until she reached eightyfive, never bitter, though a lingering sourness haunted her soul.

Ethel lost her husband and one son; another returned, a broken man, who married, lived in the city, and died at thirtyseven. Her daughterinlaw remarried, and Sam stayed with Ethel. Comparing lives, Ethel thanked whatever deity had shown mercy: her line was not cut off at the root, she had a grandson whose efforts kept them alive, and that grandson now had children of his own.

Dear, Ethel would say, how much do we really need? A slice of bread and a cup of tea, and were fed for the day. Do you want anything else?

Nothing, Martha shook her head. Only God could grant me a little more time.

Time will come; well all die, Ethel promised.

When spring finally slipped in, the two old women, still clad in winter coats and scarves, would sit on the garden wall, soak up the weak sun, and inhale the earthy scent of newly turned soil. The season, endless in their memory, made them shiver even in the brightest light, yet it also stirred a restless yearning. Once the spring smell meant rebirth and childlike delight; later it whispered of longing love, then fell silent, finally speaking of decay.

They would sit for hours in the same posehands on a stick, faces tilted toward the sun, eyes blinking only occasionally. When a conversation sparked, their faces lit, lips parting as they chewed the words.

Soon the world will be warm again! Flowers, green grass, birds singing, one would murmur.

Yes, the other agreed. The earth is as soft as down, easy to dig.

One morning a vague unease seized Martha. She lingered on the wall, then rose and shuffled to the cottage. Each step on the porch was a struggle; her hands, like birds talons, trembled. She leaned on the wall, slipped across the rough floorboards, and collapsed sideways onto the bed, a faint moan escaping her lips.

Ethel noticed immediately, followed her inside, and saw Marthas face grow darker, her breathing shallow. She understood that Marthas time was slipping away. Ethel hovered, offering help she could not give, then settled on a nearby bench to watch.

Martha tried to sit up, but her body refused, and she fell back onto the same side. She turned onto her back, wincing, her head bobbing against the pillow. Ethel came close a few times, then stepped back, remaining a silent observer.

As evening fell, Marthas eyes cleared for a brief moment. She looked around, bewildered by the calm that settled over her. Her heart fluttered weakly.

Ethel withdrew, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace. Martha never awoke again.

Ethel, keeping watch, heard only Marthas solitary breath drifting through the cottage. A sudden surge of energy lifted her, as if unseen hands moved her from the floor to the bedside. Her heart thumped three or four times, then fell silent forever.

Damn it! Ethel shouted, her voice echoing off the walls. Whos left for me?

She wailed, How could we have lived like sisters! When will Sam return? Who will punish me but punish whom?

She spent the night lost in those thoughts until dawn broke, the night as brief as a nightingales song.

At sunrise, the motorbikes engine whined outside, and Ethels legs, surprisingly spry, carried her to the porch.

Sams angels have brought you here, she told him, eyes watery. Martha has passed.

Sams face turned ashen. What now? How will I live alone? he asked, his voice cracking.

You need not think of that, Gran, he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder. I wont leave you. Ill take you in for the winter.

Perhaps God will send me a gentle end this summer, Ethel whispered.

Again with the same words! Sam grimaced.

What else can I say? Im yours, but Im not your wife; Ill be a stubborn old stump in your family, tripping you up.

Theres nothing to argue about.

Ethel and Sam spent the next two days in a flurry of chores. Ethel moved with a vigor she hadnt felt in years, stoking the fire, cooking, as if a new spirit had taken residence within her. She wondered if Marthas ghost had slipped into her, gifting fresh strength.

Alone now, Ethel was seized by a longing so deep she could not name it. The fifteen years she had shared with Martha had knit them together tighter than blood; each saw the other as a second self. Never once had they quarreled without also reproaching each other gently. Both understood they lived because they lived together, and each feared the abyss of solitude.

Good for you! Youve finally moved out! Marthas voiceimagined, perhapsseemed to tease her. And what about me?

Sam visited often, almost daily, sometimes staying the night. He brought crumpets and dried scones, which Ethel dipped in tea and ate. Yet even those beloved treats could not fill the hollow left by the missing friend.

Midsummer, as Ethel was tidying the cottage, a clear voice called from the garden, Hey, old woman! Youre hiding here too long!

She opened the back doornothing there. She walked around the house, brushed aside the nettles that grew where the vegetable patches once were, but no one was hidden among them. Still, she could swear she had heard Marthas voice. She must have come for me. She must miss me too, Ethel thought, and her limbs went limp, a sudden heaviness pulling her toward the bed.

She crawled to the chest, withdrew a bundle of freshly sewn clothes, laid them on the table, and slipped beneath the covers. Outside, she could not tell whether it was day or night, nor how long she had lain therehours, perhaps a whole day. She felt life draining, yet there was no pain, only a strange, gentle release. Flashes of her past flickered: a threeyearold girl in a meadow with her grandmother, a youthful husband in a crisp white shirt, her childrens faces, the rhythmic clatter of sickles and the thud of a looms shuttle. The smells of straw, hay, and linseed oil swirled. Her life seemed both endless and a single breath.

When Sam returned on his bike, he found his grandmother still, his head falling onto the table beside the bundle of clothes, and he wept aloud, the sound echoing through the empty cottage.