The wind lashed the rain into a frenzy as the sky
darkened. The stooped figure of Mary Cleary struggling up the long hill, bent
lower as she leaned into the storm. The
wind howled and shrieked through the few abandoned houses that lined the old
neglected dirt road. That road was swiftly becoming treacherous for walking as
the rain turned it to mud. Pushing hard against the wind and rain the old woman
continued to make her way toward the square shadow that meant home and safety.
Finally the barrier of the old house broke the fury of
the wind and Mary Cleary stopped to catch her breath before going on. It was
nearly dark now, but that did not really matter. She knew every bush and pebble in the lane. The
rain had soaked her to the bone and Mary shivered as she resumed her slow
march. At last she reached the door and it opened to her familiar touch. The
howl of the wind was suddenly muted as she closed that door behind her.
Mary’s flip of the switch was not answered with light.
“Wind must have knocked a pole down,” she thought with a grin. With a whispered
prayer of thanks for the sheltering walls, Mary shrugged out of her wet coat
and boots. She shivered again as she pulled on her slippers and shuffled into
the kitchen. Mary’s hand went to the stack of scented candles with familiar
ease. A match was struck and an orange flame brought a welcome light to the
gathering gloom.
Mary gave another prayer of thanks for the stove and
pile of dry wood that graced her homey kitchen. That wood stove was not used
much anymore, except on nights like this. Mary opened the stove top and lay in
some crumpled paper and kindling.
“A little more now Mary my love,” whispered a soft
voice in her mind.
“I know Marv, I know,” she smiled in reply. The sea had taken Marvin Cleary over fifty
years past, but Mary still drew comfort from their conversations. Within
moments there was a cheery blaze in the stove. Mary closed the stove lid and put
the kettle on. It would take a while for
the stove to heat enough to boil the water.
Shivering as she went Mary Cleary shuffled down the
hall toward the bathroom. “You can’t
take a bath Mary,” whispered Marv, “the power is gone and the pump won’t work. There
is only enough water for another kettle and a bit of soup.” Nodding her
agreement, Mary turned to the stairs instead.
The climb to the bedroom was harder now than it used
to be, but up she went. Putting the
candle on her bedside table, Mary took out a pair of woolly long johns and wool
socks. She towelled herself dry then pulled on the woollies. Her threadbare
house coat came next. Within moments, Mary felt warmer. “Like I always say,
Marv, there is nothing like sheep’s wool on a night like this.” She heard his
soft chuckle of agreement. Mary
returned to the kitchen still towelling her hair. The room was starting to warm
up now.
Mary fetched the bucket of blueberries she had picked
that day, and stored them in the cold pantry.
She then pulled her wooden rocker up to the stove. Opening the oven
door, Mary put her feet inside to warm while she waited for the kettle to boil.
She sat combing the tangles from her hair and listening to the storm outside. Mary
smiled again as she recalled how she and Marv used to sit and snuggle under a
wool blanket on a night like this. “Nothing like a stormy night, eh Mary my
love?” whispered Marv. She smiled and
nodded in agreement, lost in the power of the memories.
The singing of the kettle brought her back to the
present. Mary pulled her feet from the oven and moved the kettle back a bit on
the stove. Within moments she was sipping a large mug of instant chicken soup. “There
are a few good things around these days,” she said to Marv who chuckled in
agreement. “Aye, that there are, Mary my dear, that there are.” Mary sipped and
felt the warm glow through her body. By the time she had finished the mug, Mary
was warm both inside and out.
Enjoying the glow of the warmth in her bones, Mary sat
listening to the storm and dozing in her chair.
Her mind wandered to the day she had met Marv. She had been hanging out
the wash and her grandfather had been dozing in the sun by the door. A tall
raven-haired lad with a fiddle in his hand came walking up the hill. He winked
at Mary and she hid her face in the clothes so he would not see her blush.
“Can ‘e play that, or be it for looks?” asked her
grandfather with a toothless grin.
“Play it I can, and I will,” answered the youth,
raising the fiddle to his chin. He swept the bow across the strings and a high
sweet melody floated through the warm summer air like a butterfly across a
field of flowers. Grandfather had begun tapping two sticks together in rhythm
and Mary had danced. She danced a light skipping lilt as she continued to hang
out the clothes. Oh how that man could play. Mary had danced and danced as he
played and he never took his eyes from her skipping form.
Mary returned to herself as a knot exploded in the
stove. With a long sigh she listened to the wind and rain for a while. “Ah, those were the days, Marv,” she
sighed.
“Play for me, Mary,” sighed Marv, and Mary grinned. Yes,
that was just the thing. Marv had taught
her to play his fiddle and she still had it. Mary hurried to the living room
where she kept the treasured fiddle, the candle flickering and nearly going out
in her haste.
A few moments later Mary was back beside the warm
stove with Marv’s old fiddle in her hands. Sitting up as straight as a post
with her long, damp, silvery hair falling past her shoulders, Mary raises the
fiddle to her chin. A few squawks and squeaks later it was in tune. Once again
that same sweet melody lightly danced through their old house. Mary played and played until she had to stop.
Lowering the fiddle, Mary laid her hand to her heart. Her
breathing was laboured and shallow now. “I can’t hold my arms up like I used
to,” she said to Marv. She laid aside the fiddle and listened to the wind
again. “Will you take me dancing again tonight Marv?” she asked as she settled
back into the rocker. Her hair was dry now.
“I will, Mary my love, soon, I promise,” whispered
Marv. Still labouring to breath, Mary lowered her head and drifted off to
sleep.
Mary
Cleary was still slumped in the rocking chair as the dawn broke clear and
sunny. The storm had blown itself out in the night. Marv’s fiddle lay at her
feet where she had dropped it. “Mary wake up, it is a beautiful day today,” Marv
whispered in her mind. She opened her eyes to the golden stream of sunlight in
her kitchen. Mary sighed and sat up stiffly, groping for the glasses that had
fallen to her lap.
“You promised
to take me dancing,” she grumbled as she stood and stretched in the morning
sun.
“I will Mary, I will,” he answered, “but you have to
make blueberry duff today, the grandchildren are coming.”
“Blueberry duff it is,” she sighed as she carried the
fiddle back to the living room, “but you promised, Marv.”
“Soon
Mary,” he whispered, “I promise.”
THE
END
Prudence MacLeod
Copyright © September 1998
For more of Prudence MacLeod's writing, check out Dark Star here:
Posts
This is a great story. My Mom still has chats with my Dad, who died twenty-four years ago. And it gives her comfort, too.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing.
Hi Jo Ann, Mary was patterned after a lady I knew as a child. She raised three children on her own and lived alone well into her nineties before she passed in her sleep. She always talked the her husband too. He was lost at sea.
ReplyDeleteHow heartbreaking and beautiful. I think I could see myself talking to my dead husband too, if I survived his death at all. There's something so beautiful about that kind of loss because it shows the kind of love they shared, the unbreakable kind. The kind not even death can destroy. And that's hard to find.
ReplyDelete