The world spun like a fever dream, shadows stretching long as young Harry, sniffling, dragged a fallen pine across the snow. Shouldnt have taken it, reallybut old Tom the woodsman had winked, told him to fetch it once dark settled. The wood groaned under his mittens, rough and unyielding.
«Harry! Harry!» A voice cut through the frostsharp-eyed Lucy, his classmate, skipping toward him like a sprite.
«What dyou want?»
«Let me help.»
Odd, how a girl had such strength. Yet the load lightened as they both hauled the sled, breath puffing white in the dusk.
«Whos minding the little ones?» Lucy asked.
«Grans there. Mums at work.»
«Ah. I came by with lessonsdark it was, door locked. Little Alfie said youd gone to the woods. Told em to stay put, didnt you?»
«Had to lock it… She runs.»
«Runs?»
«To Albion, in her head. Back to her mum, back tosomewhere.»
«Poor soul.»
They reached the cottage, wood stacked by the door.
«Ta, Lucy.»
«Dont mention it. Fetch the sawwell have it chopped quick.»
«Ill manage.»
«You? With that blunt thing? Come on.»
The saw danced between them, and soon neat logs littered the ground. In the window, six-year-old Alfie and toddler Annie pressed noses to the glass. Harry swung the axecrack!splitting a log clean. Lucy gathered kindling as he worked, the pile growing.
Inside, the stove roared to life, warmth licking the walls.
«Let me make stew,» Lucy offered. «Aunt Edithll be tired when shes back.»
«Nah, Granll»
«Oh, please, Harry!» Alfie tugged his sleeve. «Lucys stews proper good. Last time Gran threw in dill seeds and peashorrid it was!»
«Ill cook,» Lucy laughed. «Alfie, help peel.»
«Whos this?» A voice creaked from the hearthGran, swaddled in shawls, blinking.
«Gran, its warm now. Off with those boots.»
«Cold, Johnny…»
«Johnny? Im Harry, your grandson.»
«Wheres Johnny?»
«Gone. Hell… be back.»
Lucy frowned. «Your dad?»
Harry shrugged. Best not speak of him. Johnnyhis father, Ediths husbandhad left last winter, sly as a fox. Took the pigs, the cow, even little Daisy the heifer. Mum begged»Leave Daisy, at least!»but hed laughed. «What groom comes empty-handed?»
Harrys hate had hardened then, sharp as ice. Half the larder emptied, spoons countedMum stood silent, watching.
Edith returned to find them by the oil lamp, Harry reading to Alfie, Gran dozing by the stove, Annie thumb-sucking in sleep.
«Mum,» Alfie whispered, «its warm. Harry got wood, Lucy made stewGran ran to Albion twice, we caught her.»
Edith smiled faintly, ruffling Alfies hair. «Harry… you bear too much.»
«Its nothing. Eatthe stews grand.»
A knock. A round woman bustled in, trailing cold. «Brr! Thirty below tonight, mark me. Edith, lard Ive brought, and cheese. Flour?»
«Some.»
«Heres milk, then, and eggs. Youll manage. Spuds for plantingJohnll give you seed. Dont fret.» She leaned close. «Sows farrowing soon… well sort you.»
Days later, she smuggled in a piglet, small as a glove. «Thirteen bornthis uns the strongest.»
Next dawn, Edith was summoned.
«Mum,» Harry choked, «maybe itll blow over?»
The foremanJohnnys old matewouldnt meet her eyes. «Take a pig from the farm. Valll pick you a good un. And… Im sorry, Edith.»
«Sorry?»
«For Johnny. Didnt know hed… strip you bare.»
Life inched on. Lucy helped with the children; Alfie hauled water. The piglet grew, then two more, tails curled like questions.
Neighbours talked.
«Edith, love,» clucked Mrs. Clarke, «that Johnnysaw him with that hussy, laughing on a cart! And his kids near starving»
«Starving? Were fine.» Edith hurried off, hiding in the shed. Tears came hot.
Scritch-scratch at the door.
«Mum?» Harrys voice. Then Grans»Edith… Im a burden.»
The rope in her hands told the rest.
«Gran! How could you?» Edith sobbed. «Come inside. Well bake today.»
By spring, Gran faded, calling for Johnny. He never came. Sent coin for the funeral, though.
The village judged. «Monster,» they muttered. But whod seen his soul?
At the fresh grave, Johnny knelt.
«Forgive me, Mum.»
«She did,» Edith said quietly. «At the end, she knew you.»
He glared. «Whyre you here?»
«Christian custom. Eat… remember her.»
Silence.
«Ill go. Speak to her.»
«Will she hear?»
«She will. A mothers heart… its like that. And life, Johnny… lifes justwhat it is. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then walked alone to the grave, kneeling in the damp earth. The wind stirred the new grass, and far off, a crow called. Back at the cottage, Lucy stirred the pot, Alfie stacked kindling by the door, and Annie reached for the loaf on the shelf, crumbs already dotting her fingers. The stove glowed, and the scent of onions and thyme curled through the room. Outside, the world turned, slow and sure, beneath a pale spring sky.
