Something different
My Grandmother's Shame
Dave Freer
"He said he'd be back for me," she always said it in a matter-of-fact way. This time there was an edge of desperation in that breathy frail voice. She'd borne those years of waiting, working her croft in the wind and the weather. A woman alone in a community where the bride might go bulging to the altar, but she'd be married before the babe was born. She was a strong woman, my grandmother. Must have been beautiful once, with long dark hair that reached her waist. Not that I'd ever seen it except braided and pinned. Even now, on her deathbed.
"But he walked out into the storm, just before the dawn. I begged him not to go. Wild it was out there." She pointed out at the cottage windows, her blue eyes seeing something from seventy years back, in the blackness of the winter storm that battened at the windows. Well, it was wild tonight too. And the Doctor had said she'd not see the morning. He'd wanted her in hospital, but there was no moving my grandmother when she'd made up her mind.
"Hush, Gramma. Rest now. I know. You've told me before."
She shook her head. "Not the whole of it. Not the loving, Mairi." She sat back against the pillows. Breathed slowly. A small tear trickled out across the wrinkled cheek. I'd never seen her cry, no, not even when they'd come to tell her my Da... was gone. And then I could see her pull herself together, sit forward with that iron will that had let her bear and raise her shame, a woman alone. "Unpin my hair, Mairi," she said.
So I did. It was as fine as gossamer now, and white with the years. Somehow it seemed to give her strength "He was tall, and fair. And the hands on him, Mairi. Smooth they were. And soft as a baby girl's. As if he'd never done a day's work in his life, but he was as strong as a lion. Aye, I loved him from the moment I saw him, when he came upon me washing my hair by stream. We didn't have the running water in those days. Six days of loving was all I had, Mairi. He said he could not stay for the Sabbath, but that he would come back for me. That he'd make me his bride."
The sky was paling out there, and the rain had let up. It would seem Gramma was going to prove the Doctor wrong. The wind still rattled the windows. She wouldn't have shutters. There was always a candle burning there, on the inner sill of the window by the door. She never said why, but I knew. It was guttering now, burning bright briefly in its last pool of wax. By now the mulberry-stained dawn showed a sky full of racing dark cloud.
Then the door opened. He was tall and fair. And young and strong.
"Osheen!" she breathed "I waited."
"And I have come back," he said.
And he bore her away in his arms, and her long silver hair blew wild in the rage of the morning tempest. He bore her away to the hollow hills, where seventy years is but a day.
Dave Freer
"He said he'd be back for me," she always said it in a matter-of-fact way. This time there was an edge of desperation in that breathy frail voice. She'd borne those years of waiting, working her croft in the wind and the weather. A woman alone in a community where the bride might go bulging to the altar, but she'd be married before the babe was born. She was a strong woman, my grandmother. Must have been beautiful once, with long dark hair that reached her waist. Not that I'd ever seen it except braided and pinned. Even now, on her deathbed.
"But he walked out into the storm, just before the dawn. I begged him not to go. Wild it was out there." She pointed out at the cottage windows, her blue eyes seeing something from seventy years back, in the blackness of the winter storm that battened at the windows. Well, it was wild tonight too. And the Doctor had said she'd not see the morning. He'd wanted her in hospital, but there was no moving my grandmother when she'd made up her mind.
"Hush, Gramma. Rest now. I know. You've told me before."
She shook her head. "Not the whole of it. Not the loving, Mairi." She sat back against the pillows. Breathed slowly. A small tear trickled out across the wrinkled cheek. I'd never seen her cry, no, not even when they'd come to tell her my Da... was gone. And then I could see her pull herself together, sit forward with that iron will that had let her bear and raise her shame, a woman alone. "Unpin my hair, Mairi," she said.
So I did. It was as fine as gossamer now, and white with the years. Somehow it seemed to give her strength "He was tall, and fair. And the hands on him, Mairi. Smooth they were. And soft as a baby girl's. As if he'd never done a day's work in his life, but he was as strong as a lion. Aye, I loved him from the moment I saw him, when he came upon me washing my hair by stream. We didn't have the running water in those days. Six days of loving was all I had, Mairi. He said he could not stay for the Sabbath, but that he would come back for me. That he'd make me his bride."
The sky was paling out there, and the rain had let up. It would seem Gramma was going to prove the Doctor wrong. The wind still rattled the windows. She wouldn't have shutters. There was always a candle burning there, on the inner sill of the window by the door. She never said why, but I knew. It was guttering now, burning bright briefly in its last pool of wax. By now the mulberry-stained dawn showed a sky full of racing dark cloud.
Then the door opened. He was tall and fair. And young and strong.
"Osheen!" she breathed "I waited."
"And I have come back," he said.
And he bore her away in his arms, and her long silver hair blew wild in the rage of the morning tempest. He bore her away to the hollow hills, where seventy years is but a day.