Along the Years. A short story.

Have you ever thought what true love is, real true love and not an infatuation or idolisation? How long does true love last, would it transcend time itself?

Along the Years.

 

By

 

T. J, Edison.

 

North England. March 13th 1944.

 As George Fish approached the village on his way to work he saw her sitting on the wall opposite the bus stop at the crossroads. She turned as he neared her, and her mouth fell open, and she called his name, “George, is that you?”

The voice, though old and quavering, had a familiar ring to it. He thought to answer, but before he could do so, the woman faded from view.

He gasped and stepped back. He gazed about him. The butcher’s boy, Tommy Clinton, cycled past with his wares. “Mornin’, George,” he called out, his blue striped apron flapping in the wind.

He raised his hand to the lad. “Mornin', Tommy, did yer…?” But he cycled on and sped round the corner before he could finish, and George had a strange feeling that this scene had happened before; in his recent dreams...if only he could remember what it was.

He carried on walking to his place of work in the village, having completed the task given to him earlier that Monday morning.

He rounded the corner and walked into the Smithy. Harry Cornfield turned from hammering a horse shoe. “Mornin’, George, ‘ow’ were it?”

He looked at the man, broad shoulders, big, beefy arms, like all blacksmiths. “Mornin’, ‘Arry, fitted just as yer said it would,” he answered, and lifted down his leather apron from the hook. He added, “An’ Farmer Dobson’l  be alon’ wit’ mare this arternoon'.”

“Aye,” said Harry, as he inspected his handiwork and doused the horseshoe in the trough. “Now we can start on Squire Pendleton’s gate.”

He looked at his boss and said, “’Arry, be there ghosts in’t village?”

“Why d’yer ask?”

“I were walkin’ back from Collin’s Bakery, an’ I saw an old lady sittin’ on’t wall opposite bus stop, she called out me name, askin’ if it were me, then she disappeared - she vanished in’t thin air.”

Harry said, “Aah, that be the witch Madison, she were drowned in’t millpond for falsely accusin’ the vicar, Parson Chipley, callin’ ‘im a pederast.”

“A what?”

“A pederast. She said she saw ‘im actin’ in ‘a manner against nature and God’ with one’t choir boys, Reginald Pendleton, the squire’s great uncle - who died at an early age. The boy and the vicar both denied doin’ anythin’ o’t sort, and said they caught Madison in’t chapel strokin’ a black cat, with a crow perched on ‘er shoulder while she shouted gibberish before th’altar.” He heaved a sigh and added, “The local magistrate maint’ she be a witch, so the constable ‘ad ‘er ducked in’t pond, an’ she drowned.”

George’s brow knitted, it wasn’t a witch he’d seen, it was an ordinary old woman, of that he was sure. “What ‘appened to Reginald Pendleton an’t vicar then,” he asked, “Were she lyin’ or what?”

Harry scratched his head and looked about him. He moved closer and lowered his voice, “Well, people were a bit ‘spicious of the vicar; an’ anyway, Madison cursed ‘em sayin’ they would meet t’same fate as she, and then end up burnin’ for their sins.”

“An’ what ‘appened?”

“She were drowned, o’course.”

“No, the vicar an’ Pendleton.”

He lowered his voice once more, “A strange thing did ‘appen; as the vicar were an able swimmer, he used to swim nikked every mornin’; I seen im’ meself, silly old bugger, splashin’ about like a big kid, right in’t middle o’winter too. One day he went fishin’ wi’ young Pendleton, or so it were said, cos’ they found young Pendleton an’t vicar’s clothes neatly folded on’t river bank, but vicar’s row boat were found ten miles downstream, empty the next day.”

“What about vicar and Reggie?”

“They weren’t nowhere to be found.”

“Were they drowned?”

“Well, er, nobody knows what really ‘appened. I reckon they must ‘ave drowned. Maybe Reggie got a bite an’ fell int’ river, an’t vicar jumped in after ‘im. I suppose they were drowned together, as Reggie couldn’t swim a stroke, cos’ he was big an’ fat.”

“It were a tragedy then?”

Harry looked up at the ceiling. “Aye, but some say ‘HE’ was watching what they was doin’ and ‘HE’ didn’t approve.”

George grinned and said, “Or Madison’s ghost pulled them out o’t boat and sank ‘em to a watery grave.”

“Believe what you like, George, it ain’t natural for two men to go fishin’ stark nikked.”

 

Early the following day, a Friday, George walked through the morning mist to work. As he neared the village he saw the woman sitting on the wall once more. He approached her slowly. She turned her head to him and smiled warmly. “Hello George,” she said, as plain as anything. Then her image faded once again before he could reply.

 

That evening he told his family. His mother said, “I don’t know of any ghostly figures, son, an’ I ain’t sure that ol’ Madison was a witch. Everyone believed she were baked in a pie, but those two rum devils got their just desserts, if yer ask me.”

“What ‘appened to em’,” he asked; eager to hear another version.

She grinned before she said, “They both drowned in’t river, one year to’t day ol’ Madison left to meet ‘er maker.”

He hid his disappointment and asked, “Were they really fishin’ without their clothes on, as Harry said their clothes were found on’t river bank?”

His mother’s forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows rose. “Fishin’ my Aunt Fanny, never seen them fishin’! They bin seen runnin’ stark nikked through’t woods arter’ Madison was drowned, accordin’ to little Jenny Waters. She says she saw ‘em playin’ at leapfrog, but weren’t goin’ anywhere. Jenny says the vicar was shovin’ n’ pushin’ young Reggie with his belly instead o’ tryin’ to leap over ‘im, but he wouldn’t move, an’ they was both callin’ out as if they was standin’ in a bed o’ nettles.”

His mother winked at him and his cheeks turned red, he’d heard about what certain men do with each other when they’re alone and naked from his pals in the local inn. “But I did see a ghost, an’ old woman, an’ she vanished before me eyes.”

She crossed herself and said, “Are yer sure yer weren’t daydreamin’ of yer wedding tomorrow?”

“I weren’t daydreamin’ and if I were it wouldn’t be some old woman, it’d be about Peggy.”

“And what would you be dreamin’ about, chasin’ her naked through’t woods an’ playin’ at leapfrog; or swimmin’ int’ river alone, pretendin’ to be frogs?” She raised her right eyebrow and asked, “Or ave’ yer been at it already?”

His brow knotted, and he shook his head. “Come off it, Mum, yer should know better, we love one another, we’re waitin’ til’t wedding night.”

His mother reached out and touched his cheek, “I were jokin’ son,” she said. “Tomorrer’s the big day.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “And the big night too, lots o’ leapfroggin’ til the sun comes up”, he added with a grin.

 

He stood with Peggy at the bus stop. She held is free hand. “I don’t think it’s fair, you goin’ off soldierin’ an all, we’ve only been married a month. Why don’t yer stay ‘ere, you’re a sergeant in’t ‘ome guard now.”

“That’s why they asked me, they need NCO’s, someone to lead men in’t battle.”

“I don’t like ‘ow you say that, you make it sound as if yer ready to die for yer country.”

“Don’t you worry none,” he said, “I’ll be back before you know it. Harry says there’ll be an invasion soon, now that the yanks are over here.”

He pulled her closer to him and held her tight, “Just take care o’ yerself, as I know yer’ll wait for me to come back.”

She glanced briefly to the wall on the other side of the road. “Course I will, silly, an’ yer can take care too. An’ no fear, I’ll be ‘ere waitin’ for yer. I’ll be sittin’ on’t wall yonder.”     

At the sound of the approaching bus, they clung to one another desperately, kissing gently. She released her hold on him, she willed herself not to cry. “I love yer, George Fish, an’ watch out for those cheeky French mamselles.”

She watched as the bus drove away then she walked across the road, and sat on the wall. She sat there for a while after which she rose up, and headed for the village.

 

North England, July, 2000AD.

George Fish’s army boots crunched with purpose as he took the road to the village. He’d just been home to the cottage where he’d been born and found it gone, vanished, the ground on which it had stood was now a potato field, so he decided to head for the village and set off; he could look for his mum and dad later.

The trees along the roadside were taller than he remembered and the hedgerow had grown to an astonishing height. Even the road surface had changed; it was black pitch and stone and decorated with white stripes.

He wondered if Harry would give him his old job back, he’d said it would be waiting for him, though at the time he’d sensed a trace of doubt in his voice. He cast his mind back to the day he left, the tearful goodbyes, his father’s stern advice about never to volunteer for anything, and to keep his feet dry. He thought of Peggy at the bus stop, and hoped that she was safe and well.

As he came over the rise in the road he saw a figure sitting on a low wall in the distance and he remembered Peggy’s last words to him. ‘I’ll be ‘ere waitin’ for yer. I’ll be sittin’ on’t wall yonder’.

His feet picked up speed, and he began to trot towards the figure, his pace increased to a run and he said aloud as he came nearer, “Yes, there she be, my Peggy…” His voice trailed off, he couldn’t believe his eyes, it wasn’t Peggy, it was that old woman again, the witch, Harry ad’ said. He slowed down to a walk staring at the figure. “Where’s Peggy,” he mumbled to himself. “She said she’d be here waitin’ for me?

As he approached the old woman she turned to him. “George,” she said, in a familiar voice, “At last yer ‘ome, after all these years.”

As he gazed upon her wrinkled face, the worry lines and the creases left by smiles gradually disappeared. The silver hair changed to auburn and Peggy’s face appeared. He stood there, wide-eyed and managed to say, “Peggy, you waited.”

She rose up, her arms outstretched and they embraced. “I said I would, silly.”

He breathed in her fragrance, her warm body formed gently against his, and he kissed her lips. Oh, how he had missed her. As the bus had driven off with him he’d vowed he would return, come what may. “I love yer, Peggy Fish,” he whispered.

She sighed and said, “I knew you’d come back some day. That’s why I waited, all these years.”

His brow creased lightly. “All these…I’ve only been away six months. I was in France, killin’ soddin’ Nazis, D-day, the invasion.”

She pulled him to her, fiercely, surprising him. She said eventually, “You were missing in action. They found yer grave a week ago in a French cemetery. The funeral were day before yesterday, and then I knew we would soon be together again, as my time came t’next day.”

His head spun, what did she mean? “Missin’! The funeral! Your time…” he asked hesitantly.

She smiled. “It don’t matter, we’re together now. We have a daughter and son-in-law, three grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. You left me wit’ child the day you went away. I’ll tell you all about it.” She indicated the old stone wall. “Come, sit by me.”

 

A young man and woman walked by the old bus stop one sunny morning on the way to the town with their two children. The woman stopped and gazed at the wall, the others halted and turned to her. One of the children, a girl of nine, pointed across the road and said, “That’s the wall where great grandmother used to sit, isn’t it Mum.”

The woman nodded and said, “Yes, she was waiting for her husband, great-grandfather, to return home. He was a war hero; he died fighting for his country.”

As the family moved away, a young man in army uniform, with sergeant’s stripes on his battledress sleeve, appeared, sitting on the wall next to a young woman, in close embrace. They watched, smiling as the couple, and their children walked on, and then they rose up and strolled off, arm-in-arm in the opposite direction, and slowly faded into the distance.

 

End.

 

 

 

Author's Note

What do you think of the dialogue?
This is from the published anthology - "An Anthology in Memory of Ray Bradbury."

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[T. J. Edison.]

Tomorrow, Monday the 1st, is the last day if I get no comments.

[T. J. Edison.]

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[T. J. Edison.]

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