Those Bitter Winters by Jennie Hart

Olive once had pretty hands, but not anymore.

‘Our bodies were an adornment we took for granted’, she mused.

‘‘‘Youth is wasted on the young; your smooth skin, your firm body, they won’t last you 

know”; that’s what my mother used to say’, she said to her friend Margaret and they laughed.

‘Did your mother know she was quoting George Bernard Shaw?’ asked Margaret.

‘I doubt it’ said Olive.

Olive’s hands were puffy and painful; her fingers were swollen and the gold band on her ring finger, sat in a tight groove, overwhelmed by the surrounding pulpy flesh. 

She once read that this digit on the left hand was linked to the heart by an artery and she had liked that romantic notion. Her mother had believed that wearing gold gave protection from all manner of harm, but a tragedy in Olive’s life gave her doubts. 

She had read that gold prevented black energy entering the body and that the belief came from Ancient China, India and Persia. Gold opened up the crown chakra warding off evil powers. She knew what a chakra was, Hercule Poirot had mentioned them as energy centres to be kept open and balanced. Olive hadn’t known about the crown chakra but a little more reading had showed it to be the seventh chakra located at the top of the head; it helped humans reach a higher state of consciousness, but she wasn’t sure how.

She told Margaret who said it was all a bit too mystical for her. 

‘I’m sure my mother didn’t go in for all that’ thought Olive.

She supposed that meeting Jack all those years back had been her great good fortune and could be attributed to her gold wedding ring. Jack had always been good company and would always remind her to count her blessings. Olive thought of a funny story Jack related. He was having a beer with his best mate Arthur and had taken off his jacket. He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and to his surprise found a five-pound note. More curious he felt in another pocket and was astonished to find a ten-pound note. Jack could usually account for every penny so he mentioned it to Arthur.

‘Ok mate,’ said Arthur, ‘You’re not having those; that’s my jacket you’re poking around in, leave it alone!’ 

Olive still smiled when she thought of the tale. ‘Dear Jack’, she sighed. 

Jack had knelt on bended knee to propose. She knew he’d only been fooling around but he’d been a romantic fool, always turning an occasion into something special.

He had worked at a wholesale grocery. He and Arthur would receive lorries bringing goods from local factories, stack them on to trollies and store the items in the warehouse. Next, they would prepare orders to go out to the shops around town. A variation for Jack was writing up the inventory of goods-incoming and goods-outgoing. He had been extremely proud of his neat and well-kept records.

Olive found it hard to distinguish memories from daily events. This morning she saw melting snowflakes sticking like smudges to the kitchen window before sliding down the glass on to the blue wooden frame. She awoke from her reverie to see only clear glass and bright sunbeams dancing on the toaster. No snowflakes to be seen!

She thought of the bitter winters when she and Jack were first married. One year, the whole landscape had resembled the Arctic. They had walked in crisp snow through woodland on the outskirts of town, following the frozen footprints of earlier ramblers. She remembered sparkling crystals forming on her cheeks and eyelashes. She had eyelashes in those days. 

This morning, a news bulletin told of temperatures falling to minus forty-five in the US. Residents were told to stay in as exposed skin would become frost bitten in less than ten minutes. 

‘Perishing weather’, Olive muttered and fastened the top button of her cardigan.

She reminisced again. As soon as Jack had a regular wage he had bought an old green Morris Minor from his Uncle Ted who had thought the world of Jack and agreed to him paying in instalments. That early generosity allowed Jack and Olive to own a car for the rest of their lives.

Olive remembered that day in the coldest year ever when they had set off in the Morris to see the giant snowdrifts that had cut off the village of Cowlam. Jack had decided they could take a ride out because the council snow ploughs, always prepared for East Yorkshire winters, had cleared the main roads and vehicles were moving again. He had driven warily up the heavily gritted main road, then taken the barely passable lane to Cowlam. 

’I’d never been out to the villages after a blizzard’, she had said to Margaret who lived near Cowlam. Margaret had told her later how the snow had drifted right up to her letterbox.’

Olive almost felt the biting wind that had caused the snow that day to pile in precipitous shapes. 

‘It was just like icing on a Christmas cake; nature imitating art,’ she had thought. 

The snow had blown and drifted against the trunk of an enormous tree with icicles hanging like stalactites from its frosted leafless branches. She had seen a stoat skim along with delicate tripping feet and disappear down a hole in the white blanketed verge. They never did reach Cowlam, or the beauty spot Cowlam Bottom, so picturesque on a summer’s day. 

She remembered Jack coming to a halt on the compacted ungritted surface and getting out the big shovel he’d had the common sense to put in the boot. He dug away the ice causing his wheels to skid, then crossed the lane to help a farmer clear the entrance to his yard. Afterwards the farmer had shaken Jack’s hand. She had no idea how they got back home that day. 

Olive heaved herself up slowly from her padded seat and went over to fill the kettle. A morning coffee was a good idea and maybe a slice of Christmas cake; Margaret said how good it was. It was rare for Olive to be sitting without a book or a notepad before her; she liked to read but also to scribble down her thoughts. She knew she wasn’t much of a writer but after Jack’s death, she sent a story to a magazine and it had won a prize. It was a true story and painful to think of, but she thought of it now, because it was January and January was the month the tragedy had happened. Today was the anniversary of the day.

She opened a kitchen drawer and took out the magazine that had printed her story and began to read. 

 A Bitter Winter Memory

‘Our first baby was due any day. Jack had gone to work, reluctant to leave me.  I had packed a little suitcase and knew I must call him if I went into labour. It was bitterly cold and around midday I was ironing Jack’s shirt and my contractions began. I left the iron on the garment and burnt an iron-shaped outline on the front. They became more frequent and it was time to call Jack. After all, it was his baby too.

I put on my brown winter coat and red woolen scarf. After ten minutes my contractions were increasing and there was no sign of Jack. I decided to knock on the party wall and alert our helpful neighbour. Mr Johnson insisted on taking me to the hospital straight away. It was sleeting and he took my case and gave me his arm as I stepped out onto the settling snow. The wind blew the soft flakes against my face and I was filled with apprehension. 

Snow beat against the windscreen and the wipers of the Austin moved madly. At a sharp bend the collision happened. I remember nothing but learned later how Jack had sped round the sharp bend at the same time as Mr Johnson. Each driver, in urgency, had veered to the wrong side of the road. There was an inquest but it was found to be an accident caused by the severe weather.

I awoke in the hospital with a kind and caring nurse by my side. She was holding my hand. I felt my limp stomach beneath the sheets and knew our child was lost. Jack and Mr Johnson both had broken bones but Jack’s heart was broken too. He never got over the guilt.

Because of the accident, we couldn’t have another child. The baby had been a boy and we called him Samuel. We bore the pain together. Jack remained my best friend.

By Olive Barker.

Olive looked at the clock. She put on her coat and picked up two posies of snowdrops tied with string and standing in a jug by the sink. 

‘Jack planted these in our garden,’ she remembered, ‘He always said you must plant snowdrops ‘in the green’ or they grow ‘blind’ and never flower.’

She closed her eyes and steadied herself. In a few minutes a cab arrived and the driver helped her into the passenger seat. The cemetery was on the hillside not far from her home. Samuel’s tiny grave was next to the little chapel. She arranged a bunch of the pure white blooms in a small stone vase fixed to the precious mound; she noticed their delicate pale green fringe. 

Olive moved to Jack’s grave alongside Samuel’s and carefully arranged the rest. She wiped away a few tears and turned to the cab driver standing nearby and said;

‘I read a little bit of philosophy yesterday; it said: “We are all no more and no less than a single thread in a gigantic web. What we do now and how we behave, has repercussions for this entire web of life.”’

The cab driver nodded and helped her onto the path.