There was a clatter from the next room. Tipping over her cooking pot, Agatha rushed in. The boy stood frozen, staring at the shattered vase.
“What have you done?” the old woman shrieked, swatting her grandson with a damp tea towel.
“Gran, Ill clean it up!” He scrambled for the broken pieces.
“Ill clean you up first!” The towel came down again on his back. “Sit on the bed and dont move!”
Once shed swept the shards away, she returned to the kitchen. A puddle covered the floor, strewn with raw potatoessmall mercy they werent cooked. She gathered them, rinsed them, and shoved them into the oven. Sinking into a chair, she wept, cursing her daughter silently:
“Why, why do others have proper families, and I get this? No husband of my own, and now my daughters brought home another fool. Just when I thought it couldnt get worseoff she goes to the train station in London, fetching herself a jailer for a husband. Three years writing letters, calling it love, and shes never laid eyes on him. Now hell be living under my roof. As if feeding her and the boy wasnt burden enough! Well, Ill run this son-in-law off soon enoughhell bolt like a frightened hare.”
“Gran, can I go outside?”
“Go on, then! But wrap up warm. And stay away from the riverthe icell break any day now.”
“Right, Gran!”
A cart rattled into the yard. Agatha peered through the window. Even from here, she could see the mans face was scarred. What was that fool girl thinking? A jailer, and ugly as sin besides.
The door creaked open. In they came.
Fiona had brought her groom.
“Ah, just the man I wanted,” smirked the constable. “Need to verify his release papers. And see what sort of fellow your son-in-law is.”
“Off with you! Theyre just sitting down to eat. And hes no son-in-law of minenever will be!”
Later, Agatha went to fetch the boy. Not that he was hard to findthere he was, racing about with the village lads. Still, she dawdled, chatting with neighbours. Like it or not, though, she had to go home.
She eyed the massive logs in the yard. No axe would split those. Sighing, she trudged to the shed, fetched a hatchet, and began hacking splinters off the smallest log. She raised the blade againonly for a strong hand to catch her wrist.
“Aunt Agatha, let me try.”
“Try, then,” she muttered, glowering at her son-in-law.
He ran a thumb along the blades edge and frowned. “You got a whetstone?”
“Try the workshopmy late husbands things are there.”
Inside, Harolds eyes widened. Tools of every kind lined the walls. The grindstone still workedhe sharpened the hatchet, then seized the splitting maul beside it.
Back outside, he split the logs clean down the middle, then reduced them to firewood with the hatchet. By evening, every log was chopped and stacked in the shed.
Agatha emerged, shaking her headbut the ghost of a smile touched her lips.
“Aunt Agatha,” Harold called, “those beams by the fence”
“Useless. Been there years.”
“Come have a look at minesame trouble. Maybe between the two, we can make one good saw.”
At the neighbours, they found a battered chainsawbroken, but its sprocket and chain were sound.
“Take it!” chuckled old Albert. “If you fix it, you can cut my timber too.”
Later, a wealthy farmer approached.
“Listensplit mine too, and haul it to my barn.” He pressed two fifty-pound notes into Harolds hand.
The job done, Harold laid the money on the kitchen table. “Aunt Agatha, here.”
She stared, then shook her headbut not before a pleased smirk flickered across her face. Coin was rare in village dealings; barter ruled here.
The next day, Harold tinkered with the rototillerploughing time neared. Then a boy came sprinting into the yard, wild-eyed.
“We were sliding on the icebut Edwin got carried off! He cant jump free!”
Agatha and Fiona burst out, all of them racing for the river.
There, on a drifting floe, stood the boy, slowly borne toward midstream. Worse, massive ice slabs bore down from upstreamsomewhere, the jam had broken.
Fiona wailedbut Harold was already in the frigid water, swimming hard. He hauled himself onto the floe just as a crushing slab loomed.
“Listen, Ed,” he panted, gripping the boys shoulder. “Youre a proper lad, arent you? When that big one hits, we jump onto itor were done for. One chance. Ready? Now!”
He hurled the boy onto the advancing ice, then leapt after, gashing his leg on the edge. Blood soaked his trouser leg. Edwin stared at his own scraped palms, trembling.
But the current had them now, sweeping them toward the bend.
From shore, the villagers watched in horror.
“Theyre done for!” someone cried.
“Maybe not,” the constable mused. “River turns sharp aheadand Harolds no fool.” Then he sprinted for his Land Rover.
On the ice, Harold hugged the shivering boy. “First test passed. Next ones comingwell hit that outcrop hard. Move to the far side!”
The impact flung them clear onto the stony bank.
“Alive!” Harold hauled Edwin up.
“My arm hurtsand my leg!”
“Bah!” Harold grinned through gritted teeth. “Youll mend by your wedding day.”
“But youre bleeding!”
“Walk it off. Youre a man, arent you?”
Minutes later, they reached the roadjust as the Land Rover skidded up.
“Still breathing?” Harold nodded.
“Christ, you look rough! Hospitalnow!”
At home, Fiona sobbed on the bed while Agatha paced. When the phone rang, both startled. Fiona snatched it”Constable” flashed on the screen.
“Whats happened?” she shrieked.
“Edwins hereplastered up but grinning. Hold on.”
“Mum?” came the boys voice.
“Darling, are you all right?”
“Course! Im no baby, am I?”
The constable came back on. “See, Fiona? Right as rain.”
Agatha wrestled the phone away. “Jameswhat about Harold?”
“Getting stitched up. Here he is.”
“Aunt Agatha?” Harolds voice was weary but steady.
“Oh, thank God!”
“Bringing your boys home soon,” the constable promised.
Agatha sagged with relief, then snapped at Fiona: “Enough lying about! Those ladsll be starvingtheyve eaten nothing since dawn!”
