MARTHA

When you live in a village you have only a few options as to how you live your life. You can be gregarious and throw yourself into being part of it, helping out when someone’s in trouble, strimming the graveyards, carol singing, bell ringing, church choir, collecting for all the charities that spring up more than the bindweed, or you can stroll about, nodding or chatting to people, or, just stay out of it all and keep yourself to yourself. Any of the above is accepted and acceptable. What you can’t do is rake up the dung and upset people, why? because feuds fester when you have time on your hands.

Anyway I like to chuck my free time into doing time; basically because you hear the snippets of gossip and occasionally get a bloody good story out of it. Martha’s story is a prime example.

I’d always known Martha; she lived in a woolaway bungalow right next to Frogmarch Wood. When I say I knew her, I don’t mean I knew her life story or any gossip there is to know. What I mean is she’d always been there; always a little old lady strolling about, shopping, picking flowers or walking her Jack Russell. In fact Martha was a keep myself to myself villager, a nod, maybe a “good morning,” but never anymore, just a familiar face.

Work had been slow for sometime so I was happy when old Bert Hubert asked if I’d like to do a bit of ditching for him. The hundred yards he wanted cleaned just happened to be on the boundary to Martha’s property.

“I’d of thought you would use a machine to do that?” The voice high pitched with a Wiltshire drawl shook me out of the day dreaming as I flung the, who knows how many years of rotting leaves and assorted rubbish that had filled the deep ditch. I turned around and there stood Martha, tray in hand, a mug and several biscuits arrayed on it. “I wish that could be the case, but no, only me and this fork and shovel.”

“I thought you might be pleased with some refreshment.” She put the tray down on top of a rotting tree stump, then added, “Bert Hubert told me you’d be working here. I think he thought of me garden?”

I sat down next to the tray, lifted up the blue and white striped mug and gratefully drank the hot liquid.

“I know you don’t I? Aren’t you Pearl’s youngest child?”

“I am, but all I know about you is that your name is Martha.”

“Yes. I must admit I tends to keep me self to me self.”

“Not a bad way to live, not in a village, anyway,” I replied and Martha smiled back. I finished off the tea and biscuits and without wanting for conversation or even thanks; she picked up the tray and went back to her house.

I didn’t see her again that day, not the next but on the third and last day Martha once again brought out a tray with refreshment on it. I told her I was nearly finished ditching and in all innocence I said, “did you know there is a half finished, but now, run down well, right on the perimeter of your garden?” I never in my life have seen an expression of total horror appear so quickly on someone’s face; it was almost as if I’d sworn at her then stole her purse. Without picking up the tray she about turned and marched back to her home. I watched in total confusion and somewhat embarrassed as she departed. Total confusion reigned in my brain, I never finished the tea or biscuits just went back to work.

It didn’t take me too long to finish and I walked back to the pick up threw my tools in the back, got in the drivers seat and started her up and drove down the bumpy, rutted narrow lane to get out onto the equally bumpy, rutted main road. Then I saw the tray sitting on the tree stump. I stopped and turned off the engine. I stared intently at that bete noire, almost hating the inanimate object. I knew I would have to take it back to Martha, had to find out what I’d said or done,

With brain churning and trepidation pouring through my body I thumped my left fist against the cheap pine panelled door. A dog erupted into frenzied barking, a voice barked out equally loud or it to shut up. The door opened and a more composed face looked at me.

“I’ve brought your tray back.” I paused then added, “I’ve finished now.”

She looked at me, looked at the mug. “Didn’t finish the tea though,” she replied. I just shook my head, now not knowing what to say. “Come in.” It was an order and I duly obliged.

I followed her through a dark scullery, laden with 1950’s appliances. A dog popped his head up from the deep confines of a wicker laundry basket, he growled deeply; a glance from Martha caused him to back down.

“Watch the step,” she said before moving on. I instinctively stopped and looked down, we came into a surprisingly large kitchen. She pulled a chair out from under the Formica topped table and bid me to sit. I was quite shocked to see a half full gin bottle standing next to a full glass of gin with a wedge of lemon impaled on its rim.

Her face had now softened; the aging look of horror almost terrified visage had evaporated. “Would you like a drink?” she glanced at the bottle on the table.

“No, not gin thanks, can’t stand it. Besides I’m driving.” I could see the disappointment on her face.

“I’ve got whisky, a good one,” she added.

She then smiled as I said, “oh go on then I could do with one.” As she poured it I said, “I’m sorry I upset you, I didn’t mean to; basically I don’t know what I said.” Her head shook as I spoke and a good dollop of the golden liquid fell into domes on the Formica surface.

“Here drink your drink and I’ll explain. Only, “she said, “because I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” Martha sat and took a long draft of her gin smacking her lips as she finished.

I sipped mine; delicately savouring its smokey flavour. To break the silence that threatened to engulf us, I said, “I’m surprised you drink; thought you would be teetotal.”

She never answered that but interjected with, “not as surprisingly as I had a son and a good man, but was never married.” She poured more gin into the glass. The room seemed to heat up with the tension. The silence only disturbed by the gentle yapping of the dog as he dreamt in his basket. “In my early teens I washed all the manor houses clothes and linen. A horrid job but I had a roof over my head, food in my belly and a half crown a week, so I settled into it, accepted my lot.” The dog whined loudly and Martha shouted at his to be quiet. “’cause it wasn’t long before I caught my Tom’s eye. He was an under gardener, good at it he was too, green fingers he had. Anyway one thing led to another and I fell pregnant with my George. We didn’t have much money between us so what we had we put into renting this place. Lovely it was then, brand new, cosy, suited us; never crossed our minds to get married. Neither of us where believer’s us there seemed no point. Mind the villagers shunned us for living in sin. What a horrible word that is, sin. Don’t you think?” I nodded my head then took a large sip, finishing the whisky. Martha nodded to the bottle but I declined. “We never bothered with what the villagers thought or said me and Tom kept our heads held high, even higher when George was born. At first we struggled. The rent was always paid and thanks to Tom we ate because of his gardening skills, though there was not many luxuries; only our love.” I flushed red, whether it was in embarrassment or just because I’d never heard old people talking about live, I don’t know. In this dark room I don’t think it matters; I don’t think she noticed. “The only thing that really irritated us was we had no water. Oh we had a well but the water in it was sour.” She took another drink before resuming. While she did I was still aware of the encompassing tension.

“So where did not get your water?” I asked.

“Every morning before going to work and every evening on his way home Tom would collect if from the gamekeepers well about a mile and a half from here, you know in Hound Wood. He had a yoke with two buckets on it. I can still see him now, coming up by the ditch you just cleaned yoke across his shoulders; worn out he was but smiling ‘ause he was coming home. Three years that went on for. Went on till the keepers well ran dry and that went sour.” She stood walked around the table twice then sat down. “My Tom took a week off work and set about renovating our well. Cleaning it out, boring it deeper and relining the sides. Pleased he was at his progress. Told me he’d finish it early and we could have a day at the seaside. A honeymoon he called it.” A tear ran down her cheek as she recalled that day. “Evening drew in, so I lay a blanket on the grass, brought a picnic outside. I called Tom and watched as his face lit up as I opened a bottle of stout for him. He drank in all down, straight from the bottle, no glass for him, he was so thirsty. George toddled about, laughing at his freedom. Everything was perfect the picnic, the weather and to Tom’s surprise an extra bottle of stout.”

Suddenly my stomach clenched; thought I was going to have to run to the toilet. Instinct told me I didn’t want to hear this next bit, wanted her to leave it at this perfect ideal. I could hear my heart thump in my temples. Hear the blood rushing up into my brain.

“Simultaneously we both looked over to the well. I was sick before I could move. George had climbed on top of the new brick work surrounding the open well. Tom wasn’t so transfixed he was up and running. He had hardly got ten places when George fell in. I heard Tom cry out, heard the thudding of his heavy boots on the soft lawn. Then the silence as his feet left the ground as he unhesitatingly flew threw the air and dived into the tight confines of that wells throat.” She looked at me but I don’t think she saw me sitting there mouth open, unashamed tears streaming down my cheeks. “I suppose there was a splash,” she cried, “but I didn’t hear it.” Seconds went by before she added. “It took them police two days to get the bodies out. It took those bloody villagers two hours to gossip about it being God’s justice for us living in sin and having a baby.”

Both of us finished our tears. Both of us determined to finish off our respective bottles, “Why Martha? Why did you stay here?”

Without a pause or hesitation at answering she spoke quietly, “cause when I die here I know that both of them will be waiting for me; both sitting eating their picnic; both waiting to embrace me. That’s why.”