A Lonely Soul in a Woodland Dale
In the sleepy hamlet of Birchwood, nestled deep within the forests of Cumberland, where barely fifty dwellings stood, lived Martha Whitcombe. She was a sturdy woman in her fifties, broad-shouldered and strong, her hands rough and calloused from years of labour, more like a man’s than a woman’s. Her wind-worn face held no pretence of beauty, and her eyes carried the quiet ache of solitude. Fifteen years had passed since her parents departed, one after the other, leaving her alone in the old family house, full of echoes and emptiness. With no kin left, she worked the land as best she could—the yard was crowded with livestock, the barns stocked with provisions. Each week, Martha drove into the market town to sell meat, lard, and fresh milk. At first, she used her father’s battered old Land Rover, but later she bought a shiny new one, as gleaming as the dreams she’d long since buried. The neighbours whispered, “What does she need all that for? She’s alone, no husband, no children!” But deep down, Martha still hoped a man might someday see not just a hard worker in her, but a woman. Yet none ever did—her rough hands, heavy gait, and the bitter truth that she could never bear a child made sure of that.
Managing the farm alone was a struggle. Sometimes the village men helped—ploughing the field, cutting hay—but always for pay, never out of kindness. Chopping firewood, slaughtering livestock, mending the roof—all of it fell to Martha. And so her life trudged on, grey as an autumn drizzle, until the day a stranger wandered into Birchwood. A drifter, the likes of which the village had never seen. At first, he prowled about like a trapped animal, wary and lost, but hunger drove him to knock on doors, offering work in exchange for food. Most shooed him away, though pitying old women sometimes slipped him a crust of bread.
One frosty dawn, Martha was loading the Land Rover with meat and milk for market when the engine refused to start. Cursing, she kicked the wheel—she knew her way around most things, but machinery baffled her. Just then, the drifter appeared, watching her silently before speaking in a quiet, hesitant voice.
“Let me try.”
“What can you do?” she snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.
“Get it running.”
“Go on, then,” she grunted, stepping back.
Twenty minutes later, the engine roared to life. Martha, stunned, pressed two crisp twenty-pound notes into his hand. “Take it,” she muttered, scrambling into the vehicle—the goods would spoil if she lingered.
“Need anything else?” the drifter called after her.
“Come back for supper!” she shouted over her shoulder as she sped off.
When she returned that evening, exhausted but pleased—most of her stock had sold—she found the drifter waiting at the gate.
“Missus, I’ve come. You said there’d be work.”
“Just let me park,” she replied.
After tethering the dog and putting the Land Rover away, she nodded at the pile of logs by the shed.
“Know how to split wood?”
“I do,” he said, eyeing the towering stack.
Martha fetched the axe. He hefted it, frowning.
“Blunt as a butter knife.”
She flushed. “I’ve a whetstone, but it broke when my father died.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“In the shed.”
Inside, he dusted off the old grindstone, tinkered with it, and—to Martha’s astonishment—got it working. He sharpened the axe, shrugged off his threadbare coat, and set to work, swinging with swift, practised strokes. Martha watched, arms folded, before shaking her head and retreating indoors.
An hour later, she returned.
“What’s your name?”
“Fred.”
“I’m Martha. Come in, Fred, supper’s ready.”
“I shouldn’t,” he hedged.
“Don’t be daft,” she snapped.
At the table, laden with steaming potatoes, home-cured bacon, salted mushrooms, and thick slices of black pudding, Fred ate hungrily but neatly. Martha piled more onto his plate.
“Eat your fill.”
He worked until dusk but barely made a dent in the woodpile. Martha stepped out, hands on her hips.
“Fred, you’ll not finish tonight. Go heat the bathhouse, clean up. You can finish tomorrow.”
“As you say,” he nodded, heading off.
While Fred stoked the fire, Martha bathed first, then led him to an old wardrobe.
“Take your pick. My father’s clothes—never worn, too good to throw out.”
Fred chose a shirt and trousers, thanked her, and washed up. Over supper, Martha propped her chin in one hand.
“Tell me about yourself, Fred.”
He sighed.
“Forty-seven. Was married once—went sour. A son from that. Started drinking after. Lived with my aunt, took odd jobs—loader, nightwatchman. They praised me when sober. Then she died, and I lost myself. Sold the flat for drink, slept in cellars. Tried to straighten out, met a woman. Had a daughter. Didn’t know she was a drunk too, though she swore she’d stopped. We fell back into it together. Got in a fight once, did two years inside. Came back—she’d moved on. Wouldn’t let me see the girl. Walked away—didn’t want to go back to prison. Couldn’t stay in the city, knew I’d relapse. So I just walked. Ended up here.”
“Hard life,” Martha murmured. “What now?”
“Dunno.”
“Stay, Martha—the house is big, you’re handy. We’ll find work.”
His eyes lit up. “Nowhere else to go. Thank you.”
She made up a bed in the spare room. For the first time in years, Fred slept soundly, clean sheets beneath him. But Martha lay awake, heart racing—something told her this man would alter the course of her life.
By morning, Fred woke to the smell of pancakes. Peering into the washroom, he frowned.
“Your pipes aren’t right.”
“You know about plumbing too?” she gaped.
“Did it a while,” he grinned. “Finish the wood, tidy the shed, then I’ll see to the pipes.”
“Proper man, aren’t you?” she laughed.
Martha left for market. By noon, Fred had split the remaining logs, swept the yard, and mucked out the barn. When she returned, she gasped at the order he’d brought. After lunch, she weeded while he reorganised the shed. Joy swelled in Martha’s chest—a man was in her house again. That evening, he asked,
“Shall I heat the bath?”
“Do.”
While Fred lit the fire, Martha cooked. He bathed first, then her. Fresh and rosy, she laid the table and called,
“Fred—supper!”
He stood, stepped close—suddenly, they were near enough to touch. His hands found her waist, lips seeking hers. Martha gasped, eyes fluttering shut, heart stuttering…
The whole village watched Martha bloom. Love softened her—her eyes sparkled, her smile never faded. Fred, too, was changed—from a vagrant to a steady-handed farmer. Together, they opened a stall in town, business thriving. By autumn, Fred earned his licence, and Martha no longer drove. She’d never been happier, praying it would last forever. But fate had other plans.
One day, Fred returned from town grim-faced, his eyes hollow.
“What’s wrong?” Martha asked.
“Ran into an old neighbour. Said my second wife’s dead. The man she took up with ran off—no one to bury her. Martha, lend me the money, let me do it proper.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred.”
She fetched the notes.
“You’re doing right, Fred. She was a person—deserves dignity.”
He took the money and left. Three days passed with no word. Dread coiled in Martha’s chest. Then the Land Rover rolled up. She rushed out—Fred stepped down, and clinging to his leg, a thin child of four stared up at her, frightened.
“Martha, this is my daughter, Elisabeth. She’s got no one left but me.”
Martha froze, eyes locked on the girl. She’d never have children—but was this heaven’s gift?
“Come in,” she whispered.
Inside, she ladled soup. Elisabeth ate hungrily but neatly—clearly starved. Martha set out milk, bread, a bowl of raspberries. Fred parked, brought in the girl’s meagre bundle—one bag. Outside, Martha still gazed at the child, unable to look away.
Elisabeth finished, stood, suddenly clutched Martha’s hand with tiny fingers. Peering up, she whispered,
“Thank you.”
Martha dropped to her knees, embracing her, tears choking her voice.
“I’ll never let you go!”
Fred entered, froze at the sight. KneelingAnd as the years unfolded, the three of them—Martha, Fred, and little Elisabeth—found in each other the family they had always longed for, their hearts finally at home.