The Woman of Cushingshire

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

She quickly walked away. Hugging something tight in her hands, she braced herself through the cold winter evening. She was not a rare sight to behold. In fact, she had always been walking in those streets. She would don on a brown cape over her head, a shirt, a skirt and a tweed overcoat, be it summer or spring, winter or autumn.

Never has she said a word. Never a hello, and never stopping to even have a glance of the people around her.

Does she have children? Nobody really knows. Is she a widow? Perhaps so. Is she mentally handicapped? She should not be, for there were no reports of anybody being harassed by a mad person, and she had never disturbed anyone in their daily lives. Does she not have friends? Only she can answer that.

For months I have seen this lady walking in the same streets which I walk to my office. I have recently moved into this rather urbanised town of Cushingshire, and it is at Earl Street where I get to see this lady whom nobody cared, nobody looked.

It was one Friday evening when I was about to leave my office that I saw this old lady again, in the same street and at the same direction. Chance alone had given me this opportunity to have a little more insight of this woman’s life. Filled with curiosity, I decided to follow her, at the same time ensuring that I keep a distance of about fifteen feet from her, yet far enough for her to continuously be within my sight.

The winter evening was cold and despite my wearing a blazer and another overcoat on, I could still feel the biting cold at my neck. “She must be feeling even colder than I am,” I thought.

Soon, she had walked out of the busy streets of Cushingshire and into the outskirts of the town, where it is far more quiet and tranquil. Just outside the busy town of Cushingshire is a big park, and connecting to it is a cemetery. What on earth could she be doing here?

In the park, she suddenly slowed down, and sighting a bench nearby, she walked to it and sat down. She wrapped herself even more tightly and began blowing her bare hands. This time, she was not carrying anything with her. So, why is she out here all alone in this dreadful winter weather? Just to have a walk in the park?

All this while I have been hiding behind a tall tree to avoid being seen. After a few minutes, which felt like eternity, she stood up and started walking towards the cemetery again. I followed her, remembering to keep a respectful distance from her.

At the entrance of the cemetery, she glanced behind for a while. Before she could do that, I managed to feign as if I was in the park for a walk and walked towards a bench and sat down. She suspected nothing and went into the cemetery. From where I sat I could see clearly what she was doing so I did not need to follow her anymore. My eyes followed where she walked and I noticed she soon stopped in front of one of the graves. She then knelt down.

Whether she was praying or otherwise, I could not tell. She remained in that position for about ten minutes, and after that she stood up. She appeared to be crying because she kept wiping her eyes. Someone she loved most must have died and was buried there. She left the cemetery and headed towards the river nearby, where I know that quite a lot of squatters were built there. When she was out of sight, I quickly ran to the grave where she stopped and found that it was unmarked. Whose grave was it then?

Although it was getting dark quickly, I walked towards the river where I expect the old lady would live. Ten minutes later I reached the river area and found the old lady just outside her dilapidated house. It was an extremely simple wooden structure, shaped as if it is a shed. Although there were quite a number of squatters near the river, most of them were built upstream. However, this old lady chose to live downstream.

For the next few days, I saw the old lady walking the same route in the morning and also in the evening. At this moment, every time my eyes met hers, I would smile at her. Initially, she felt taken aback, as if she was not used to that kind of treatment. But after a few days, her return of my smile whenever we met allowed me to start and end my ever stressful days so happily. However, although we smiled and acknowledged one another’s presence, not a word was exchanged between us.

This went on for two months when she suddenly stopped showing up for two days in the streets. Wondering what could have happened to her, I decided to go to the river area to check on her after work. I found her small shed-looking house and it was unlocked. I knocked at the door for a few times but there was no answer. Fearing the worst, I went in and was welcomed by the smell of pine. There was no fireplace inside and it was equally as cold inside as it was outside. I glanced in and saw this broken bed at one corner of the house and that someone was lying in it, covered with a blanket. My heart sank.

I moved closer to the bed and found that it was the old lady. Her eyes were closed and the first thing I did was to check her pulse. It was intermittent. Her forehead was hot so I guessed she must be having a bad fever. I could feel that her life was ebbing away and had it not for the fact that I decided to check on her, she could have been well dead within the next day or so without anyone knowing. She was unconscious.

I wanted to call the ambulance, but this area is inaccessible except by walking and it would render my call efforts useless. Taking a big risk, I decided to carry her to the hospital which is ten to fifteen minutes away by foot. Wrapping her in my own overcoat and followed by her thick quilt, I carried her all the way to the hospital for treatment. Judge the surprise of the hospital staff yourself when they saw me carrying an old, dirty-looking woman into the hospital. I quickly demanded that she be given treatment. In the midst of everything, I forgot to look for her identification documents before carrying her to the hospital. I explained to the hospital staff that she lived alone by the river and that we actually never spoke to each other. However, as saving lives were more of a priority than figuring out who this old woman was, she was immediately warded. I then left my own details and contact number so that they can telephone me to update me if necessary.

The next day being a Saturday, I decided to go to the old woman’s house again to try and know more about her. It seemed to me that this woman was a very devout Christian, as she had many biblical scriptures written out in pieces of paper and hung on the walls of her house. At the middle of the house sat a table with a few papers on it, an inkwell and a pen. It seemed to me that she was literate, and I saw one letter that was meant for a man called Christopher.

Christopher,

It is already fifteen years since you left me. My life has not changed. My life is still happy as ever, for I know that although you are not here with me, your spirit lingers near.

The pain and suffering that I go through now is nothing. I thank God that I have the strength to surpass all these obstacles and that every day starts off wonderfully by His shear grace and blessing. Indeed, Christopher, I have been blessed all these while. He even blessed me with my twenty years with you.

Looking back in those days, I have not regretted choosing this path of living. I have found the true meaning of life and I do not feel at all lonely and sad. Christopher, much as I would like to have you back here with me right now, I know that is impossible and that I must learn to live with it. This is indeed a trial of faith and I will triumph over it.

Just recently, Christopher, there is this young man who had once followed me from Earl Street to the cemetery. He thought that I had not noticed him but all this while I knew that he had been keeping a lookout for me. Nowadays, every time I see him, he would smile at me and I would smile back. He has such a gentle and kind smile, just like you, Christopher. Seeing him brings back memories of you. That is joy enough for me.

Christopher, my days here are getting shorter. It will not be long before I join you in paradise. Remember me always as how I have always remembered you. Though we have parted ways fifteen years ago, we shall unite again someday soon.

With love,
Marie Culpier

So, her name is Marie Culpier. And she was a widow. Her love for Christopher had been so strong and unbroken that it touched me. So, that grave was Christopher’s grave. Things were clearer this time. And throughout these twenty years of marriage, Christopher and Marie never had children? Perhaps they never did.

Her faith and endurance were so strong that they were indeed admirable. It is indeed true that according to Aesop, those who scream the loudest are not always in the greatest pain. Here is one voice of pain which had been silent for fifteen years, uncomplaining, unattended. Yet, she was contented and happy with what she had.

On my way back home, my mobile phone rang and it shook off my deep reverie. I answered the call promptly.

“Hello? Yes, this is he speaking… Ah, yes, Dr. Knoff! How are things going on? … I beg your pardon? … Really? … It is all right, doctor. Yes, I am all right. I will come tomorrow to settle off the expenses. Thank you, doctor.”

I hung up. And looking at the letter that Marie wrote to Christopher which I held in my left hand, I smiled a bit while stream of tears started flowing down my cheeks.