Solitary Soul in the Land of Birch

A Lonely Soul in a Land of Oaks

In the tiny hamlet of Oakley, lost amidst the woods of Gloucestershire where barely fifty cottages stood, lived Martha Wilson. A sturdy woman in her fifties, heavy-set, with rough, work-worn hands that could’ve belonged to a man. Her face, weathered by wind and worry, held no beauty, and in her eyes lingered the ache of solitude. Fifteen years ago, her parents had passed, one after the other, leaving her in a large house full of memories and emptiness. She had no kin left, and so she kept the farm running as best she could—the yard overflowed with livestock, the sheds with supplies. Every week, Martha drove to the market town to sell meat, lard, and milk, first in her father’s rickety Land Rover, then in a shiny new one, as bright as her unfulfilled dreams. 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 see her not just as a housekeeper, but as a woman. Yet no one ever looked—those coarse hands, that heavy stride, and the bitter truth: she could never bear children.

Running the farm alone was hard. Sometimes the village men helped—ploughing the field, haymaking—but always for pay, never out of kindness. Chopping wood, slaughtering livestock, patching the roof—all of it fell to Martha. And so her life might’ve carried on, grey as autumn rain, if not for the stranger who wandered into Oakley. A drifter, the likes of which no one had ever seen here. At first, he lurked around the village, glancing about like a trapped beast. But hunger won out: he began peering into yards, offering odd jobs. Most chased him off, though some soft-hearted old women tossed him crusts of bread.

One frosty morning, as Martha loaded meat and milk into the Land Rover for market, time was tight—but the engine, stubborn as fate, refused to start. Martha could handle most things, but machinery baffled her. She swore, kicked the tyre, and then—there he was. The drifter. Watching. Then, softly, with shy politeness, he spoke:

“Let me help.”

“What can you do?” she snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.

“I’ll try to start it.”

“Fine, go on,” she grunted, stepping back.

Twenty minutes under the bonnet, and—miracle of miracles—the engine roared to life. Martha, hardly believing it, shoved two fifty-pound notes at him, muttered “Take it,” and scrambled into the driver’s seat. The goods were spoiling; time wouldn’t wait.

“Need more help?” the drifter called after her.

“Come for dinner!” she tossed back, waving a hand as she sped off.

She returned at dusk, weary but pleased—nearly everything had sold. At the gate, shifting from foot to foot, stood the drifter.

“Missus, I’ve come. You promised work.”

“Give me a minute,” she said, parking the Land Rover. She tied up the dog, then nodded at the stack of logs by the shed:

“Know how to chop wood?”

“Aye,” he said, eyeing the pile.

Martha fetched the axe. He took it, frowned.

“It’s blunt.”

“I’ve a knife sharpener, works for blades, but I can’t manage the axe,” she admitted sheepishly. “There’s a grinder in the shed, but it broke when my father died.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Go on, then.”

In the shed, he dusted off the old grinder, tinkered, and—to Martha’s astonishment—it whirred to life. He sharpened the axe, the maul, then shed his tattered coat and set to work. He swung with swift, practised ease, as if he’d done nothing else his whole life. Martha watched, shook her head, and slipped back inside.

An hour later, she returned.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Edward.”

“I’m Martha,” she said. “Come on, Edward. Dinner’s ready.”

“Feels wrong,” he hedged.

“Oh, shut it,” she cut in.

At the table, where steaming potatoes, homemade sausage, bacon, and pickled mushrooms waited, Edward ate hungrily but quietly. Martha heaped more onto his plate, urging:

“Eat up, don’t be shy!”

By dark, he hadn’t finished the wood. Martha stepped out, assessed the pile.

“Edward, you won’t finish tonight. It’s Saturday—light the boiler, wash up. You can chop the rest tomorrow.”

“As you say,” he nodded, heading to the outhouse.

He stoked the boiler. Martha bathed first, then before sending him in, led him to an old wardrobe:

“Pick something. My father’s clothes—never worn. Too good to toss.”

Edward took a shirt, trousers, thanked her, and went to wash. After, they supped together. Martha, chin in hand, asked:

“Tell me about yourself, Edward.”

He sighed, eyes down.

“I’m forty-seven. Was married once—didn’t last. My boy stayed with her. Drank myself stupid after. Lived with my aunt, worked odd jobs—loader, night watchman. Got praise when I was sober. She died, and I lost my way. Drank my flat away, lived in basements. Tried to pull myself together, met a woman. We had a daughter. Didn’t know she was a drunk too, though she swore she’d quit. Ended up drinking together. Fought a neighbour once, got two years. Came back—she’d moved on. Didn’t even let me see my girl. Didn’t fight—didn’t want prison again. Couldn’t stay in the city, knew I’d slip. Walked till my feet gave out. Ended up here.”

“Hard life,” Martha murmured. “What now?”

“Don’t know.”

“Stay with me, Edward. House is big, you’re handy. We’ll find work.”

His eyes lit up.

“Nowhere else to go, Martha. Thank you.”

She made up a bed in the spare room. Edward, for the first time in years, sank into clean sheets and was asleep before his head touched the pillow. Martha lay awake all night, heart pounding—something told her this man would change her life.

At dawn, Edward woke to the smell of pancakes. He washed up, then frowned.

“Martha, your plumbing’s not right.”

“You know about that too?” she gaped.

“Worked as a plumber a few years,” he smiled. “Finish the wood, tidy the workshop, then I’ll fix the pipes.”

“My word,” she laughed.

Martha left for market; Edward chopped the remaining wood, swept the yard, mucked out the barn. She returned, gasped at the order. They lunched, she weeded the garden, he spent the afternoon organising the shed. Joy swelled in Martha’s chest—a man was in her house.

That evening, he asked:

“Light the boiler?”

“Aye!”

While Edward prepared the bath, Martha cleaned and cooked. He washed first, then her. Fresh and rosy, she laid the table, called:

“Edward, supper!”

He stood, stepped close—suddenly too close. His hands found her hips, his lips sought hers. Martha startled, eyes fluttering shut, heart stalling…

Martha bloomed under the village’s gaze. Love transformed her: eyes shining, smile never fading. Edward changed too—from drifter to steady man. Together, they opened a market stall; business thrived. By autumn, Edward had his licence, and Martha never drove again. She’d never been happier, praying it would last forever. But fate had other plans.

One day, Edward returned from town grim-faced, eyes dull.

“What’s wrong?” Martha fretted.

“My old neighbour came by the stall. Said my second wife died. Her man ran off, no one to bury her. Martha, lend me the money—let her go proper.”

“How much?” she asked after a pause.

“Three thousand.”

She fetched the cash.

“You’re doing right, Edward. She was a person—let her go with dignity.”

He took the money and left. Three days passed, no word. Dread gnawed at Martha. Then the Land Rover rolled up the drive. She rushed out. Edward stepped out—and with him, a tiny girl of four, clinging to his leg, staring wide-eyed at the stranger.

“Martha, this is my daughter, Elizabeth. She’s got no one left but me.”

Martha froze, eyes locked on the child. She’d never have children of her own—but maybe this was heaven’s gift? She whispered:

“Come inside.”

She bustled about, ladling soup for the girl. Elizabeth ate hungrily but neatly—clearly starved. Martha set out milk, bread, a bowl of raspberries. Edward parked the car, brought in the girl’s things—one bag. He stepped outside, but Martha couldn’t tearAnd as the years unfurled like the quiet rustle of oak leaves in the wind, the three of them—Martha, Edward, and little Elizabeth—found solace in the warmth of their unlikely, but unshakable, family.

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