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| well of ages | |
| By ellyb39 | ||||||||||||||||
| 16 June 2006 | ||||||||||||||||
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Writing this reminded me so much of part my childhood spent in scotland. Hope you enjoy it too! Well of ages. Mrs Anderson clutched the wooden frame around the well and peered down into the blackness. She was worried. Her sleep had been disturbed last night even after the hot chocolate and a wee piece before bed. Straining over the fence as much as her arthritis and well padded stomach would allow she frowned. Wrinkled distorted reflections teased over the surface, preventing her from seeing down through the clear water. Breeze ruffled nettles crisp sharpened by clear clean light. A small gantry of wood over the top of the deep well, covering a blank expressionless eye. The problem had started last week and she knew where the blame lay. Turning back towards the cottage her slippers slid on the rocky path. The cabbages were up she noticed even though the frost still lingered in the early morning. Arriving at the cottage she opened the door to release muggy warm smells, which poured out like wraiths, leaving a lingering reminder of last nights dinner, the coal fire and the dog slumbering still by the fire. Easing her old bones into the chair she began to think hard. If Mrs Brown was to blame, (and she was sure she was) her precious drinking water would be suspect, unreliable, causing problems which she really did not want to deal with. The arguments had been going on for years. Although perfectly charming in their meetings the skirmishes between the two women neighbours were vicious and underhand. A fire put on when the smoke would ruin the washing, grandchildren throwing stones, raking of the fire at unsocial hours, weeds left on garden edges to grow unchecked. Fifty years of ‘Good morning Mrs Anderson and would it be your primrose that came home at 2 o clock of this morning, I couldna believe it!) ‘ or ‘And how are you Mrs Brown, you look a wee bit peaky, your john hasnae been to visit for quite a few weeks?’ Fifty years of travelling on the same bus on a Thursday morning down to town, and fifty years of catty conversations about the various inhabitants of the small hamlet. Unfortunately also fifty years of arguing about a well. The well was at the end of both their gardens straddling the boundary. And in the well was a beautiful trout. He had been getting bigger and bigger patrolling his little world with a flick of his tail and the occasional splash on the surface. He was their monitor, their health guide, their reassurance of the purity of the water. If he lived so would they. The trout had attained a mystical connection with their longevity to both the women. There was no town water here , they had only had electricity for 5 years, before that it was paraffin lamps and singed fingers. Now they had the big wooden pumps beside their white square sinks and with a few pull s on the pump the water came gushing up. Shivering precious water from the Scottish hillsides. Fingers twitching convulsively around her hanky Mrs Anderson faced the terrible reality the morning had brought. The trout was gone. She sat in her chair and fretted over this disaster, imagining her neighbour sinking her false teeth into the flesh of the trout. As it lay on the plate its mournful eyes white from the oven. She could see the cat from up the road running off with the talisman trout in its jaws, fish jerking and dragging on the floor. Or a passing tinker tickling and touching for his prize. Taking the trout home to cook on a little tiny stove in his van, children clamouring for a taste. Her hand to her mouth, trembling, the feeling in the pit of her stomach began to pass, and she stood up to busy herself while she thought about what to do next. She had started her usual round of washing, baking, cleaning when she heard a knock at the door. She quickly put her hand to her snow white hair and smoothed her pinny over her hips. Opening the door preparing to do battle, for who else could it be except her confrontational neighbour she began to speak ‘Well Mrs Brown and what have you got to say for yourself…’when her words began to tail away. Mrs Brown was crying. Mrs Brown was sobbing, her hair was in disarray and her old limbs were shaking. Years of animosity disappeared as Mrs Anderson cradled her in her arms, ‘Mary Mary what ever is it?’ Mrs Brown could hardly get the words out. ‘It’s John.’ She stuttered. John was the retired farm labourer who lived in the cottage at the bottom of the road. He often did small jobs for the two old women and they vied for his help and attention, giving him little packets of home made cakes, jars of jam, marmalade and so on. ‘He’s drowned’ Mrs Anderson too was soon crying in shock and sadness. ‘But how?’ she asked. ‘He was trying to catch a trout apparently, something about a dead trout somewhere his cousin said.’ Mrs Anderson looked out towards the well saying nothing but her arms tightened around her neighbour, legendary quarrels falling to the bottom of the well along with imagined slights and unkind words. She felt the fragility of Mrs Browns frame and felt in sympathy the pain her body dealt out to her in this cruel time of life. Like looking into a mirror she saw the stubborn old woman she had been. In between them swum a fish, its joyful leaps and splashes sprinkling them both with light. It seemed to be weaving their emotions together, in and out between them renewing affection and kindness. ‘Lets have a cup of tea and a blether Mary, Come and sit yourself down by the fire.’ The fish span around her head glinting playfully as she filled the kettle, pulling on the pump. ‘I have something sad to tell you too, dear,’ Mrs Anderson gently confided taking her friends hand in her own. The fish took one last look as it swam out of the open window up towards the blue forever sky.
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