A Difficult, But Right Decision
In his younger days, Roger Stevens had strength that seemed almost mythicallike hed stepped right out of the tales of Robin Hood, arms as sturdy as oaks and a back unyielding as the Yorkshire hills. In the village fields, he used to cart a sack of wheat in each hand without breaking a sweat, while others could barely hoist one onto their backs.
Roger, youre a proper powerhouse, you are, the locals would marvel, but hed just smile in response.
Roger married Lucyalways called Lucy by those close to her, a neighbours daughter hed known since childhood. When they’d grown up, he asked her to marry him. Lucy, the loveliest girl in the village, was delighted; she had loved Roger to the point that living without him felt impossible. Many a lad noticed Lucy, but most were too wary of Roger’s strengthif pushed, he’d sort them out with barely a word.
They lived happily together, raising their son Peter, who inherited both the broad build and gentle soul of his father. Roger and Lucy had a good life, but time brought sorrow; Lucy grew seriously ill and eventually passed away. Roger aged overnight, shuffling through daily life in quiet solitude, the light in his eyes dimmed.
He prepared simple meals for himself, washed his clothes in a big tub with a bar of old-fashioned carbolic soap, refusing to use any washing powder or their modern washing machine. He stubbornly weeded his own little vegetable patch. Watering was a problem; Peter would come from Leeds every weekend, haul up water from the well, chop firewood, and just spend time with his father.
Dad, how many times must I tell you? Thats why I bought you the washing machine. Pour in some hot water, toss in a handful of powder, and you can wash the lot without breaking your back, hed lecture.
Roger would only scoff, Dont tell me what to do. Set your rules in your own flat. That contraption of yours just tears my clothes to shreds. Ill do things the traditional way, just like your mum used tono rush for me
Once, their village had thrived, with even a little primary school. But over the years, the young people had drifted to the citiesManchester, or Leeds, or Sheffield. The school was shut, the teachers moved away, and the place felt emptier every year.
In its heyday, the school had put on amateur plays; their staging of Nicholas Nickleby was so popular that some villagers got nicknames from the characters. Old Mrs. Knight was called Mrs. Squeers for her neat but constantly fretting ways. Roger, meanwhile, earned the moniker Scrooge, though his own son Peter would sometimes call him that out of frustration. The nickname stuck because Roger could not bring himself to throw anything away, even things gathering dustmementoes far more than necessities.
Dad, why hang onto that ancient teapot? Its doing nothing but collecting cobwebs.
Its memory, my boy. That belonged to your gran, passed to me by your mother. These things are part of our story, Roger would sigh.
And that battered tin basin? I bang my head on it every time I walk past!
Roger would simply wave him off, Tend to your own flat.
Youve turned the place into a junk shopdust, old things everywhere, and the yards a mess, Peter would try, but it changed nothing.
Every visit, Peter tried to convince his father to move to Leeds.
Come with me, Dad, itll be easier for you, hed suggest, half-hoping Roger would refuse. Peter himself missed the village, the stone cottages and the low-lying mists.
What for?! Roger would grumble.
In Leeds youve got a hot bath anytime, no more hauling water and lighting fires.
Roger would parry, Dont you remember, Peter, our old bathhouses been keeping us healthy for generations. Whats better than a good steam and a birch switch? Dont you love it yourself?
Alright, maybe so Peter would concede, but youd have a balcony, youd watch the street, see the little ones playing in the garden. It might be nice.
You should think about having children yourself, son. Give me a grandson. Youre living like a hermit.
Peter fell silent. You know theres no Ruth anymore, hed say quietly. But Roger was stubborn.
How can I leave the land I built with my own hands, the house where every stone and nail is a memory?
Oh, youre so stubborn, Peter would mutter.
Careful, lad. Im not tight-fisted, Im just careful, Roger would declare with pride.
There was no changing Rogers mind; he was resolute and thrifty. So, he stayed, the villagers still calling him Scrooge, in half-affection, half-exasperation.
Peter, after his National Service, chose not to stay in the village. Im off to the city, I cant stay here, he told his parents.
Whatever will you do in Leeds, Peter? his mother fretted. And what will become of us?
Give it a rest, Roger said. Let him go while hes young. He might come back to his roots someday, but thats his choice.
Peter settled in Leeds, got work at a factory, soon had a flat. By then, hed started seeing Rutha pale, delicate beautyhis workmate. They married and were happy for a time, but the happiness didnt last. Lucy, Peters mum, died in the village. Roger was left alone, his back more bent, the sadness living in his eyes.
Peter would visit every weekend, sometimes with Ruth. After four years, still no children; Ruth couldnt conceive, though they longed for it. Then, at last, one day she came to him, radiant: Peter, Im carrying a baby
He swept her into his arms, laughed, and placed her gently on the floor. You take care of yourself nowall the heavy lifting, Ill do it. Rest for our little one.
He cherished her, did everything he could, walked by her side with shopping bags, never leaving her unaided. Together they looked forward to their babys arrival. When the time came, Peter took Ruth to the hospital, waited long into the night as the wards closed, forced to go home, scared and restless.
Come back in the morning, a kindly nurse told him, shutting the doors.
He passed a sleepless night, and at dawn hurried back.
Hows my wife? Did she?
Whats her surname? the nurse asked. She called the doctor.
A woman in white appeared. Im sorry, your wife she didnt make it. The baby, a daughter, didnt survive either We did everything we could It all faded to black for Peter, and he sank onto a bench, deaf to her further words.
Ruth was gone. The daughter hed never meet, gone too. He somehow managed the funeral, burying wife and child together. Now, Peter could not bear the thought of other women. He returned to the village, he and his fatherjust the two of them left in the world, two sturdy oaks, battered but holding firm.
You ought to move in with your father, urged their neighbour Arthur. Hes not been the same since Lucy passed. Or bring him to Leeds, hed be better off.
He wont come to me. I offer every visit, but he needs his home, Peter replied.
A decade slipped by since Ruths death, and Peter still lived alone. Roger would remind him, Son, you should think about remarrying. Im old and worn out, but you still have a long life ahead. Theres Mary, Arthurs daughterreal beauty, though she wont leave the village, busy caring for her sick mum.
Peter noticed Marya rare beauty, but in the countryside, few young men stuck around. One day, carrying water from the well, he passed Mary; as their eyes met, her cheeks flushed bright but she quickly looked away, her greeting barely more than a whisper.
Good afternoon she stammered. He replied, Afternoon, and watched her walk off, her modesty just deepening his interest.
Roger was growing frailer, spending longer visiting Lucys grave, doing less around the house, his vigour ebbing away. Time sped on.
Peter kept his plans to himself; not out of spite, but knowing his father would only pressure him. He needed to find the right time.
A Difficult, But Right Decision
One afternoon, Roger shuffled outside. A car pulled up at the gate. Out stepped Peter, opening the boot.
Dad, whyre you standing like a lamppost? Come here, I need your helpjust the lighter boxes though! Peter called, laughter in his voice.
Roger circled the car, awestruck. Whose car is this, son?
Its mine. I sold up in Leedsmy flat and all. Bought this instead. Ive come home for good. You once told me roots are importantyou were right. It wasnt easy, Dad, but its the right thing.
Roger chuckled knowingly. I expect theres a lure in the village for you, isnt there? Mary
Peter grinned. Ah, you sly old foxyoure right! Soon well be visiting Arthur to speak with Mary. Time to build a home here, live together. She wouldnt leave the village, maybe she was waiting for me all along.
Not long after, there was a village wedding. Peter and Mary married, had a son and a daughter. In time, Peter built a generous new house for his family. Now their laughter filled the rooms. Roger Stevens had passed on, and old Arthur too, Marys mother long since buried. But the house stands tall, the family strong, rooted in their Yorkshire soilat last, all as it should be.
