On Ice

Thursday was shopping day, so this wouldn’t be the last time she cycled over the Cotanoqui River. It was, however, already darkening, and her swaying headlight glanced rhythmically on the leaves clogging the gutter so that the afternoon’s rain chased her across the bridge. Soon the browns, yellows and sugar-maple reds would be lost to the dirty white of winter: already the temperature was dropping sharply.

Of course, she did a little shopping most days: limited to what she could fit in panniers she could hardly avoid it. But on Thursdays, when the stores were open late, she made a special trip to the A&P at the shopping centre and bought non-perishables. Today she was also thinking about Christmas shopping. $50, she decided: yes, that should do it. It’s not like there were many people to—

‘Mary!’ called a voice. Only the second time did she realise the caller meant her. Her damp breaks squeaked to a reluctant halt. Gladys McEwan jogged down her front path, breath puffing in the streetlight. ‘I’m so glad I caught you! I was talking to Will last Sunday, and we were wondering if you’d be in the choir again this Christmas. You know, we all miss you so much, you’ve got a wonderful voice, you know, I’ve always said so, and so does Will, you know, and I was talking to the rector not two weeks ago – well, anyway, we’re starting on the Christmas music tomorrow night and I just know everyone would love to see you back….’

Mary eyed her and wondered whether the plump little body was all lung; funny it didn’t seem to help when she sang. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said coldly.

‘Oh, but you must! It’s been a long time, Mary, really, you ought to – we’re all friends you know. Please, say you’ll think about it.’

Mary said so, the faster to escape.

Her home was just two blocks further, one suburban house among many. Unlike some in Cotanoqui proper, it made no pretence to having an English garden: a grass lawn stretched from the sidewalk to the front broken only by a footpath, a driveway and a lone birch. She switched off her headlight and chained the bicycle to the rusted handle of the garage, then let herself in through the front porch, panniers in hand. She hurriedly removed her gloves so her fingers would warm faster and went to put the kettle on.

It hadn’t yet reached the boil when the doorbell rang. ‘What now?’ she muttered, trying to decide whether another old friend or the JWs would be better; at least she could close the door on the latter more easily. It was neither. She knew him though: she had seen him once before.

‘I wasn’t expecting you yet,’ she said. Warmth rushed to escape the house, though the outer door was closed.

‘Well, I am early,’ he allowed. ‘May I come in?’

‘It seems a bit late to ask that,’ she said flatly. ‘But you might as well. Have a seat. I’m just making some tea.’

‘Oh, could I have some, if it’s not too much trouble? It’s been a long day. Always a busy time of year, especially with the elderly, and almost no one offers me any.’

‘I wonder why. The rector once confided that he gets far too much when he goes visiting – too polite to refuse. But I suppose he gets a better welcome.’ She went to make the tea, leaving the guest in the living room, its beige walls denuded of pictures.

‘You’ve changed,’ he commented as she returned. ‘Oh, no thanks – as it comes.’

‘You’re surprised by that.’

‘Not particularly: I expected it, really. Better to change while you can, I always say. Though I suppose it’s not so good when the change leads to stagnation.’

‘Not you too! I’ve enough of that from—’

‘Oh no, forgive me! No really, I just came to warm my bones. I thought I might get more of a welcome here than most places. Thanks for the tea, by the way – very good.’ He sipped in silence. Mary glanced at the locked direct door to the garage.

‘How early are you?’

He studied her face as if looking beneath it. ‘Oh, not very. If you think, you can probably work it out.’

‘What makes you think I won’t put it off?’

‘The tea.’

She nodded. ‘Maybe it is time for another change.’

After dinner she went shopping, as planned. She wrapped herself up in coat, woolly hat and gloves, but left her mouth unmuffled. She fumbled to attach the panniers and free the bike from the garage, turned on her light and set off toward town. Singing, she pedalled over the moonlit bridge.