**Smoke Above the Chimney**
“Is anyone home?” Albert hunched his shoulders slightly as he stepped over the high wooden threshold. “Greet your guest, Auntie!”
Behind the floral-patterned screen, an old iron bed creaked. The screen twitched, bright peony blossoms dancing across the burgundy cotton.
“Albert, is that you?”
“It’s me, Auntie Margaret. Brought you some treats for Lady Day.”
Margaret sat up, swung her swollen legs down, and fumbled into the slippers by the bed. Then she shuffled out from behind the screen, approached Albert, and pressed her head to his chest in a familiar embrace.
“Well, hello there, my dear heart! Not seen you since Candlemas. And here I was, all snug and napping!”
“Here, take this.”
Albert handed her a bag, and with her usual affectionate grumbling, she began unpacking the groceries onto the table.
“Why so much? What do I need with all this? That tin of tea you brought last time, I only just opened it! Youre making a fuss over nothing.”
Albert didnt listen. When had she ever accepted gifts without complaining? He glanced around the cottage, remembering summer holidays spent here as a boy. Auntie had been young then, quick on her feet. Shed buried her husband early and managed the household alone ever since.
Now she only had the cat, but once the yard had been full of animalshens clucking, a dog barking. Her sons, though they lived in town, had known their way around village workhaymaking, potato digging, mending fences. Albert had visited too, of courseshe was his blood, after all.
The eldest son had died after a long illness; the younger had thrown out his back and taken to bed. Months passed without movement, then he was confined to a wheelchair. Not much use for travel now. No one came to visit Margaret anymore, yet she still fussedgathering herbs for her son, drying apples and pears for compote, pickling cucumbers, knitting socks…
Flowers had once filled her home, but now only a half-frostbitten aloe sat on the windowsill. The chores had become too much.
Albert walked to the hearth and pressed a hand to the whitewashed brick.
“Feels cold in here, Auntie Margaret.”
“Well, its not summer, is it?” she replied vaguely, then scolded the cat winding around her ankles.
“Didnt light the fire today?” Albert asked, missing the usual warmth.
“Lit the stove this morning, thats enough. The frost isnt biting!”
“Still not summer!” Albert echoed her words. “And whyve you taken up the rugs? Cant you feel the damp creeping up from below?”
“Took them up because I kept tripping over them!” Margaret retorted. “Wait till youre my ageyou wont fancy dancing around them either.”
“Run out of firewood, have you?” Albert pressed.
“Ive enough wood for twenty winters!” She waved him off, tucking a stray grey lock under her shawl. “Two full stacks in the shed, and more in the barn.”
Margaret stepped up to the hearth and planted a hand on her hip.
An old quilt dangled precariously from the edgeone tug away from falling. Instead of fixing it, she nudged it further over.
“The stove does me well enough.”
“Lets have a look, then,” Albert guessed, and pushed the quilt aside.
A sinister crack snaked across the whitewashed brick.
Margaret had noticed it in early autumn. Shed hoped the flue was unharmed, that it might still hold, but the crack had its own plansthick, acrid smoke seeped through, lingering in a hazy line between floor and ceiling. After gulping down enough of the bitter fog, she still hadnt told a soul. Her son had troubles enough, and he was poorly besides. Shed decided to winter without the hearth, making do with the stove built snug into the wall.
Albert frowned. How had he missed the crack in February? Clever old thingshed hidden it with the quilt, weighed down by a box of onions. Whod guess what it concealed?
“How longve you been hiding this?” Albert asked sternly, nodding at the hearth.
“Oh, not so long,” Margaret flustered. “I covered it, hardly any smoke now. When the frost bites, I light itcant sit in the cold. The draughts better in winter, you know. When the snow clouds gather, I use the stove. What do I need with so much heat?”
“What nonsense, Auntie! Im not half your age, and even my bones crave warmth! Dont you know an old body thrives best by the fire?”
Albert scowled, tossed the quilt aside, and studied the crack. His grandfather had once apprenticed as a stovemaker, though hed never passed on the crafttime had stolen that chance. Albert had asked around, learned enough to rebuild his own hearth. Not so hard, really.
No proper stovemakers were left in the countyhe knew that. The local paper had adverts, but village folk didnt trust themcharged a fortune for shoddy work. City craftsmen, their fires stingy with heat.
A hearth was the heart of a home. Warmth, cooking, even a sickbed. What else could soothe old bones? And whod never tasted stew slow-cooked in its belly didnt deserve heaven.
“Well fix it by autumn,” Albert said, stepping back. “Too cold nowyoud freeze without the stove.”
“Dont be silly!” Margaret flapped her hands. “Forget about it! Im past eightythis hearth will see me out!”
“Dont fret, Auntie! Wont need to tear it all downjust mend the fireback.”
“Fireback or not!” she huffed. “This winter mightve been my lastyou dont know!”
“Do you?”
“No. Thats Gods business!”
“Exactly!” Albert raised a finger, almost scolding. “What if you live to a hundred? When your time comes, youll meet Him with a warm side. For now, Ill fetch you an electric heater to tide you over.”
The very next day, he delivered a grey oil radiator on little wheels, gliding smoothly over the varnished floor. He brought an extension cord too, so she could place it right by the bed. Showed her the dial, bid her farewell till summer, and left.
Margaret switched it on and dozed, lulled by the warmth. There was grace in this modern heat!
But grace vanished when she woke and glimpsed the meter spinning like a scalded cat. From that moment, the heater stayed off. If she craved warmth, she opened the stove door instead. Aprils mercy, at least, was near.
Albert left for his shift with a clear conscience. Summer wasnt far, and the last chilly days could be weathered with electric coils.
No work in his town, so he roamed the country, though he loathed it. The children were grown, his wife used to his absences, but the ache of distance gnawed at him still. Yet nothing could be changedlife rolled on between shifts, brief visits, and holidays, the years unwinding in foreign places.
* * *
Autumn came before he could mend the hearthhis boss wouldnt grant leave sooner. Hed thought to hire a hand, then changed his mind. His grandfathers blood ran strong in him; he loved tinkering with homes.
Margaret fretted over the exposed brickwork, sweeping soot into a bucket, helping carry out blackened bricks, sighing at the gaping hole where the fireback had been.
The repair lasted his whole leave, but he left for his next shift lighthearted. That lightness came when, stepping back from Margarets cottage, he saw blue-grey smoke curling from the chimney.
Next visit was at Christmastime. From afar, he spotted the same wispy, lilac-tinted smoke above the roof. Albert knewwhile that smoke rose, the house lived.
Inside, the hearth blazed. Margaret stood by it, poking glowing coals with a poker. Heat and the unmatched scent of a proper fire filled the room.
“Albert! I knew youd come! Theres porridge in the pot, and Ive made stew.”
“This is for you.” Albert set a large bag on the table. “For the feast. Tonight, well welcome Christmas proper!”
The cottage smelled of mint tea. Before the icon, in a sooty lamp, a small flame danced merrily.
Margaret laid out her best dishes, saved for high days.
“Nothing like hearth-cooked food,” Albert praised, spooning buckwheat from the cast-iron pot.
“The best spoonful of butters yours!” Margaret said, eyes glistening.
“Dont be daft. Ive not touched it!”
Margaret sighed. She paused, searching for words, then said:
“These past winters, Ive feared the cold. You were rightold bones love warmth best. When that crack spread, I
