Part 3: The Road to Halton Hills
The wagon creaked as it left the little platform behind. Neil sat beside his uncle, suitcase at his feet, fingers wrapped around the smooth stone in his pocket. The road stretched ahead in a long, frozen ribbon. Pine trees lined the edges, bare branches brushing the sky.
Uncle Robert held the reins firmly, his shoulders square beneath a worn wool coat. He didn’t speak right away. His hat shaded most of his face, but Neil could still see the outline of his jaw, tight with focus, and those eyes, grey-green, which seemed to change depending on the mood, just like his mother’s.
They rode for nearly ten minutes in silence before Robert spoke. These two men, uncle and nephew, yet had never met each other in person.
“You ever drive a horse?”
Neil shook his head. “No.”
“You’ll learn,” Robert said, not unkindly.
Neil kept his eyes forward. A wooden sign passed them on the right, its words blurred and foreign. He didn’t ask what it said. He was tired of not knowing things.
After a while, Robert said, “Your mother… she is a gentle soul.”
Neil looked down at his hands.
“She used to sing hymns from the Redemption Songs Hymnal while hanging the washing,” Robert continued. “Even when your grandfather told her to hush. She’d hum anyway. She said serving the Lord with a glad heart was its own kind of prayer.”
Neil gave a small nod. “She still sang.”
Robert gave a quiet grunt of approval. “I’m glad of that. She always had that way about her, soft but steady.”
They passed a frozen creek, and the air turned sharper. Neil pulled his coat tighter and glanced sideways.
“I grew up in Kilbirnie too, you know,” Robert added, after a moment. “Didn’t learn to read till I came here. Couldn’t write my name. Wasn’t time for books on our street.”
Neil looked up in surprise.
Robert didn’t meet his gaze, just kept his eyes on the road but something in his tone had changed. Not softer exactly, but warmer. Less like a stranger but still firm.
“You’ll catch up,” Robert said. “It takes work. But you’re young.”
The land opened ahead, rows of snowy fields, wooden fences, sheds, and a white house with a sagging porch. A barn stood nearby, paint flaking in the cold. Chickens pecked in the mud, and smoke curled from the chimney.
“That’s it,” Robert said. “Home.”
Neil sat forward on the wagon bench. “It’s… bigger than I expected.”
“It’s nothing fancy. But it’s honest.”
As they pulled up to the yard, Robert stepped down, lifted Neil’s suitcase easily, and led him toward the house.
Inside, the house was quiet and spare. No rugs, no paintings just wood floors, a pot of something warm on the stove, and a thick old Bible resting on a side table near the door.
“You’ll sleep in the back room,” Robert said. “Wash basin’s outside. Supper’s at six. Prayers before.”
Neil nodded.
Robert turned and looked at him directly.
“You read at all?”
Neil hesitated, then shook his head.
“You own a Bible?”
“No.”
Robert crossed his arms and exhaled through his nose.
“Well, that’s not uncommon. It’s not right, but it’s not uncommon.”
Neil stared at the floor, heat rising in his ears.
“There’s no shame in what you weren’t taught,” Robert said. “Only shame is staying in that place once you know better.”
Neil risked a glance up. “I’d like to learn.”
Robert gave one short nod.
“And you will. But don’t expect praise for showing up. This house runs on effort.”
Neil heard voices before he saw anyone. Laughter, not loud, but light and quick filtered from the kitchen as he washed his hands outside with water from the basin. When he stepped back into the house, wiping his fingers on a cloth, Robert was already at the head of the table, removing his coat.
“This is Neil,” Robert said, without ceremony. “Agnes, you remember about Jeannie’s youngest.”
A woman stood from behind the table, plain dress, grey pinned-up hair, strong hands that looked like they’d spent years in flour and farmwork. She crossed the room quickly and wrapped her arms around Neil with more strength than warmth, but it was enough to take the chill off the room.
“You poor soul,” she said gently into his shoulder. “You’ve your mother’s shape. Come on, you must be starving.”
She didn’t fuss or linger, just turned and gestured for him to sit. Her voice had a softness to it, but her movements were sharp, practiced. A woman used to order.
Neil sat quietly, his hands in his lap. Two boys and a girl stared at him from the other side of the table, his cousins, though none of them spoke at first. The oldest, maybe sixteen, nodded once. The younger boy squinted at Neil like he was trying to guess if he was trouble. The girl, maybe twelve, offered the quickest smile before looking down at her plate.
“This is Thomas,” Robert said, gesturing to the eldest, “then Edward, and the girl’s Anna.”
None of them moved toward him, but they kept watching.
“We’ve all got chores before daylight,” Agnes said briskly. “Let’s eat.”
They bowed their heads as Robert gave thanks, the kind of prayer that came not from habit, but discipline. Neil closed his eyes and murmured “Amen” half a beat behind the others.
Root stew and onions, it was hot, the bread thick and coarse. Neil ate slowly, aware of every movement. The clink of spoons, the scrape of chairs, the way Anna kept glancing at him and looking away. There wasn’t much talking — just passing dishes, nodding, the rhythm of a house where food was earned and words were used sparingly.
“You’ll be sharing chores with Thomas,” Robert said eventually. “He’ll show you what’s what.”
Thomas looked up and gave a single nod.
Neil nodded back, not trusting his voice just yet.
He didn’t belong, not yet but they’d made room for him and the family looked just like his own brothers – there was something very familiar about being here but yet something very distant. The red hair, similiar eyes, even Aunt Agnes had some kind of family resemblance.
After they ate, Robert opened his Bible and read aloud from Proverbs.
Neil listened carefully. He didn’t understand every word, but the cadence of the reading, slow, deliberate, sincere….settled in his chest like warmth from a fire. The way Robert read reminded him of how his mother used to sing when she was alone, just loud enough to make the walls listen.
When Robert closed the Bible, he said, “You’ll sit with me each night. I’ll read. You’ll listen. Eventually, you’ll start sounding the words out yourself.”
Neil nodded. “All right.”
Robert looked him over one more time.
“You’ve your mother’s face. But your father’s stillness.”
Neil didn’t know if that was a compliment. He looked away.
“Tomorrow,” Robert said, standing, “we rise at five. Chickens, firewood, water. Then we check the fence lines.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Robert paused by the door. “You don’t need to impress me. You just need to show up, day after day.”
The small back room was cold but clean. A narrow bed, a shelf, and a bucket in the corner. Neil lit the oil lamp and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the stone from his pocket.
He stared at it in his palm for a while, feeling its familiar weight. Then he placed it on the windowsill and took out the letter from his mother. Still folded. Still unread.
He couldn’t make sense of the lines. But he ran his thumb along the edge and heard her voice in his head:
“You’ll know what’s right when the time comes. Just listen.”
He lay back on the bed and pulled the blanket over him.
Somewhere outside, a barn owl called.
Tomorrow he would work. And he would keep showing up.
He didn’t have much to offer.
But he had that.
Discover more from Teacher Joseph: Accent & Communication Coach, Confident English, IELTS/CAE
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