Once again the moon ascends its throne
Sooner or later, we all try to weigh up what weve done right in life, and whats gone awry. But the past is untouchable. Whenever dark thoughts creep in, I try to chase them away with memories of lifes smaller joys.
Snow on the old apple tree in the garden, little Freddies laughter echoing down the phone, a cheeky blue tit flitting just outside the window, a steaming mug of tea in my favourite cup, and our cat, Whiskers, curled up like a warm ball on my lap. Thank goodness I have all these things
The summer evening settled quietly over the village, treading softly as if afraid to disturb the fading noise of the day. I wrapped my shawl closer around my shoulders and stepped out into the garden. I always savour this hour; when the heat finally drifts away and the air fills with the scent of freshly mown grass and sun-warmed leaves.
I strolled along the path towards the arbour, where wild vines climbed up the timbers. Soft golden light glowed inside, and on the little table, steam curled from two mugs of tea. Michael sat on the bench, idly strumming his guitar. When he saw me, that gentle smile appearedthe same one that made my heart skip a beat thirty years ago.
Come sit, Julie. The nightingale will start singing soon, he said, his eyes kind.
I settled next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. He smelt faintly of tobacco and something elsesomething that was simply home. I closed my eyes. Sometimes, in moments like these, old memories would pull me back to the deep hurts that once threatened to tear me apart.
I remembered Ian. Handsome, confident, with that little dimple on his chin. Id been so in love, so sure our love could face anything. But his parents were the obstacle I could never overcome. They wanted a proper daughter-in-law, someone respectable, not just a simple girl like me.
Ian crumbled quickly, like a twig in a strong wind.
Julie, we need to stop seeing each other. My mum
Then, that encounter on the street. His mother sailed past with a triumphant smile and said, clipped and smug, Our Ians married now! His wife is a real treasure. So much better suited than you. Beautiful, clever, a true lady.
No one, not even my closest friends in the halls of our bedsit, knew how many tears I shed that night. Light faded from my world; it felt as though nothing good could ever happen again.
And then came Michael. The projectionist at the village hall. Cheery, easy-going, with forever-rumpled hair and always a guitar in hand.
He turned up one evening at the bedsit to see my flatmate, caught sight of my tearstained face and said, Would you come to the pictures with me tonight? Ive got a new romance film on. Afterwards, Ill sing something for you.
I agreed, having nothing left to lose. The film itself slipped my mind, but not his song. His voice held a rare, stirring warmth. He sang about distant journeys and blue eyes, but looked only at me. Hurt and angry as I was over Ian and his mother, I made up my mind:
Ill marry this ordinary projector man. Just to prove a point.
Two months later, we married, mainly because Michael insisted he couldnt do without me. After New Year, he brought his parents round to properly ask for my hand, and soon the wedding was held. Thus began our life together.
Back then, I couldntor wouldntsee any faults in him. Through rose-tinted glasses, I only felt safe and snug at Michaels side. At first, it was like the filmshim whisking me about, nightly serenades on his guitar, laughter filling the little flat. But films always come to an end, and real life trundles in.
It was only then I saw him afresh, that he was no leading man from my daydreams. But it was too late. Our marriage passed through seasons: a brilliant, bright spring in those first newlywed months. Then a hot, giddy summer, gone in a flash.
After that, autumn arrived. Dull, gloomy, with storms of rows and brief, guilty patches of warmth amid the drizzle. Soon enough, true winter set ina biting, harsh winter.
Michael started drinking. At first, only on weekends. But then it became more frequent.
We survived that winter, but spring never seemed to followonly an endless, chilly autumn.
The first time my husband struck me, he was shocked himself, begged forgiveness, even knelt at my feet.
I forgave. I stayed. Yet a different future had been possible; I could have left after the first blow. But I didnt. I was ashamedto leave, to have to explain to Mum that Id made a mistake, married on a whim, just to spite a memory. I started hiding the bruises under long sleeves and the tears behind locked doors.
Sometimes, rocking our daughter to sleep, I would wonder, Maybe I can shape him into the man I need, perhaps all is not lost yet.
Of course, I was fooling myself. I lived in that dreary, endless autumn, through tears and hurt. There were truly dark days, when between us there was only silent, bitter cold. When I could no longer endure, when I feared not just for myself but for our little one, I was ready to run, no matter where.
One early morning, looking at his swollen, heavy face as he slept, a lightning-bolt clarity struck.
No more. This isnt living, its a bog, dragging us both under. I wont be the one who just suffers.
Michael, I woke him, my voice firm. Either you get help, or I leave. Today.
He hadnt expected that. He was sure Id always keep quiet, always forgive. But something in my eyes unnerved him; it made him realise I meant it. He didnt want to let me go. So he agreed.
I put my heart into it, determined not to falter. In a battle like that, any weapon is fair. The treatment was gruelling. There were relapseshed disappear and Id find him and drag him home. I would give him his medicine during bouts of illness, and every time I jabbed the needle, Id say, Michael, you cant drink with this, its dangerous. You could die. I cant save you if you do.
Hed listen. To remove temptation, I stopped inviting anyone round, and we didnt visit others either. We kept to our small world, which I guarded like a precious bloom.
Everything seemed to get better, but we had to stay vigilant. Id talk to him, help him stay away from drink. His joints troubled him now and then, and with each injection Id remind him, showing him the notes about the dangers of mixing painkillers and alcohol.
One night, sitting with my endless fears, I came up with a plan.
Michael, I said, lets save up and buy a car. Something old, like a second-hand Ford. Youve got your licence, havent you? You could drive me for berries or mushroom picking, maybe even take me fishing with you.
I watched his eyes light up with purpose.
Now, thats an idea Youve done it again, Julie, alright, lets do it
He got excited. Started taking every shift he could. We saved and bought an old Ford, which he slowly restored with his own hands over six months. Id watch him, absorbed until dusk out in the drive, while I called through the window,
Michael, how many times do I need to heat your dinner?
Coming, Julie, just a minutelet me finish up here so I dont forget. You have to look after a car. It needs to be reliable. Thats our safety, after all, hed say, explaining as he worked.
It warmed my heart, those shopping trips together to the market town. Michael was always soberalways. But I never let my guard down. Fifteen years together now, raising two girls. I rejoiced that Id helped him conquer his demons, but still, an undercurrent of worry remained.
So, I came up with something else.
Michael, you know what? I said as we stood outside our old cottage. How about we build a bigger house? With our own hands. Yes, its a big ask, expensive too, but we could get a loan.
He studied memy determined face, the hands unafraid of workand nodded.
You dont make life easy, do you, love, he said, a smile tugging at his lips. But youre right, Id have never thought of that myself.
Fifteen years now since he last touched a drop. Fifteen years weve worked side by side, sober, and building our home and future. Both our daughters are grown, with families of their own off in the city.
It took us ages to finish the house. Materials were a squeeze, sometimes we hired help when it got too much. But we didnt give up.
When the house was finally done, and wed tidied up the garden, I said,
Michael, the house turned out lovely, but we need a real arbour for summer evenings, where we can relax together. Lets put in a few apple trees, some lilac, even jasmine.
He plucked the guitar strings and a gentle melody flowed, soon followed by his quiet, slightly husky singingour song. He looked at me now as he did thirty years prior, with love and pride.
The moon has claimed his throne once more, reigning over the starry sky
I listened, my heart finally at peace. I looked at his silvered hair, those familiar crows feet, the strong, capable hands wrapped around the old guitar. That mocking voice surfaced in my memory: His wife is a real treasurenothing like you. I wondered, was that perfect wife ever happy? Where is that Ian now?
But my Michael is here, singing for me still. The same look, the same lovedeeper now, steady and quietly fierce.
What are you thinking about? he asked as the song faded.
That my life hasnt been wasted, I replied simply.
Michael set the guitar aside and hugged me close. Up above, the moon took its place on the throne, bathing our little arbour, our home, our hard-earned quiet happiness, in its gentle light. Hand in hand.
Thank you for reading, for your support and kind thoughts. Wishing you all the very best.
