Such a pity life hasnt gone quite right
I ought to nip down to the shop, mused Gladys, not much salt left, sugars almost all out too. She glanced at the clockhalf past eleven. Her husband wouldnt be back for a while yet; hed driven into town in his old Ford, the front seat loaded with milk, cream, and a trug of eggs for the market.
Their daughter and son-in-law hadnt visited in ages, so ever-diligent, Gladys had loaded over a hundred eggs into the car for him to sell in town, because the hens, bless em, were laying up a storm.
Drive carefully, Colin! Mind the eggstheyre not much use scrambled at the bottom of the boot. And the milk jars too!
I know, I know, grumbled Colin, its not my first time, you know.
Gladys and Colin had lived in their little English village forever and a day, raising a daughter and a son, both of whom had scrambled off to lives of their own. Gladyss daughter stayed somewhat nearby, but her son lived an entire county away. To be perfectly blunt, Gladys couldnt say shed always been happy with her dear Colin. Life with him in those early years was rather, well, educational.
Colin was a good-looking bloke, the sort whod turn a few heads at the pub, and single ladies in the village never let him stroll past without some cheeky banter or an accidental invitation for tea. In every accidental invite, as the saying goes, theres always a kernel of truth. And, truth be told, Colin was notoriously vulnerable to such situations and had a habit of stumbling into trouble wherever opportunity lay unattended.
Gladys often suspected Colin of messing about, though she never had hard proof, and Colin always had an explanation for why hed staggered in after dark.
I was round the back of The Red Lion with the lads, lost track of time. Pint or two, some chat about the footieyou understand.
Another night, it was:
Old Mick needed a hand getting some logs tyard. Blokes useless on his own, so I stayed. He gave me a nip afterwardsgoes without saying.
But news travels faster than a bad curry in a small village. One day, Gladyss old schoolmate, Anne, bustled into the garden, breathless with scandal.
Gladys, dont you see how Dots eyeing up your Colin? Hes always popping round to hers! The whole village is talking about itqueue up love, youre the last to know! Anne chattered, leaning right in.
Rubbish. I know nothing about it. If Colin stays out late, I know where hes been. I trust him, replied Gladys, though her doubts tickled the back of her mind.
Well, you shouldnt! Menll spin you a yarn long enough to knit a scarfyou know what theyre like. Hes been up to all sorts with Dot, ask anyone! But dont drop me in it, eh? said Anne, before skedaddling off down the lane.
That evening, Colin arrived precisely on time for once, but Gladys was ready for him.
Well, thats newyoure back on the dot. No invite from Dot today then?
Colins jaw nearly hit the floor, but he soon rallied, full of bluster.
Dont be daft! You listening to the village gossips now? Its nothing but magpies, chattering!
Sure sure, just gossip. Well, Ill be watching. And if I catch you being shady, youll be out on your ear. Understood?
Scary stuff, love. As if I could do anything unnoticed round here, replied Colin, thinking very firmly to end things with Dotthe drama wasnt worth the risk.
Hed always been a bit of a lad, but messing about with Dot for over a month was pushing his luckeven the blokes at work were ribbing him. Colin remembered he wasnt exactly a spring chicken anymore, and if Gladys threw him out, well, thatd be that. Besides, Dot wasnt exactly prime material for family life.
Gladys kept her guard upnot that she wanted to divorce Colin. He was a handy sort, fixed things before shed even noticed they were broken, kept the cows fed, the pigs happy, the grass trim and somehow still found time for the occasional wandering misadventure. But Colin really and truly cooled things off with Dot, telling her in passing:
Thats it, Dot, I wont be round anymore. Gladys is onto us, and youll catch it as well, mark my words
Well, you men these days! Scared of your wivesgo on then, run back to Gladyss apron strings. Im not short of company, Dot retorted breezily.
And that, as they say, was that. Colin stuck to his promise, came home before six, and started taking even his lunch to work just in case. Gladys drew a line under itmore or less. She couldnt stand Dot, and would pointedly turn away if she spotted her in the street. The house was peaceful once more, though the sting of those times still flickered now and again. But Gladys, ever practical, refused to dwell and got on with it.
Clutching her trusty shopping bagher constant companion on every grocery expeditionGladys headed out to the shop. It was only down the lane, and for once, she didnt bump into a soul before arriving. Inside, three village ladies were hunched over the counter, talking nineteen to the dozen. Nina the shopkeeper, weighing out some fudge, peered over her glasses and said, Heard about Dot, Gladys? She died last nightgone just like that. At least her daughter got there in time, living so close.
Gladys couldnt believe her ears. Shed known Dot was ill but hadnt realised things were so serious. Dot hadnt been seen around lately; her neighbour Vera had been nipping over with bread and tea, and Gladys hadnt asked questions. Dots cottage was well over on the other side of the village.
Well I never, murmured Gladys, processing this with a shiver. The chattering resumed instantly.
Yep, Vera told me herself, piped up Mrs. Huntknown in the village as Mrs. Hunt, regardless of age. Dot lived fast, didnt she? Countless men, not a wife in the village she didnt antagonise. And in the end, carrying on with another married man, bold as brass, in plain view of his wife!
Now, now, ladies. Speak no ill of the dead, said the ever-decent Mrs. Jenkins, a retired schoolmistress who still insisted on minding everyones manners. Whats done is done. Dots gone now; well all be following her sooner or later, she said, crossing herself before briskly leaving the shop.
Gladys left in a cloud of thought. Dot had been at least ten years her junior, married straight out of school to a chap from the neighbouring village. Dots mum hadnt wanted her running off to London or Manchester, so she engineered a hasty, practical village wedding to bucolic Simon from across the rivera good catch, his mother said.
But Mum, I dont know himhe doesnt know me!
Youll get to know each other. Think of the convenience, her mother insisted.
So they wed. Dot moved in with his people, a decent-enough family, but Simon was always a bit of a loose cannonhence the early nuptials, presumably. Turned out, he drank like a fish and threw a tantrum at the drop of a hat. He even raised a hand to Dot while she was pregnant. Simons dad always intervened, but it never lasted.
Give him time, love. Maybe hell settle down. Drinks not good for him, her mother-in-law coaxed.
Dot had a daughter, and her in-laws cared for her, but Simon was hopeless. After three years, Simon met his endploughing drunk into a telephone pole in his tractor.
Dot returned to her mums cottage with her little girl. Coincidentally, whenever Dot saw anyone from school, shed proclaim, Never again! Married lifes not for me. Ive got my daughter, and thats more than enough.
At first, she rarely left the cottage. Wedding invites, club nightsshe refused them all, retreating from the world. Who could blame her? Her contemporaries were just getting married; she was a widowed mumhow cheerful. No one harboured any hard feelings; village life isnt short of its own dramas.
Every classmate had spun off in a different direction: some lucky in love, some divorced, some lost in a fog of brandy on a Wednesday morning. Despite being quite the looker and a dab hand at anything she turned her mind to, Dot stuck fast to her decisionnot remarrying, not for anyone.
That didnt mean she was lonely. Oh no, there was never any shortage of visits from local men tiptoeing round after dark. Their wives, discovering the dalliances, would march round and let Dot know exactly what they thought. She took it and moved onand by the following Sunday was back to her old tricks.
Dot only ever looked after Dot. Her daughter grew up and dashed off to the city, married, and only sent postcards now and then. Meanwhile, a hard days work wasnt for Dot; when she needed a break, shed go to the seaside spa and never, ever, tell anyone about it. She wasnt one for friends, either; most village women gave her a wide berth.
In her later years, Dot became openly involved with married Paul, first in secret, then striding down the street together as bold as you like. Pauls wife, Rita, was quiet as a mouse and never left the house. Paul bought everything and ran the house himself.
Pick up some bread, love, and were out of sunflower oil and running low on sugar, Rita would remind him, and hed bring home the shopping in his battered van.
Dot, knowing Rita wasnt one for confrontation, was unashamed. No one could fathom Paul: Rita was quite the beauty, whereas Dot, well But Dot was pushy, shameless, and clung to Paul like a burdock burr.
Even Gladys had seen them, arms linked, leaving the post office as if nothing was amiss. Gladys genuinely pitied Rita.
Poor thing, must cry herself to sleep. The whole village knows her husbands carrying on, right in her face. If Colin had gone on like that Gladys thought, thankful Colin had been curbed before things truly got out of hand.
But then Dot died. And of course the post office was abuzz with speculation:
How could Dot, who lived such a breezy life, be struck down by something so wicked? Divine justice, if you ask me, the villagers whispered.
But illnesses dont check who you are or what youve done. They just arrive. Some folks check out early, others go the distance. Gladys didnt judge Dotshe was gone, after all. Gladys simply thought it best to live life in a way that leaves behind fond memories and a decent legacy. It really is such a shame when people are remembered for the wrong things.
