Love
One evening, I was tidying up the surgery, when I heard the door creak open, as if someone was leaning their whole weight against it. I turned aroundgoodness me! Standing there was what looked like Michael, our respected Jack-of-all-trades from across the river. But his beard was always thick and snowy white, smelling of wood shavings and roll-up tobacco. This mans face was clean-shaven, ghostly pale, and there was a plaster over a cut on his neck. And the scent of Brut was so strong it stung my nose. Had Michael really gone and shaved off his beard?!
Mr. Mason, I said, putting down the mat, is that you? Or did you send your younger brother to us?
He stood there shifting uncomfortably, fiddling with his cap and avoiding my eyes.
Its me, Mrs. Simmons Me You wouldnt have something for the heart or nerves, would you?
I slipped straight into nurse mode, sat him on the couch, and whipped out the blood pressure cuff.
Whats the trouble, then? Where does it hurt?
Everywhere, he grumbled. Feels like someones banging a drum inside me. Havent slept a wink. My hands keep shaking too.
His blood pressure read 160 over 100, which was a bit much for Michael, whos never been one for doctors and could bend nails between his fingers.
Right, I said, a bit firmly. Lets have it out. Overworked yourself or had a row with Mary?
At the mention of his wife, he flinched, red spots blazing on his cheeks, jaw working away. His Mary was a quiet, gentle soul, always in step with him, never a harsh wordalways Mickey this and Mickey that. But Michael, well never the easiest, like knotted wood.
Just give me something and dont ask questions. Youre a nurse, so nurse, please.
I gave him a dose of valerian and popped a heart tablet under his tongue. After a while, he caught his breath, mumbled Thanks, and off he went. I watched him go from the windowhis walk was faster than usual, almost jaunty.
Crikey, I thought, has the old devil gone and fallen in love? In a village like ours, news travels faster than the post. Sneeze at one end; at the other, theyll say youre on your deathbed.
The very next evening, Lucy the postwoman dashed in.
Mrs. Simmons! Have you heard about Michael? The mans lost his marbles! Not only did he shave his beard, today he was up in Leicester, came back with shopping bags and was sneaking them under his coat. Nora at the High Street shop rang meMichael himself was buying fabric and even popped by the jewellers!
My heart skipped a beat. Hed fallen for someone, no doubt. But who? Everyones in plain sight in our little village.
And Mary? I asked quietly.
Lucy pulled a face of pure sympathy.
Shes like a walking raincloud. Nearly in tears every time you meet her. Neighbours say hes sent her to sleep in the summer house. Told her: Dont interrupt, Ive got a project. What kind of project does a carpenter need at night? We all know what that means
A few days later, Mrs. Mary Mason herself came to see me, small and angular in her old woollen scarf.
Mrs. Simmons, she whispered, can I come in a minute?
I sat her down near the fire, poured her some hot tea with raspberry. She hugged the mug in both hands, warming herself, but stared at the floor.
Hes leaving me, Mrs. Simmons. Forty years together, raised kids, now grandchildren and thats that.
Oh, come on, Mary. What makes you think that? I tried to console her, but honestly, it felt like something was clawing at my own heart.
Hes changed. Shaves every day. Drenched in that aftershaveshe wrinkled her noseAnd yesterday, I found a receipt in his jacket from Golden Thread. Hes lying to me, cant look me in the eye, she said, tears spilling quietly, the sort that seem to engrave deeper lines on faces grown old with worry. Why would he be going through my old hope chest and dresses in the attic? I came inhe snapped: What you snooping for? and slammed the door in my face. I know Im an old woman now, not much to look at but hes not exactly a spring chicken either
I patted her fragile shoulder and thought: Oh, men. Why must you do this?
Hang in there, Mary. Maybe its not what it seems.
And how could it be anything else? she gave a dry smile, He sings, you know. Sits in the shed hammering away and singing Summer Holiday. Never sung in his life. Fallen in love, thats whats happened.
She left, and I sat up all night. Michael had always been as solid as an oaksurely he wouldnt break up his family in old age. Hes stern, yes; quiet, certainly. But not a scoundrel.
A week or so passed. The village tension was rising like dough left to prove. Rumours flewanything from a young librarian in Leicester to some city lass rumoured to have bought a cottage nearby.
Meanwhile, Michael wandered around absorbed in his own thoughts, a gleam in his eye, thinner, but somehow lighter. He didnt seem to notice a soul.
On Saturday evening, the neighbours lad tore in:
Aunt Grace! Grandad Michaels collapsed in the yard! Grandma Marys calling you!
I grabbed my bag and dashed down the path, gumboots slipping, thinking only, Please, not a heart attack. Dear God, not a heart attack.
I flew into the garden. Michael was sprawled on the grass, face ashen, lips tinged blue. Mary was by his side, keening, cradling his head. Beside them, planks, carving rails, tins of paint were strewn everywhere. In the midst of the mess stood the half-built frame of a delicate, lacy gazebo.
I ran to him, feeling for his pulse. Racing. Blood pressure, still high.
What happened? I asked.
That plank too heavy Michael groaned. Everything went black my back went, and then right here He tapped his chest.
Hed overdone it, clearly. I gave him a couple of shotspainkillers and something for his blood pressure. He lay there to catch his breath.
Right, Mary, call the neighbour to help shift him indoors. Cant be lying on the cold ground.
We got Michael to bed.
Mickey, Mary asked softly, Why the gazebo? Its autumn; winters nearly here.
Michael looked at her for a long moment, took a deep breath, rummaged beneath the pillow, and pulled out a velvet box and a battered, yellowing notebook.
This wasnt exactly how I planned it, Mary, he said, and his voice trembled like a boys. Do you know what tomorrow is?
Mary stilled, brow furrowing.
Twentieth of October Sunday
And forty years ago?
She gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth.
Oh, Michael, Id completely forgotten, with all the worrythe ruby wedding anniversary!
Michael handed her the notebook.
Its your old diary, Mary. Found it in the chest up in the loft.
You read it? she blushed.
I did, he nodded. Forgive a foolish old man. I read it and it just broke my heart.
I stood still, barely breathing, listened to the tick-tock of the wall clock echoing through the room.
You used to dream wed have a little house, a garden, and especially a white gazebo by the brook, so we could have tea and listen to records. You wanted a blue dress with lace And all my life I just workedon the new builds, at the mill Built us a house, but the gazebo was always sometime later. No money, no time, no strength. And you put up with it all, with my rough ways.
He turned his face to his wife.
Lifes flown by. Never managed the storybook romance or the blue dress. So, I thought Id do it for our anniversary. Went to town for fabric and a ring. Olga the seamstress made the dress from your old measurements. And the gazebo ran out of steam, as you can see. Wanted it to be a surprise. Ended up making a spectacle of myself and worrying you sick.
Mary slowly went to the bed, knelt, and pressed her cheek against his work-roughened hand.
You old fool, Mickey, she whispered through tears. But there was so much happiness in her voice you could have bottled it. You daft fool I thought youd found yourself some younger woman. Thought youd stopped loving me. But it was all for the gazebo
Mary! he spluttered. What woman? Theres a dress in the wardrobe, in a bag. Try it on? Will it fit?
Itll fit, she nodded, not looking up. Even if it doesnt, Ill wear it anyway.
I brushed my nose, feeling my own eyes prickle. Quietly, I packed away my blood pressure kit.
Right, I said in my best matrons voice. Youre on strict bed rest, Mr. Mason. No planks, no hammers. Ill check on you tomorrow.
Michael gave me a grateful look.
Mrs. Simmons Please Dont go spreading this around. Theyll laugh me out of the village, say the old mans lost his mind.
They dont understand a thing, I waved him off. Rest now. Bittersweet, isnt it?
I stepped out onto the doorstep. The clouds had cleared, revealing a huge golden moon. The air was clean, sharp with wet leaves and wood smoke, tinged somehow with apples though the harvest was long gone.
Nothings secret in a village. Soon enough, word had got out that Michael was making a surprise for Mary and overdid it.
Next morning, neighbours started streaming into their housemen with tools, the smith with fancy hinges, the joiner with paints. It was all action, the place humming!
By evening, there stood the gazebowhite, lovely, as if ready for a bride. Inside, they set a table, topped with an embroidered cloth, a proper tea set, porcelain and all. It was beautifuleveryone gathered, in and around the gazebo.
Then Mary Mason appeared from the house, in a blue dress with a ring sparkling on her finger, hair softly pinned, lips tinted, her eyes glowing like lamps, Michael pale but proud by her side, in his best jacket with his long-service medals and a tie.
Michael brought out an old gramophonehed traded it off a rag-and-bone man in the city. He set the record. It hissed and crackled, then from the horn poured out Vera Lynn: Yours till the stars lose their glory
Michael took Marys hand, and they began to dance, slow and careful, but the way he looked at her could have melted stone. As if, instead of forty years, only forty minutes had passed since they first met.
The whole village watched. The women dabbed their eyes with cornered handkerchiefs. The men smoked, eyes down, each probably thinking about his own wife, about the last time hed brought her flowers or even just said thank you.
And I thought, how much time we fritter away on old grudges, suspicions and hollow chatter, while life itself is shorter than we think. And the only thing of true worth in all of it is the warmth of a familiar hand and the light you see in a loved ones eyeslight that shines just for you.
