We sat on a bench beside an old stone tomb in the little village cemetery of Little Whittington, two women who had never met before but who, through the work of tending graves, found themselves sharing a story.
Did you ever love your husband? I asked, nodding toward the weatherworn memorial of a man in a grey cap.
My husband, she began, tightening the black kerchief around her neck, I cannot get over the fact that its been years now, Im weary and I feel empty. Yet I loved him fiercely.
We fell silent for a moment. The other woman, who had just arrived, exhaled slowly and said, I never loved my husband at all.
I turned my head, curiosity sparking. How long were you together?
We werewell, you see, we were married in 71.
And you say you never loved him after all those years?
She sighed, I married him out of spite. I fancied another lad, but he slipped away to a friend, and I thought, Ill just marry him before he does. Then there was Tomhe was a bit of a rogue. He followed me, liked me, and
What happened then?
She laughed bitterly, I almost ran away on our wedding day. The village was bustling, I was crying. I thought my youth was over. Then I looked at my groomshort, balding, ears sticking out, a suit that sat on him like a saddle on a cow. He smiled, happy, and wouldnt let go of my hand. I thought, Im to blame for this.
What next?
We moved in with his parents. They were as thinskinned as he was, blowing dust off me at every turn. I was a curvy woman, eyes dark as plums, hair in a braid, my dresses tearing at the seams. Everyone saw we werent a pair.
In the mornings Id wash my shoes while his mother ordered me about. Id snap at them, shout, because I felt sorry for myself. I never loved him, and it never workedwho could love a daughterinlaw like me?
Then he said, Lets go up north, earn a bit on the new railway. Wed be away from our families.
That was it for meanywhere would do. The wind was in my hair.
At the time the nation was buzzing about the new Channel Tunnel and the highspeed rail to the north. I could not have managed it, but George did. He got into the crew, and we were first sent to Leeds, then on to the farreaching northern lines.
The railway put women and men in separate carriages. I was crammed into a womens carriage with my modest bag, while the men, George included, rode in another. I made friends fast, sharing the pies his mother had baked for the journey.
When we stopped at a station, George asked for food, and I pretended there was none left, feeling ashamed. He laughed, Theres plenty here, well eat our fill. He was shy, never taking a crumb from anyone else, and soon I forgot his embarrassment.
We arrived at a makeshift barracks: thirtyfive women and girls in one room, the men in another. They promised us proper family quarters later. I kept busy, avoiding his gaze, making excuses, pretending I was always in a hurry. The women would chide me, Hes your husband, you know.
I often lingered by the windows, waiting for a glimpse of him. The damp, cold air of the moors made me feel invisible.
I decided then to divorce. The children were a blessing I never got; wed only managed a couple of years together, and love was never there. Sometimes, out of pity, I stayed the night in the same hut as him.
Then Thomas appeared on the horizona tall, darkhaired fellow with a wave of hair. We both worked hard, fell to the ground exhausted, I as a concrete worker, he as a steelframe fixer. The mess hall offered Czech beer, oranges, and sausages wed never seen back home. Bands played, dances were held in the mess tent.
Friends introduced me to Thomas, and I fellmadly, passionately. George tried to intervene, but my head swirled with love. Ill divorce you, I said, and we were given a tiny partitioned room in the hut.
Thomas and I were together, but George lingered nearby, a ghost in the background. I felt his presence, but I pushed it aside.
The woman in the black kerchief listened, never looking away.
How could he stand it? I asked.
He endured because he loved. Then Thomas and his loverClarastarted an affair, and he blamed me, saying Id hung myself around his neck. He was a weak man, but he tried to protect me.
Georges friends thought his love had drained his brain. He fought Thomas; it happened at a station, and I later learned George had been rushed to the infirmary. I cursed the driver, How could you let this happen?
In the hospital George lay, his face blue, swollen, not from his head but his leg.
Why did you fight? I whispered.
He responded, For you.
I felt sorry for myself then, remembering how pregnant women were sent away from the worksite, how children were unwelcome. I wondered what they would think of a child not bearing my name.
I visited the hospital, bringing supplies, not out of love but duty. One day he stood on crutches, wore an old hospital gown, looked out the window and said, Dont divorce me; well leave this place, my child will be ours, no one elses.
I replied, Why?
He said, Because I love you.
I answered, Fine, if you wish.
Then I turned and walked down the corridor, feeling his eyes on me, hoping Id look back, but I didnt. My heart fluttered like a butterfly, though I knew Id never return to the village.
We later moved to the remote town of Barrowby. George was quiet, but his skill as a machinetool graduate soon earned him a foremans post on the new hydraulic lifts. He travelled from site to site, always bringing back treats, never eating them himself.
Hed boast, I have a wife, pregnant, while I hid my eyes. We were given a small house; I was appointed as the housekeeper.
In the maternity ward I learned my son, Harold, was Thomassdarkhaired and sturdy. George never showed it, but he smiled and almost wept when he took the baby home.
Harold was a heavy child, sickly from birth, a difficult boy. George was exhausted, often falling asleep on the way home, but he never complained.
A year later I bore a daughter, named after Georges mother, and realised Id hurt his parents deeply, though his father had died. I felt no love or hate for George then; with small children, there was little time for anything else. He cooked, cleaned, and let me rest.
One day I tried to wash his clothes, and he teased, Cold water, eh? Better that the wife gets sick? I snatched the tub from him, angry at his condescension. His overprotective affection began to grate on me.
Harold, now thirteen, was registered in the local police youth club. I met a kind, unmarried officer, Sergeant Collins, who befriended him and kept George at arms length. George, timid, could not discipline or defend himself; I sometimes had to step in with a belt when he pilfered from market stalls.
George was sent to a training college in London; we had moved into a decent flat in the city, while he was dispatched to Cambridge for studies. He said, If you wont go, I wont either. I felt a cold shiver.
He left, bitter. Sergeant Collins urged me to divorce, to leave the man who never truly loved me.
The woman in the black kerchief fell silent, wiping tears from her veil.
Do you still think of him? she asked.
Ive kept his letters all these years, I replied, He wrote that hed ruined my life because I never loved him, only endured. He said hed send half his wages, wished me happiness, and asked me to live on.
The wind rustled the autumn leaves, the sky a clear blue. The woman asked, Why are you crying?
I answered, Life has a way of pulling at you when you remember.
She asked if I had gone to the police officer. I said, No, I stayed, sleepless nights, Harold fighting his own demons, my own tangled life. The letter I kept was a reminder of what Id endured.
One morning I awoke, feeling cold, and thought, What am I doing? A mans whole life has been spent on me, and I I recalled all the ways hed helped, the day I was taken to the womens ward for a botched operation, the whispered prayers in the intensive care unit. He waited in a yellow ward, his face pale, his leg in a cast. He whispered, Dont leave, well get away together, my child will be ours. I asked, Why? He replied, Because I love you.
I felt pity for myself then. Pregnant women were sent away from the building sites; children were not welcomed. I wondered what the village would think of a child not bearing my name.
In the hospital, George, on crutches, lifted himself and, with a trembling hand, brushed my cheek, fetching a nurse and medicine. If he hadnt been there, I shudder to think.
One day, a misdelivered parcel ended up in our snowy hamlet. The courier, lost in the blizzard, took it to the neighboring settlement. We argued, but he persisted, and later fell ill with frostbite. That taught me I needed no one but him.
Would a letter ever reach him? After all those years, could I still prove I never placed him in my heart? I realized he had decided to walk away, believing he loved someone else.
Autumn lingered, warm in its own way. I settled the childrens futures, secured work, and boarded a train to London, hoping to see George. The train crawled slowly, my heart beating with each clack of the wheels. I pictured his familiar face, his bald head, his ears, his bellyeverything I loved.
At the university, they told me where to go. I entered the underground, searching for his eyes among the crowd. They wouldnt let me into the building; I waited on the high stair, scanning faces. He emerged with a group, looking dignified in a cap, short coat, a folder under his arm. I froze, stunned, a rush of love for the man Id once called husband.
He passed, unaware. I called out. He turned, disbelief in his eyes. We stood there, leaves falling around us as they had that autumn long ago. His friends looked on, baffled. We reached for each other, folders spilling, and simply held one another, speechless.
What now? someone whispered.
A fellow student laughed, Now thats love, they say theyve lived a hundred years and finally meet.
The woman in the black kerchief, her veil soaked, sniffed and asked, Did they live to the end in love?
I answered, To what end?
She gestured toward the gravestone where my interlocutor had been tending, Thats yours, isnt it?
No, I said, Thats Max, our son, who died young, never reaching forty. He spent his last days in a lockup. We both suffered.
Is he still alive? the other woman asked, brightening.
Alive, she replied, God bless him! He brought us together, and were still here.
A stout, middleaged man in a black coat and leather cap approached, friendly, his round face soft. Tired, George? his wife asked, shaking dust from his coat. He gathered his tools from their sons grave, while she helped with his back. They walked handinhand along the yellowed cemetery lane, passing rows of headstones.
The woman in the grey cap turned, waved to the other, and then to her husbands portrait on his memorial, pondering that happiness does not sprout on its own; it lives only when you welcome it into your heart. And happiness, at its core, is to love and be loved.
