New husband
Life throws all sorts of oddities at you, yet Ethel rarely liked to retell the tale of her love.
She was fortysix when her husband packed his suitcase for a younger woman, a decade his junior. For four long years she lingered in the deepest gloom, but the ache gradually dulled, her son welcomed a baby, and Ethel bought a modest cottage in the Kentish hills so her grandson could summer there and breathe the seasprayed air. One day the sorrow slipped away while she was planting tomatoes and courgettes with the boy, and she even took in a little dachshund named Pip She never forgave the man, yet she managed to forget him. When she crossed the halfcentury mark she realized she wouldnt mind meeting someone new, though she had no clue where or whom to look.
Ethel worked as a nurse in a childrens health centre in Manchester, a place where romance rarely blossomed. Her friends suggested she keep an eye on a neighbour from the village green, but Ethel waved them offevery bloke there seemed married, and a single man wouldnt be driving his bike to a cottage alone. She resigned herself to the notion that perhaps her fate was to drift through life solo.
At fiftytwo, her exhusband collapsed with a heart attack, dying swiftly and without warning. Ethel felt only a pinch of pity for her son, for the loss struck him like a sudden gust. She attended the funeral more for him than for herself, though she would have preferred to stay at home, sipping tea by the window.
Seated at the memorial table, she caught the glance of a stranger. What a charming fellow, she thought, then snapped herself backdont forget, youre at the funeral of a former spouse. She stared at her plate, trying not to linger on his pleasant face. Barely five minutes later a voice drifted close:
May I?
She lifted her eyes and saw the man sliding his chair over, his own plate already in front of him.
Sorry for barging in, he said with a smile. I havent seen such kind eyes in ages. Id love to introduce myself. Im Michael.
Ethel, she managed to murmur.
He turned out to be an easy talker, and, crucially, his finger bore no wedding ring. Youve gone daft, old crone, she chided herself, yet she could not deny the pull he exerted. As their conversation waned, he asked abruptly:
And how are you related to the deceased?
His wife, Ethel blurted.
Michael glanced skeptically, then pointed at a young widow in a pallid dress, eyes rimmed with tears.
Thats the second one, Ethel clarified. I was the first.
Michael laughed, a soft, bewildered chuckle, and said:
I think this will make a right funny story
And so it did. Michael delighted in recounting how hed turned up at a colleagues funeral and whisked away his first wife. Ethel, on the other hand, blushed and kept explaining that the man was not quite hers, though hed been hers oncea former husband. By the time the new acquaintances caught the drift of the tale, they were already convinced they could not think of her any other way. Yet none of that mattered. The heart of the matter was that she had truly fallen in love, and she felt an odd gratitude toward her first husband for the strange, dreamwoven meeting that followed.
