The Neighbour’s Husband Often Dropped By, Until His Wife Showed Up

I arrived in the little Cotswold village of Little Meadow at the end of August. After my divorce I fled the city, away from familiar faces, from the pitying glances, from an apartment where every corner whispered the life I had left behind.

I bought a cottage from an online listing without ever seeing it. I didnt care how or why, only that it was far enough, that no one would know. The first week I wept into a pillow each night. By day I wandered the empty rooms, trying to work​Im an interiordesign freelancer, taking commissions over the web​but my hands refused to obey and my thoughts scattered like startled birds.

In the courtyard stood a well with a crane perched on its rim, its long neck like a Martian antenna against a sky where tap water ordinarily streamed. I stared at it as if it were a spaceship, a rope dangling, a bucket waiting to be hoisted. The first time I tried, the bucket almost slipped into the darkness.

A tall, sturdy man from the house opposite appeared, as if summoned by the sound of my panic. He was about sixty, suntanned, with a weatherworn but kindly face.

May I give you a hand? he said. You must be the new neighbour. Im George Whitaker.

He showed me how to draw water, filling a barrel to the brim. I thanked him, tears trembling at the edge of my cheeks from sheer helplessness. He blushed, hurried back to his garden, and I stood in the yard, bucket full, wondering how I had been carried to this strange place and how I would ever live here.

A week later the broadband cut out, as if the air itself had been throttled. My work hung in limbo, my connection to the world vanished. I called the provider; they promised a technician in three days, if they remembered. I paced the cottage in a panic, then remembered George. Perhaps he could help.

That evening I knocked on his door. A weary yet striking woman opened it. She introduced herself as Agnes Whitaker, Georges wife. She called for her husband; he emerged, listened, and nodded.

Let me have a look, he said.

Agnes hustled around, urging, Come on, George, help the lady!

He fiddled with the router for a long while, and finally the lights flickered back to life. I was so relieved I almost threw myself around his neck. I offered tea and a box of biscuits I had brought from the city.

Its beautiful here, George said, eyeing my laptop with its open project files. Like something out of a magazine.

I began to talk about my workhow I choose colours, organise spaces. He listened with a genuine interest that felt almost foreign; my exhusband had never cared about my designs. George asked questions, surprised, delighted, as if he were a child discovering a new world. He stayed for over an hour, and when he left I walked him to the gate, thanked him again, and realized, for the first time in a month, I hadnt cried all evening.

Three days later my printer stopped printing. I wrestled with it for half a day, then returned to the Whitakers. Agnes opened the door again.

George? Ill fetch him, she said. George, come, Olivias here!

He returned, tinkered, and I poured him more tea, offered a slice of cake Id saved. We fell into conversation again. I told him about my city life, the divorce, how my husband had left me for another, how all our mutual friends chose his side. George, ever the convivial neighbour, nodded, saying I shouldnt blame myself, that life just shifts, that this was merely the start of something new. I listened, thinking how nice it would be to have a father figure. My own father had died when I was ten; his memory was a faint echo.

Soon George was popping over regularly. Your computers acting up again? Need a new program? Anything, hed say, as if his visits were the only thread pulling me from solitude. I spent whole days at my desk, chatting with cashiers in the shop for a sentence or two, and then there was George, genuinely listening, understanding, asking. He began calling me Olly, and the nickname loosened something inside me, as if Id finally become his daughter.

After three weeks I noticed George grooming himself before each visithis shirts crisp, his shave immaculate, a faint smell of aftershave that reminded me of oldfashioned English gentlemen. I worried a little; what if the old man had fallen in love? I only saw him as a father figure. Yet his gaze lingered a moment longer; he lingered later than usual, staying until midnight, while I started to yawn, he kept talking, eyes fixed on me.

One evening, as I described a new clients brief, the front door burst open. Agnes stood in the doorway, face pale, lips trembling.

There you are! she shouted. Ive been waiting at home for you to come back! And youre spending evenings with the young neighbour!

George leapt to his feet.

Agnes, what?

The whole village is buzzing, she said, voice sharp. They say George is consorting with the new girl! Every night hes there, while I sit at home, a foolish old woman with nothing to do!

I realised the whole scene from the outside: a man leaving his own house each night to sit with a younger neighbour, whispers spreading, jealousy blossoming. My voice shook as I tried to explain.

Agnes Whitaker, I began, youve misunderstood. George is like a father to me. He only helps, talks to me because Im so lonely here

Lonely, you say! Agnes snapped, eyes flashing. Ive lived with him thirtyfive years. And youre stealing his time! Youre ruining a marriage!

Tears flooded my face. I sobbed, apologising.

I didnt mean to I was just so alone. No one here, no one to talk to. George is kind, he listens. I felt Id found a father I never had. Im sorry, truly. If you want, Ill leave, Ill go away forever.

Agnes stared at me, her expression softening then hardening. Dont go, she said suddenly. Show me your internet. Whats so fascinating that my husband spends his evenings with you?

I wiped my cheeks. We sat at the computer together, and I began to show her my design work. Agnes watched, then asked: What program? How do you pick colours? What style is this?

Her eyes brightened, her face seemed to smooth out a few years. She confessed she had been a teacher, now retired, but her habit of learning never left. She peppered me with questions, trying to grasp the digital world shed never truly entered, only through a phone.

George stood nearby, watching his wife, surprised.

Agnes, I never knew you were so interested, he murmured.

Did I ask? she retorted with a grin.

Silence fell. The three of us sat at my desk, sipping tea, the room humming with a strange, shared quietpain, resentment, understanding all folded together.

Agnes, I said gently, if you like, I can teach you to use the computer.

Id like that, she replied, nodding. Im fed up with just the garden, I want to know whats happening beyond the hedges.

From that night onward everything changed. The Whitakers came together, Agnes learning to send emails, search recipes, watch films online, even dabble in social media with old school friends. I started visiting them, learning to make stew and bake pies, digging the garden with a spade, discovering that planting was a science of its own.

Together we talked about everything and nothing at once. The ache of my divorce dulled, for when you have someone to listen, to understand, the world feels less frightening.

One afternoon Agnes, smiling, said, You know, Olly, I first thought you were stealing my husband. Turns out you gave him back to meour conversations, our tea. Weve begun to talk like we used to, just about life.

Now Agnes often laughs, Look at that city girl, stuck with us old timers! Dont you find us boring? Go find a young lover, a handsome lad. After all, youre still a beauty.

The village hums on, the well still watches like a silent spaceship, and I drift through the dreamlike days, halfawake, halfin a reverie, knowing that sometimes strangers become family in the most unexpected of places.