Love One evening, while I was tidying up the village medical room, I heard the door creak—heavily,…

Love

So, one evening I was tidying up in the village surgery, and I hear the door groan open, heavy like someones leaned their shoulder against it. I turn round, and honestly, I nearly drop the mop. Standing there is George, our Boldridges most respected bloke knows how to fix anything, hands like tree trunks. But his usual beard, thick and grey as Father Christmas, always smelling of wood shavings and pipe tobacco, is completely gone. Instead, his cheeks are bare and pale, and theres a plaster stuck to a cut on his neck. And the pungent whiff of Old Spice is so strong I almost sneeze. Has George gone and shaved his beard off?!

George Edwards, I say, putting down the rug, is that really you? Or did you send your younger brother instead?

He fiddles awkwardly with his cap, dodging my gaze. Its me, Pat. I I just need something. For the heart. And the nerves.

I immediately put on my nurse face, sat him down on the couch, took out the blood pressure monitor. What happened? I ask, Wheres it hurting?

Everywhere, he grumbles. Feels like someones hammering metal inside me. Cant sleep. Cant stop my hands shaking.

His blood pressures up 160 over 100, which is high for George. He never goes to the doctor; hes the sort who can bend nails with his fingers.

I say, firmly, Alright, properly, now. Overworked? Or did you have a row with Sally?

At the mention of his wife, his head jerks up, and he goes blotchy pink. Sallys a quiet sort, hardly says boo to a goose, always Georgie this and Georgie that. And George, well hes got the personality of a gnarly oak log.

Just give me something for it, and dont ask questions, he insists.

So I gave him some drops of Corvalol and a little tablet under his tongue. He sat for a bit, caught his breath, muttered thanks and left. I watched through the window his step was quick, almost sprightly.

Hmm, I thought, has Cupid struck? Is he in love again at his age?

You know what villages are like sneeze at one end, and by tea time the other side is telling folk youre on your way out.

Sure enough, the next evening, in bursts Linda the postwoman. Pat! Heard the news about George? Hes lost his marbles! Not only did he shave off his beard, but today he went to the town centre by bus, came back with bags and is hiding them under his jacket. Rita at the fabric shop called round, asking why your George was buying stuff for dressmaking, and why he popped his head in at the jewellers!

My heart did a little somersault. Clearly, hes got someone! But who? Theres nowhere to hide in Boldridge.

And what about Sally? I asked, keeping my voice low.

Linda made a sympathetic face. Poor thing shes stormy as a thundercloud, eyes all puffed up. Neighbours say he sent her to sleep in the summerhouse: Dont bother me, Ive got a project. What sort of project does a carpenter have at night?

A few days later, Sally Edwards arrived at my door small and frail, wrapped up in an old woollen scarf.

Pat, she whispers, may I come in?

I sat her by the fireplace, poured a hot cup with raspberry jam. She just clasped the mug and stared into the flames.

Hes leaving me, Pat. Forty years together, raised our kids, got grandkids and now its over.

Dont be daft, Sal, I tried to reassure her, though my stomach felt full of scratching cats.

Hes different. Shaves every day. That cologne…, she winces, and yesterday I found a receipt from Golden Thread in his jacket pocket. He lies to me, wont look me in the eye. Silent tears roll down her cheeks, the sort that deepen the wrinkles. He opened up my old chest on the attic the one with my wedding dresses. I walked in and he snapped, Whyre you snooping? and slammed the door. I know Im old and nothing special now, but so is he

I stroked her skinny shoulder and thought, Men what are you like?

Hang in there, Sal, I said. Might not be what you think.

How not? she chuckled bitterly. He sings, Pat! Sits in the shed, hammering, and sings Scarborough Fair. Never sang in his life. Hes in love, Pat. I know it.

She left, and I lay awake all night. Surely George, sturdy and reliable as an oak, isnt about to blow up his family after all these years. Hes a hard man, yes, but not cruel.

A week went by. Tension in the village bubbled up like yeast in a warm kitchen. Speculation ranged from the young librarian in town to some city lady whod apparently bought a cottage nearby.

George kept to himself, eyes burning bright but looking leaner almost lighter and barely noticed anyone.

Saturday afternoon, the neighbours lad dashed in, breathless: Auntie Pat! Grandad George fell in the garden! Granny Sally needs you!

Bag on my shoulder, I ran well, slid more than ran, galoshes nearly flying off, thinking God, not a heart attack!

I rushed into the garden George was stretched out on the grass, face grey, lips blue. Sally knelt by him, cradling his head. The garden was a disaster timber, carved rails, tins of paint, strewn everywhere. In the middle, half-built, stood the delicate frame of a little white gazebo.

I knelt by George, checked his pulse racing. Blood pressure high.

What happened? I asked.

Picked up heavy board blacked out, he whispered. He pointed to his back, then his chest.

He overdid it, clearly. I jabbed him with some painkillers, brought his blood pressure down. He rested, breathing normal.

Right, I ordered, Sal, fetch a neighbour. Lets get him inside. Nothing good comes of lying on damp grass.

We got George onto the bed.

Why the gazebo, George? Sally asked softly. Its autumn winters round the corner.

George looked at her a long moment, took a deep breath, rummaged under his pillow and pulled out a velvet ring box. And an old, battered diary with yellowed pages.

I didnt mean for it to happen like this, Sal, his voice shaky as a schoolboys. Do you remember tomorrows date?

Sally froze, frowning. Twentieth of October Sunday

And forty years ago?

She gasped, hand over mouth. Oh, George, Id completely forgotten. All these worries. Our ruby wedding anniversary!

He handed her the diary. This is your old diary, Sal, found it in the attic chest.

You read it? she blushed.

I did, he nodded. Forgive me, silly old fool. Read it, and my heart ached.

I held my breath the room was still except for the clock ticking.

In it, you dreamed wed have a house, a garden, and a white gazebo by the stream where wed take tea and play records. Youd be in a blue lace dress I was always busy, building houses and working in the sawmill. Made you a home, but kept putting off the gazebo: later, when theres money, when theres time. And you never complained, just carried on.”

He turned to Sally. And now the years have gone by, and Ive never given you that fairytale, or the blue dress. So I decided before our anniversary, I’d get the fabric and a ring from town. The dressmaker made it to your old measurements. The gazebo well, I misjudged my strength, silly old stump. Wanted it as a surprise. Instead, folk laughed and I wore you out.

Sally slowly knelt beside the bed, pressed her cheek to that rough, calloused carpenters hand.

You daft old thing, George, she whispered, tears streaming but her voice was so full of joy, youd scoop it up with a spoon. I thought youd found another, some young woman, and youd stopped loving me. And it was the gazebo

He perked up. Sal, what other? Look in the wardrobe the dress is there in a bag. Try it, will it fit?

Itll fit, she nodded, still not looking up. Even if it wont, Ill wear it anyway.

I sniffled, eyes stinging, quietly packed up my blood pressure kit.

Right, I gruffed, playing strict nurse. Patient, youre on bed rest. No boards, no hammers. Ill check tomorrow.

George gave me a grateful look. Pat please dont gossip to the village. Theyll say Ive lost my mind.

They wouldnt understand anyway, I waved him off. Rest up. Cheers!

I stepped onto the porch. The clouds had cleared, and a huge yellow moon hung in the gap. The air was crisp, smelling of damp leaves, smoke, and, weirdly, apples though the harvest was over.

You cant hide anything in a village. Someone soon whispered George was planning a surprise for Sally and overdid it.

Next morning, folks streamed to George and Sallys house blokes with their toolkits, the blacksmith brought fancy hinges, the joiner brought paint. Work flew fast, smoke rising.

By evening, the gazebo was finished white, lacy, pretty as a bride. The table was covered in an embroidered cloth, with a proper teapot and cups set out. Stunning! People sat in and around the gazebo.

Later, Sally walked out of the house in a blue lacy dress, ring gleaming, hair done, lips coloured, eyes shining bright as lanterns, and next to her, paler George in his best jacket with old work medals, tie on.

George brought out a pre-war gramophone hed traded from a junk dealer in town. He put on a record. It crackled and soon the voice of Vera Lynn drifted out: We’ll meet again, dont know where, dont know when

He invited Sally to dance; they moved slowly, feet unsure, but he looked at her like itd only been forty minutes, not forty years, since they first met.

The whole village watched. Women dabbed at tears with their scarves, blokes smoked and stared at the ground, each probably thinking about his wife when had he last brought her flowers or simply said thanks?

And me I thought how we waste so much time on grudges, suspicions, petty talk, while life is shorter than it seems. In the end, all that really matters is the warmth of a familiar hand, and seeing that light in someones eyes that shines only for you.