By the Well…
Evelyn Whitcombe heaved the yoke onto her shoulders, the iron buckets clanging softly in the crisp morning air. The water from the well—clear, icy, untouched—felt sacred to her. Though she was well past seventy, she made this journey every day, trudging to the far end of the lane, ignoring her daughter-in-law’s scolding.
“Gran, really now! We’ve got taps inside—running water, modern and clean! What’s the point?” muttered Clara, rolling her eyes.
But Evelyn pretended not to hear. The tap water smelled of pipes, she insisted—nothing like the well’s sweetness. That water was alive, fresh as a spring, carrying the flavour of memory itself.
She paused, set the buckets down, and straightened with a sigh. A breeze rustled the leaves of a young lime tree someone had planted by the well years ago. Once, a mighty old walnut had stood there—where, as a girl, she’d met Frederick.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart had raced as she’d hurried to meet him! He’d be leaning against the well’s stone rim, tall and dark-eyed, waiting just for her. The other girls had envied her, especially Charlotte, her dearest friend.
“Don’t you dare go near him, Lottie,” Evelyn—then just Evie—had warned. “I’d give my soul for him!”
But Charlotte had smirked and muttered, “A fortune-teller told me he’d be mine. Only joking!”
Evie had brushed it off, but unease had settled in her chest. Then came the fever—raging, merciless. Bedridden, she’d begged Charlotte, “Go to the well. Tell Freddie I’m ill—tomorrow, I’ll meet him.”
Charlotte had smiled oddly before vanishing, her heels clicking away. What she’d told Freddie, Evie never knew. But the next day, under the walnut tree, she found them standing together.
She’d turned and fled, heart shattering in silence.
A week later, Thomas, their quiet neighbour, asked for her hand. “Send the matchmakers, Tom,” she’d said bitterly, clutching her grief. “Before I change my mind.”
Charlotte had come pleading, tears in her eyes: “Nothing happened between us, Evie, please—”
“You got what you wanted. But you won’t be happy. Neither will I. Now go.”
The wedding had felt like burying a dream. Her parents had fretted, but Thomas—Thomas had spent his life ensuring she never regretted it. He cooked, he cleaned, he rocked their children through sleepless nights. The village called him a saint. But love? No. Respect, yes—never love.
Charlotte married Frederick. He’d left almost at once—to Newcastle, then Edinburgh—always with excuses. From Newcastle, word came: a logging accident had crushed him.
The village buried him together. Evie didn’t go. That night, she visited the grave alone, weeping as if she’d held her breath for years.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. Charlotte, in black. They’d parted without a word.
Decades passed. Charlotte died. Now, Evelyn often walked the churchyard—her husband, her parents… and those two graves. She tended them, wiping moss from the headstones, plucking weeds. One evening, she saw Charlotte again—a ghost in the twilight.
“You still come to him, don’t you, Evie? Even now?”
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Perhaps that’s your comfort.”
And then, suddenly, Evelyn understood. She hadn’t loved Frederick—only the dream of him. All these years, a real man had stood beside her: Thomas. Steady. Kind. And she’d been too lost in her memories to see.
She bore no grudge now. None of it mattered.
…Evelyn lifted the buckets, inhaling the scent of marigolds. Time to cut some for the grave. Charlotte had adored their bitter spice—like a promise never kept.
From the path, she called, “Tom! I’ve something to say!”
His voice held worry. “What’s wrong?”
She buried her face in his chest and whispered, “I love you, Tom.”
Blushing like a girl, she felt his arms tighten—his silence saying everything.
Now, Evelyn never passed those graves without stopping. She’d brush the granite, murmur prayers, as if hoping—somewhere beyond—they’d finally found peace. Real peace. Endless.
