“The Last Time”
“Bloody wretch!”
Thomas hammered his fists against the front door of the cottage while the gathered villagers tried to calm him.
“Tom, what’s got into you? You’ll be begging forgiveness tomorrow! And aren’t you ashamed? You’ve two little ones, your Emily’s never given you reason—yet here you are disgracing yourself and her!”
Thomas turned toward the garden gate.
“What, come for a show, have you? Sod off, the lot of you!”
The crowd didn’t budge. Old Mrs. Wilkins, their neighbour, spoke gently.
“Tom, love, what’s set you off? There must be a reason.”
“A reason? Emily’s the reason! I give her my heart—and what does she do? Smiles at everyone else, shuts herself indoors—who’s she with in there?”
Thomas slumped onto the bench by the doorstep, his voice hoarse and whinging—a strange, pitiful sound coming from a burly man. Mrs. Wilkins softened her tone.
“You’re wrong to speak ill of her. She’s a good lass. Honest.”
Thomas barely whispered back, “She don’t love me, Auntie Joan. I’m just a country bumpkin, and she’s from town—always looking past me.”
“You great fool… A bigger fool I’ve yet to meet.”
But Thomas was already asleep, head lolling onto his chest. Auntie Joan nudged him lightly, someone slipped a cap under his head, and there he sprawled.
“Right. He won’t stir till he’s slept it off.”
***
Fifteen years earlier, Thomas had gone to the city to train as a digger-driver. Their village was growing then, new houses springing up. Folk said it’d soon be a proper town—without the tower blocks, maybe, and with outdoor privies, but a town all the same.
The village had its own builders—cottages for tradesmen, even plans for a proper community hall, not just the drafty wooden shed they used. A stone one, two storeys high, with space for clubs and gatherings.
They had a digger, too, but no one to run it. Plenty of lads could drive a tractor, but skilled hands were scarce. So they picked Tom and Simon from across the brook and sent them off to the city.
Tom and Simon had never got on. If anything, they’d been rivals—fancying the same girls, even scrapping a time or two. Now, stuck sharing a room, they had little choice but to talk. Simon said flatly:
“I’ll find myself a city girl, settle here proper.”
Tom was stunned. “The village paid for your training! And you’d turn your back?”
Simon laughed. “You daft sod. That’s what clever lads do. What’s there back home?”
Tom scoffed. “Oh aye, they’ll be queuing up for you.”
Three days later, Tom spotted Simon with a girl—and near lost his wits. He fell for Emily the moment he saw her. That evening, he asked Simon:
“Who was that lass with you?”
“Oh, that’s Em. City born, lives with her gran—place’ll be hers soon.”
“Sweet on her, are you?”
“Joking? Flat as a board—I like ’em curvy.”
Tom punched him. Twice. Simon wiped his nose and grinned.
“Ah, so it’s you who’s smitten. Just watch—I’ll marry her, then step out left and right while she waits at home forgiving me.”
Next day, Tom tailed Simon, saw him wrap an arm round Emily’s waist—and charged.
He blurted everything to Emily, who stared between them, baffled, then snapped: “Piss off, the pair of you,” and walked away.
Another fight broke out. Simon moved rooms that same day, while Tom lurked outside Emily’s place like a guard dog.
She’d pass by, pretending not to see him—until one evening she stopped.
“How long d’you plan to stalk me? Might as well take me to the pictures.”
He brought her back to the village—Emily and her frail gran. The old lady died a decade later; by then, they had two boys.
Tom would’ve dug the earth bare for his family. Built them the finest house, the sturdiest fence. Bought the lads the smartest bicycles. Emily worked as the village medic. He worshipped the ground she walked on.
Then, a year ago, the unthinkable happened. Simon came back. His city wife had clearly had enough—packed his bags and sent him packing.
When Tom heard, he stormed home black as thunder. Emily looked up, startled.
“Tom, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
He yanked a bottle from the cupboard, poured, drank. Emily paled. She’d never seen him like this—he barely touched ale, save at Christmas.
Tom glowered. “Simon’s back.”
Emily frowned. “Simon? Which Simon?”
“That Simon. The one you—”
She laughed. “Oh. Didn’t stick in the city, then?” Then sobered. “So he’s back. Why’s that upset you?”
“I’ll tell you this, Em—if I hear a whisper, I’ll kill him.”
Emily arched a brow. “Hear what? You’re not making sense.”
“You’ll understand soon enough.”
Peace fled their home. Sober, Tom would beg forgiveness—”I’m a fool, Em, forgive me”—and she would. Then, within weeks, he’d be drunk again, raging worse each time. But for all his threats, his vile words—he never once raised a hand.
***
Morning found him in the wash-house—likely fled there to escape midges. As memory returned, he groaned.
“Bloody hell. Again.”
Peering out—empty yard, barely seven. He darted to the house.
Emily sat at the table. The boys, wide-eyed, huddled on the sofa. A trunk and two sacks stood in the middle of the room.
“Em—what’s this?”
“Our things, Tom. Mine, Mike’s, Alfie’s. I won’t live like this anymore. We’re leaving. The city house—we’ll make do. Live quiet, without shame or shouting.”
The hangover evaporated.
“Em, don’t be daft! I was drunk, hot-headed—”
“You’ve been hot-headed for a year. What about me? The boys? Their mates laugh at them after your displays!”
“Em, Emily—I swear, never again—”
“You’ve sworn that exact count of your ‘displays.’ No more, Tom. Alfie’s thirteen—d’you know he flinches when girls mention you?”
She stood. “Come on, lads. The coach won’t wait.”
Tom scrambled up. “Em, please—I’ll never—”
She didn’t look back. Hoisted the trunk herself; the boys took smaller bags. They left. He stood in the hollow shell of their home.
Stood. Then sank to the floor and wept, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve.
“Tom? You in there?”
He lifted his head. Auntie Joan in the doorway.
“Lord—what’s all this?”
Her gaze swept the empty bottles.
Tom rubbed his face. “What’s today?”
“Thirtieth of July, mornin’.”
“What?”
“What? Look at the state of you! Month-long bender! We’ll mind the animals, but your spuds—lost in the weeds. Fine mess—”
“I’ve not made any mess!”
“Shut your gob! Think I won’t tan you like when you were knee-high? Or forget how nettles taught you manners?”
Tom hadn’t forgotten. But he was a grown man now; Joan an old woman. The village called her Granny Jo—only he still said ‘Auntie.’
He hitched his loose shorts (he’d shrunk) and stalked outside—maybe she’d leave. She followed. Then, quick as a whip, snatched a stinging nettle and lashed his legs, his arms.
“Ow! Joan, what—?”
“Teaching! And I’ll whip that foul tongue next!”
He dodged, but drink had wrecked his balance—Joan, though old, was spry. She only stopped when the nettle was pulp. Shook a fist.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Fresh nettles—yours don’t sting proper.”
Tom scratched his welted skin, muttered:
“Right.”
An hour later, itching unbearably, he lit the sauna. As a lad, only steam cured nettle-rash. Hauling water, prepping logs—evening fell before he finished. The heat scoured him clean.
Back inside, he winced—the stink. Bottles. Grabbed a sack, hauled them to the compost. Scrubbed floors, polished dishes. Come dawn, another sauna to scour off grime. Then collapsed into bed.
“”And when the midwinter bells rang in the new year, Tom stood by the hearth with Emily’s hand in his, watching their boys play by the fire, silently swearing this time—this time—he’d keep his promise.”
