“Bloody hell, I’ll kill her!”
Colin hammered his fists against the front door while the gathered crowd tried to calm him.
“Col, mate, what’re you doing? You’ll be begging her forgiveness tomorrow! And for what? Two kids you’ve got, Emily’s never given you reason—now you’re making a proper show of yourself!”
Colin spun toward the gate.
“What’re you lot gawping at? Think this is a bleedin’ pantomime? Sod off!”
No one moved. Next-door Aunt Martha stepped forward.
“Colin, love, what’s got into you? There must be a reason?”
“A reason? Emily’s the ruddy reason! I’ve given her my heart, and what’s she do? Smiles at everyone, locks herself inside—who’s in there with her, eh?”
Colin slumped onto the garden bench, his voice cracking—unnerving coming from a bloke his size.
Aunt Martha softened.
“You’re wrong about your missus. She’s a good woman. Loyal.”
Colin barely whispered back.
“She don’t love me, Auntie Martha. I’m just some country bumpkin, and she’s city through and through—always looking past me.”
“You daft sod. Takes the biscuit, you do…”
But Colin was already out cold, head lolling. Aunt Martha nudged him, someone tucked a cap under his cheek, and there he sprawled, dead to the world.
“Right. He’ll not stir till he’s slept it off.”
***
Fifteen years back, Colin had gone to Leeds to train as a digger driver. His village was growing then, houses popping up. Folks joked it’d be a proper town soon—no high-rises or indoor plumbing, but plenty of homes.
The local council had its own builders. They’d put up cottages for specialists, then fancied a proper community centre—not some slapped-together shed, but a proper two-storey brick place with clubs and all.
They had the digger, the gear—just no trained hands. So off went Colin and Simon from across the river, shipped off to the city.
They’d never got on, Colin and Simon. Same lasses caught their eye, same brawls over it.
In Leeds, they were shoved into a shared flat. Simon announced straight off:
“Gonna find myself a city girl. Stay here for good.”
Colin frowned.
“The council’s paying your way, and you’re skiving?”
Simon laughed.
“Everyone does it. What’s back in that dump?”
Colin just grunted.
“Oh aye, they’ll be queuing up for you.”
Three days later, Colin saw Simon with a girl—and his stomach dropped. He fell for Emily the second he saw her.
That night, he cornered Simon.
“Who was that with you?”
“Emily? City girl, lives with her nan. Place’ll be hers soon.”
“You sweet on her?”
Simon smirked.
“Her? Built like a plank. I like curves.”
Colin punched him. Then again. Simon wiped his nose.
“Ah, you’re smitten. Watch me marry her, then step out whenever I fancy. She’ll sit home waiting, forgiving me forever.”
Next day, Colin tailed Simon. Saw him sling an arm round Emily’s waist—and charged.
He spilled everything. Emily blinked between them, then snapped, “Piss off,” and walked away.
Simon moved out that night. Colin haunted Emily’s steps for weeks till she finally stopped.
“How long you gonna shadow me? Take me to the pictures or sod off.”
He brought her home—Emily and her frail nan. The nan passed a decade later; by then they had two boys.
Colin built them a house, proper fences, the works. Lads had the best bikes. Emily worked as a nurse. He worshipped her.
Then Simon slunk back last year. City wife had chucked him out.
Colin stormed home black-faced. Emily frowned.
“What’s got into you?”
He poured a whiskey—a once-a-year man—and downed it. Emily paled.
“Simon’s back.”
“Simon who?”
“That Simon. The one you—”
Emily snorted.
“Oh, him. Couldn’t hack it up there?” Then serious: “So what? Why’s that your business?”
Colin leaned in. “If I find out anything—I’ll kill him.”
Emily stared. “Find out what? You’re not making sense!”
“You’ll see.”
Peace ended that day. Sober, Colin grovelled. “I’m a fool, Em. Forgive me.”
She did. Then, monthly, he’d drink, and it’d start afresh—worse each time. But for all his shouting, he never raised a hand.
***
Morning. Colin woke in the shed—mosquitoes must’ve driven him there. He clutched his head.
“Christ. Not again.”
Peeked out—empty yard. Just past seven. He bolted for the house.
Emily sat at the table. The boys, wretched-looking, on the sofa. A suitcase and two sacks in the middle.
“Em, what’s this?”
“Me and the boys’ things. I’m done. We’re off to Leeds. Fix up Nan’s old place. Live proper, without your scenes.”
Colin’s hangover vanished.
“Em, don’t! I was drunk, I’m a twat—”
“You’ve been a twat for a year. Think I like the kids hearing this? Jack’s thirteen—he’s ashamed of you in front of girls!”
Emily stood.
“Bus won’t wait.”
Colin leapt up.
“Em, please, I won’t—”
She didn’t turn. Hoisted the case; boys grabbed smaller bags. The door shut. He stood in the hollow shell of home, then sank to the floor and wept.
“Col? You in?”
Aunt Martha in the doorway. Took in the empty bottles.
“What’s today?”
“July 30th, last I checked.”
“Bloody hell.”
“What’ve you done to yourself? Month-long bender. We’ll mind the stock, but your spuds—lost in the weeds, they are.”
“I’ve done nowt!”
“Shut it! Think I won’t tan your hide? Remember the nettles when you were little?”
Colin hadn’t forgotten. But now he was a strapping man, and Aunt Martha a wisp of a thing.
He tugged up his shorts—too loose now—and fled outside. She followed, wrenched up a nettle stalk, and lashed his legs, his arms.
“Ow! Christ, Auntie!”
“Hold still, you great lump!”
He was too shaky to dodge. She only stopped when the nettle was shredded.
“Back tomorrow. Young nettles sting sharper.”
Colin scratched for hours, then fired up the sauna—only thing that helped as a lad. By dusk, he was scrubbed raw.
The house stank of booze. He bagged the bottles, scoured the floors. Come dawn, he collapsed clean.
“Col? Still breathing?”
He yanked the blanket up.
“Aunt Martha, I’ve not touched a drop!”
She eyed the tidy room.
“Noticed. Well? What now?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Get dressed. We’re off to the clinic.”
“The what?”
“You drove off our nurse. You’ll tend the sick now.”
Her stare pinned him. He cracked.
“You think this is easy? I’m gutted!”
“If you’re gutted, why’re you sat here? Not gone after them?”
“Bugger off, the lot of you!”
She left with a door slam. Something fluttered from under his pillow—a crumpled drawing: four stick figures holding hands. “Mum Dad Us” in Jack’s scrawl.
Colin groaned into the pillow.
No sleep that night. At dawn, he boarded the Leeds bus.
He knew the house. They’d visited twice yearly—neighbours kept the garden, but it stood empty. Fancier homes had risen around it, their little one waiting for Jack’s college years.
From afar, he spotted Billy pushing a toy car in the dirt, growling noises and all. His chest clenched.
“Billy, son—”
The boy barrelled into him. Colin clung tight, wouldn’t let go.
“Dad! Where’ve you been? Mum cries nights.”
Jack stood stiff beside them. Colin dragged him into the hug.
“No more crying. Where’s Mum?”
“Out job-hunting. Back soon—”
***
Emily hurried home. The boys weren’t used to the city yet—she hated leaving them. Jack was big, but still just a kid.
She froze. A man in their yard. Just what she needed—no job yet, and now strangers about. Not like the village.
Her heart skipped. ItColin turned the corner, saw Emily standing there frozen in shock, and dropped to his knees right there on the pavement with tears in his eyes, whispering, “I’ll spend the rest of me life making this right,” as the autumn leaves swirled around them like the past finally letting go.
