Lydia Simmons walked home in her unfastened wool coat, clutching a worn leather satchel filled with pupils’ exercise books. She’d spend the evening marking essays.
Buds had only recently swelled on the trees, but now tender young leaves were unfurling. Nature stirred under the bright, warm sunlight. Soon, everything would burst into bloom.
Passersby greeted Lydia with respect, and she answered with a restrained smile. She had taught most of them—or now their children—English and literature at the local school.
She was still slender, almost girlishly so, petite enough to be mistaken for a young woman from behind. And her face wasn’t bad either. But who was there to marry around here? So she lived alone in a small timber-framed cottage on a narrow lane, allotted to her as work housing when she moved here from the city twenty-five years ago.
The town itself was tiny, more like a large village. Young professionals these days were given flats in brick three-story buildings, but few wanted to settle here—most flocked to London or Manchester.
Yet Lydia had grown attached to her home and couldn’t bring herself to leave. In her free time, she loved pottering in the garden. When she first arrived, she knew nothing, but life had taught her well—how to stoke the fire, dig potatoes, pickle vegetables, and make jams.
Life…
Back then, it had also been spring. Two lads sat under her dormitory window, arguing over how to spell a word—both wrong. She wouldn’t have paid them any mind if their bickering hadn’t grated on her. Finally, she leaned out and corrected them.
One of them, quick-witted, asked her to proofread his entire letter. Lydia stepped outside, fixed the mistakes.
“Cheers. Lucky we ran into you. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“I’m James. You training to be a teacher? We work just ’round here.”
“Properly speaking, it’s ‘English instructor’ or ‘educator,'” she corrected.
She liked James immediately—he reminded her of a bear. Steady, reliable. When he proposed, she didn’t hesitate.
His mother took an instant dislike to her.
“What’re you gonna do with her, read books? Bet she can’t even cook. You’ll regret this. Should’ve picked someone simpler,” she muttered after Lydia left.
The woman wasn’t far off. Lydia could barely boil pasta or scramble eggs. She’d set a pot to boil, then bury herself in a book, only remembering when the smell of burning filled the air.
His mother, fearing her son would starve and her dishes shatter, took over the cooking. Lydia tried to learn, and James made an effort—dressing smartly, swearing less. They were happy.
A year later, their son was born—quiet and sturdy like his father. Early, but practical. How could she take maternity leave mid-term? Now it was done.
Her mother-in-law grew bolder, openly griping that James had married a useless woman. Lydia endured in silence, only confiding in her husband at night.
“Doesn’t matter—I love you,” he’d say, kissing her.
Eager to work, Lydia planned to enroll the boy in nursery.
“Over my dead body. I’ll look after him,” her mother-in-law declared, quitting her job.
Lydia was grateful. Evenings, she marked papers late into the night while her mother-in-law sighed loudly, broadcasting her disapproval.
Maybe the constant sniping wore James down. Maybe he tired of trying. Either way, he began staying out, dressing sloppily, swearing again. He stopped touching her.
His mother delivered the news with vicious glee: James had taken up with the shopgirl—a brassy redhead, thick with makeup. She didn’t try to ‘improve’ him, just fed him black-market treats.
Lydia confronted him.
“Sorry, love. We’re just too different,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
She went to the local education office, begging for a transfer—anywhere. Mid-term, positions were scarce. But a spot opened in a village where a fresh graduate had quit. They promised housing. Lydia accepted, packed her son, and left.
The old market town was barely more than a hamlet. Her ‘housing’ was a decrepit cottage, half its firewood stolen. Swallowing fear, Lydia learned to chop logs, till the garden, haul water from the pump. Her son, thrilled, chased neighbour’s cats through the blackcurrant bushes.
James paid child support but never visited. He remarried—the shopgirl bore him two girls.
Their son left for university, lodging briefly with James. He complained of crowding, spiteful stepsisters. The shopgirl clashed with her mother-in-law—rowsing loud enough for neighbours to bang walls. James moved his mother into his wife’s flat. She never visited again.
At first, her son returned for holidays. Each time he crossed the threshold, Lydia flinched—he looked so like his father. The house grew heavy. Now he’s a lead engineer, holidaying in Spain or Greece. Alive, well—fine.
Across the lane, builders swarmed over a new two-story house. Lydia paused, watching a tanned workman slot window frames. Bare-armed despite the chill.
“Like it?” he called, catching her gaze.
“Yes.”
“You live over there? Your porch is sagging. Roof’ll leak soon.”
“It does in heavy rain,” she admitted.
“Want me to fix it?
“Really? How much?”
“We’ll agree. Finishing here next week. I’ll swing by, see what else needs doing.”
She flushed. He was forty at most, handsome. What did he want with her? She’d retire soon. True, she looked young—small women always did. Still…
She hurried off, suddenly seeing her home anew: the broken porch step, the gate hanging loose. Habit had blinded her.
He returned, assessing repairs briskly.
“Saturday, then. I’ll source materials—there’s leftovers.” He nodded at the new build.
“I haven’t much money,” she admitted.
“No rush. Cook for me instead.”
Over wine, he confessed: left his wife, joined a crew, drifting between jobs.
“Done with that. I’m a homebody. Let me board while I work—that’s payment enough.”
She hesitated. But the house needed repairs, and she had little to lose. A cheap handyman wouldn’t come cheaper. Soon, she’d need the garden dug. She agreed.
Neighbours eyed the stranger at the schoolmarm’s cottage but asked no questions. Work flew. Soon, the house gleamed with fresh paint, a sturdy porch. Lydia still caught herself holding the repaired gate out of habit.
She liked Michael—though she’d never admit it. “Pensioner with a crush,” she scolded herself.
Yet it happened. Lydia bloomed. During term, she pinned her hair up, but summer freed it—laughing in a ponytail, glowing like her refurbished home.
At first, they were discreet. Then they stopped hiding. Walks, river swims, berry-picking. Some were happy for them. Others sneered:
“Plenty of proper widows about, and he picks that old crow?”
Lydia ignored them. She didn’t try to change Michael. Loved him as he was. They say late love burns like autumn—each day precious. Hers was. She knew it wouldn’t last.
Michael fixed neighbours’ roofs, took a steady job. The school turned a blind eye—who’d replace her if she left? Youth wanted cities—London, Manchester.
Three years passed like a dream.
Then, one evening, she found him staring at the wall. Her stomach dropped. She knew.
“What?” she whispered.
“Lydia… my wife rang. My boy wants me home. Didn’t even recognise his voice.” He kneeled, buried in her lap. “I’ve got to go.”
She wept—but not then. Only after packing his things (so many now—even a secondhand car), after he left with a last embrace, a promise to call.
She waited by the phone. He couldn’t just forget. Months passed. “He’s happy then. That’s good,” she lied.
She never knew—ten miles from town, a drunk driver’s SUV swerved into Michael’s car. The wreckage trapped him. He died before the ambulance came.
Each homecoming, Lydia traced the porch he built, the gate he hung—foolishly believing they still held his warmth.
Time weathered the wood, erasing all traces.
Her son fetched her when his second child arrived. She went gladly. Who knows? Maybe one day, she’d bump into Michael and say, “Hello…”
