No Wedding After All
Mary had graduated from teacher training college with honours, dreaming of entering university. But fate had other plans. Her father was badly injured in an accident and spent months in hospital. After his discharge, her mother took leave to care for him at home while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their town had no university—she would have to move to the nearest city. Mary decided to postpone her studies for a year. She couldn’t abandon her parents in such a difficult time. She found work at a local school instead.
The doctors had been hopeful. With physiotherapy, massage, and medication, her father might walk again. Her mother sold their cottage to pay for a physiotherapist, a masseur, and medicine. Yet he never left his wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money on me. It’s pointless—I’ll never walk again.”
His temper soured. He grew irritable and suspicious, picking at everything. Her mother bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop whatever she was doing and run to him—whether for a glass of water, a question, or just to chat. Meanwhile, supper burned on the stove.
“Tom, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re fretting over potatoes! Easy for you—you can still walk. Is it so hard to fetch me a drink?” he’d snarl.
Sometimes, in a fit of rage, he’d hurl a glass or a plate at her. More often, he demanded whisky. And once drunk, he’d take his anger out on his wife, as if the accident had been her fault.
“Dad, don’t drink. It won’t help—it’ll only make things worse. Find something else—chess, books,” Mary pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of pleasure? Your books are all rubbish—keep them. Life isn’t like that. I’m good for nothing now,” he’d mutter.
“Mum, don’t buy him any more whisky,” Mary begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream. He’s suffering. What else can we do?” her mother sighed.
“He doesn’t need to drink—he needs to work at his exercises. The doctors said he could walk if he tried. He just doesn’t want to. He enjoys tormenting us, and we dance around him,” Mary fumed.
She pitied him, but life was hard for them too. One evening, she came home exhausted, her throat sore, longing to rest. Yet again, her father called her repeatedly—until she snapped.
“Enough! I’m tired. You’re in a chair—wheel yourself to the kitchen and drink all you want. You’re not the only one like this. Hundreds live this way—some even compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t manage a few feet to the sink? Go on, do it yourself. I’ve got work to do.” She stormed off.
She heard his wheels scraping the floor, the clatter of a glass in the kitchen, the faint pause outside her door. She braced for a tirade—but the chair rolled away. From then on, he became more self-reliant.
In fine weather, she left the balcony door open. He’d sit there—his version of fresh air. The doorway was too narrow for his chair, and they couldn’t afford to widen it.
“Put me in a home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t be absurd! You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mother soothed.
“You say that now. Soon you’ll tire of emptying my bedpan. Pity’ll keep you here, tethered to a cripple. What use am I?”
So their days dragged on. Before she knew it, a year had passed, and autumn’s rains returned. One afternoon, Mary left school but hadn’t reached the bus stop when the downpour began—cold, relentless. She ducked under the shelter, yet the spray from passing cars splattered her anyway. She stood there, sodden and shivering.
Suddenly, a lorry pulled up. A young man jumped out, holding his jacket overhead as he dashed to join her.
“Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Chilled to the bone, she darted under his oil-and-petrol-scented coat and clambered into the cab. It was dry and warm.
“Michael,” he said.
“Mary.”
“Mary, then. Where to?”
She gave her address. As they drove, Michael explained why he’d become a lorry driver.
“Raised by just my mum. Had to look after her. A neighbour took me on at his garage. After the army, I got my licence. Pays well, plus there’s side work—deliveries, haulage. So if you ever need help, just call.” He’d slipped into familiar speech so easily.
“Are you studying or working?” he asked.
“I teach at the school.”
“Good job,” he nodded. “I’ll swing by after your shifts—let everyone see you in my cab. What’s funny? It’s a big lorry. No one else has one like it.”
He was easy company. What if she did need help? She gave him her number. That evening, he called, inviting her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My father’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I come by your place instead?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Want to see you. I like you,” he admitted simply.
“You might not be my type. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why? Not good-looking enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?” he snapped.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Fine, I’ll come out,” she said, hanging up.
The next day, a honk drew her to the window—Michael’s lorry idled below.
“Who’s causing a scene? A beau?” her mother guessed.
“Not a beau. Just someone I know. Can I go out for a bit?”
“Go on, before he wakes the neighbourhood.”
Michael began visiting almost daily. Sometimes he’d pick her up after school, drive her home. They’d sit in the cab, talking over tea or coffee from his flask, sandwiches his mother had packed.
“Look how often he’s here. A catch,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry pulled away.
“He’s not a catch.”
“Why not? Youth flies—your friends are marrying. Planning to stay single till pension? He’s not calling for nothing.”
“Mum, I’ve got work. Lessons to plan,” Mary said, retreating.
Michael brought up marriage more than once, but Mary asked for time. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him, didn’t leap at his touch. She disliked how often he talked of money.
“Don’t fret—I’ve saved for the wedding. We’ll do it proper. Autumn’s busy—firewood, harvest hauling. You won’t want for anything,” he’d say, pulling her close in the cramped, oily cab. “I’ll buy a proper car by winter.”
He never brought flowers—”waste of money.” No cafés, just flask tea and sandwiches. When his mother visited her sister, he’d take Mary to his place. Sex was functional, unremarkable—rare, since she invented excuses to avoid it.
She knew she didn’t love him. But where would she meet anyone else? School and home were her world. Michael was steady, didn’t drink or smoke. Her mother urged her. So Mary accepted—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, full of possibilities. Yet spring came quickly, and after the May bank holiday, Michael insisted they register at the town hall. He’d handle everything—she just needed a dress and to show up.
One day, hurrying home, she bumped into a man in the dim stairwell. Apologising, she moved past—until he called her name.
“Mary!?”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul! Recognise me?”
“Paul? You’re here?” She flushed.
Her childhood friend—once a scrawny boy, now tall, broad-shouldered, handsome. His parents used to bring him to his grandmother’s each summer from bustling London. Granny lived next door. Mary spent hours there, treated to heavenly potato cakes and courgette fritters.
Her parents let her visit Granny’s countryside cottage—river, woods, strawberries. Aged seven, they’d sworn to stay together always, not just summers. Partings were tearful; she’d pine till Christmas, then itch for June.
As Paul grew, the visits stopped—except once, for Granny’s seventy-fifth. Awkward teens then, their easy camaraderie gone.
***
“Here for Granny’s birthday. You’ve grown beautiful,” Paul said, studying her.
“You’re so different. I didn’t recognise you.” She looked up, heart fluttering, warmth spreading.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in aMary hesitated, then whispered, “But I think I’d rather be alone than spend my life with someone I don’t love,” and turned away, leaving the past behind as the church bells chimed in the distance.
