James was a quiet, unassuming lad. He lived with his parents in a small village in Yorkshire—whether it was how they’d raised him or just his nature, it was hard to say. His parents, Margaret and Thomas, never had any trouble with him. Always obedient.
Next door, though, it was another story. Shouting and arguing echoed constantly from the neighboring house. Barbara, a single mother, was raising her two boys, Alfie and Danny, who were a year apart. Alfie, the eldest, was particularly wild, and Barbara was at her wit’s end trying to keep him in line.
“Alfie! You’re picking on your brother again—just you wait!” Barbara’s scolding carried across the yard.
“He started it! Why do you always take his side?” Alfie shot back, raising his voice.
“Oh, is that how you speak to your mother?” came the sharp reply.
It was the same every day. Barbara often complained to Margaret over the garden fence.
“I can’t do a thing with my two terrors. Your place is always so peaceful. Your James is such a calm lad—I envy you, Margaret. Then again, your Thomas is steady too, must be where James gets it from. My bloke was a right handful, always causing rows, and look where it got him—gone too soon, all because of his temper. If he hadn’t been drinking, he wouldn’t have drowned… Alfie’s the spitting image of him. Danny’s a bit quieter, but he never backs down either. Bloody hell, what a life.”
“Aye, Barbara, your boys are proper lively. At parents’ evening, Alfie’s teacher gave him a right telling-off. You never go, do you?”
Their sons, James and Alfie, were in the same class, walked to school together, and were mates—though James got on fine with his studies while Alfie barely scraped by.
“I can’t face it. Too ashamed, listening to complaints about my little devils, especially Alfie. And with work… You won’t believe it, Margaret, but if I see their teachers in the street, I duck down another lane. They’ll start moaning, and I’ll just go red and clammy. Proper envy you, I do. Your James is a good lad, and mine…” She waved a hand and headed inside.
The boys grew up. Alfie stayed just as wild, leaving school after Year 11, while Danny carried on.
“Get my driving license, do my National Service, then settle down—that’s the plan,” Alfie declared.
James, now a young man, remained quiet and gentle. He loved wandering the woods alone in summer, picking mushrooms. Evenings, he’d sit on the front step with a cuppa and a book. After school, he trained as an electrician in town but never planned to leave the village—his parents wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.
“Your roots are here, son. This is where you’ll stay,” Thomas had decided long ago, and James never argued.
While training, he took the bus into town—just half an hour away—but hated the crowds. Girls sometimes glanced his way, and bold ones even asked him to the pictures—those who didn’t know how shy he was. He always refused, saying he had to catch the last bus home.
“James, don’t go getting tangled up with town girls,” his mother warned. “Clever as foxes, they are—before you know it, they’ll have you snared.”
“Leave off, Mum,” he’d mutter, brushing her off.
He went to the village hall now and then, hung about with the local lads—Alfie’s lot—but paid little mind to girls, so they left him alone. No one knew, but back in school, he’d fancied a girl named Lucy, a year below him. Never told a soul, though—too scared.
Alone, he’d berate himself:
“Why can’t I be quick like Alfie? Girls flock round him, and me? I’m terrified of them—go red, clam up… Fancy Lucy, but I’d never dare tell her. What if she laughs? When she’s near, my knees turn to jelly. Probably end up a bachelor forever. And Alfie’s getting married!”
“James, you’re coming to my wedding, right? Village hall do. Girls coming from Emma’s lot in the next village. Don’t miss your chance—don’t want to die a bachelor,” Alfie grinned, flashing his white teeth.
Emma, Alfie’s bride-to-be, was from a village four miles away—odd, since plenty of local girls had sighed over him.
“Alright, Alfie, I’ll be there,” James promised.
Alfie’s wedding was rowdy, loud, and full of drink. Emma’s maid of honour was her mate from the same village—a lively lass named Daisy. It was a warm summer evening, music blaring, guests spilling out of the hall. Most were dancing, but James sat at a table or stepped outside for air.
That’s when Daisy spotted him. He was tall, dark-haired, with grey eyes—handsome, if a bit stiff. She watched him awhile before sidling up.
“Alright?” she chirped, grinning.
James flushed. “Alright.”
“I know you. You’re Thomas’s lad. My dad’s mates with him—when he’s over our way. I’m Daisy. You’re James, right?”
He turned redder, mumbled something, sweat prickling his back. But he liked her—which only made it worse. Daisy chattered away, laughing, and he listened, though half of it didn’t register. He barely spoke, just nodded, terrified of saying something daft.
“Come dance! What’re we stood here for?” She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the crowd.
James had never danced in his life, but somehow, it worked. Slow song—he rested a hand on her waist, and she led.
“This is actually nice,” he realised. “Daisy’s… really nice.”
They danced again and again. Time blurred—night fell, guests began drifting off.
“I’ve liked this, James,” Daisy said at last. “But I’d best get back—me brother’s giving us a lift. See you soon?”
The next day, James was in a daze. Daisy’s face—blonde, blue-eyed, laughing—stuck in his mind. But he didn’t seek her out. Too shy.
“Can’t just turn up in her village. What’d people say? She’s probably forgotten me anyway—just passing time.”
Then, one Saturday evening, a sharp whistle outside. James peered out—Daisy stood there, grinning, waving. He stumbled out to her.
“Alright, James! Fancy coming to a concert in our village tomorrow? Folk band playing. You in?”
“Yeah,” he said instantly.
“Walk me partway, then?”
Gladly, he took her bike’s handlebars, and they strolled. Daisy did most of the talking. At the village edge, she hopped on.
“Right, I’ll dash home on me trusty steed. See you tomorrow!”
After that, they started courting. Daisy took charge—setting meet-ups, biking over if he couldn’t. Margaret didn’t like her.
“James, she’s not for you. Too forward. She’ll have you wrapped round her finger. You want a quiet lass, not this wildfire.”
But James was smitten. Daisy hugged him, kissed him—how could he resist? She even said it first.
“James, I really like you. You’re different. Want to be with you. Let’s get married, eh? Why faff about?”
“Alright,” he said, then kicked himself—should’ve asked her.
“Tell your folks tomorrow, then.”
She took the lead again when they faced his parents.
“I love James. Can’t live without him.”
“And I love Daisy. Only her,” James blurted, surprising himself.
His parents gave in. Villagers were stunned when word got out.
“Quiet James, getting wed? And to some lass from another village—plenty here would’ve had him!”
Alfie clapped him on the back.
“See? Needed me to wed first so you’d find a bride. She’s mad for you—told Emma. Daisy’s a good ‘un. Lively, but loyal.”
The wedding was another village hall affair, guests pouring in from Daisy’s village. They moved in with James’s parents. Margaret feared clashes, but Daisy was respectful, never talked back, took advice. Soon, Margaret adored her. Grandkids followed—a boy, George, then three years later, a girl, Alice. The grandparents were over the moon. The young couple were already finishing their own house. Soon, they’d move in.
