You know, there used to be a girl living next to us, at the very edge of Willowbrook, right by the river. Her name was Margaret. She was one of those quiet, unremarkable sorts you hardly noticealmost like she was part of the wallpaper. Her eyes always fixed on the ground, her hair a thin sandy-brown plait, always wearing the same faded scarf. She worked at the post office, sorting letters and delivering pension cheques.
Nobody ever really paid attention to Margaret. The local lads around here, you know what theyre likepeacocks looking for bright colours, sparkling laughter, girls with a bit of fire about them. Margaret just melted into the background.
Then, one spring, a new bloke joined the farm. His name was Edward. Tall, broad-shouldered, jet black hair, eyes with a glint of mischief. He was good on the accordion too. Whenever he turned up outside the village hall in the evenings and started playing, all the girls went weak at the kneesMargaret included. She fell for him so hard, you could tell shed lost her head completely.
But what chance did quiet little Margaret have with such a catch? All the prettiest girls flocked around him, while she just watched from a distance, sighing so sadly it made my heart ache for her.
And then, honestly, something odd started happening in the village.
Margaret began receiving letters. From London, if you please! Lovely thick envelopes, neat, confident handwritingdefinitely a mans. And since Margaret worked at the post office, she was the first to see them. But news travels fast in a village, and our senior postwoman, Mrs Evansproper gossip, that onemade sure everyone knew:
Our shy ones got a romance! Some city chap writes to her all the time! Bet hell propose soon! shed shout.
Margaret suddenly looked different, mysterious almost. Her cheeks started to warm with colour, her eyes sparkled. She even looked prettierstood a bit taller, tied her plait with a satin ribbon. Shed walk down the lane clutching those envelopes like shed just been awarded a medal.
And then Edward started to notice her. Every now and then, hed glance her way. Its funny, isnt itmen only seem to show interest when they see someone else is after you.
Poor Margaret fell deeper and deeper. Shed sit on the post office steps in the evening, reading her letter with a secret smile, while the whole village whispered, Well, would you look at thatlucky duck, her!
Then came a twist, like thunder on a sunny day. And it was awful.
There was a fêtemusic blaring, everyone outside the hall. Margaret turned up all dressed up, new cotton dress, her bag slung over her shoulder. Suddenly, a couple of local troublemakersbrothers, the Brownsboozed up already, made a beeline for her. They thought they were being funny, tugged at her bag. The strap was old, snapped clean off, and all her things tumbled onto the groundincluding a bundle of letters, tied with ribbon.
One of the Brown boys, Sam, snatched up the letters and roared with laughter, Come on, everyone! Lets see what this London fellows writing to our prickly little Margaret, eh!
Margaret rushed to grab them back, white as a sheet. Please, give them back! she begged.
But Sam was quick, dodged her, whipped a letter out and started reading, loud and dramatic, so the whole crowd heard. My dearest Margaret your eyes are like blue lakes
People quieted right down, listening. It was beautifully written. Then Sam paused, fumbled through the bundle, pulled out a different letterthis one scrawled across lined paper, full of crossings out. He held it up to the light by the door.
Oi! Look at this, everyoneits hilarious! Sam shouted. Lookeverythings crossed out! First, she writes, Hello, dearest Margaret, then crosses it off and tries My darling. Againscratched it out. Blimey, its a draft! Shes been writing to herself, making it up as she goes!
Suddenly, everyone burst out laughinglouder than Id ever heard. Shes writing to herself! Invented herself a suitor! Flew around, the whole place erupted.
And there Margaret stood, in the middle of the crowd, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. It was so humiliatinghonestly, it made you want to run off into the night and never come back. I was young then, toodidnt know what to do, just stood there clutching at the air.
The music cut out suddenly.
Edward, whod been sitting on the steps with his accordion, set it aside and stood up. He walked down, slow and serious. Everyone parted there was such a look on his face.
He went up to Sam in complete silence, took the letters from his handsSam didnt even protest, wiped the smirk right off his face.
Edward knelt down and picked up the scattered envelopes, dusted them off, and walked over to Margaret. She wouldnt take her hands from her face, all curled up.
He took her by the elbow, gently but firmly, and called out so everyone could hear, Whatre you all gawking at? Never seen a person before?
And then, soft just for her, Come on, Margaret. Let me walk you home. Its getting dark now.
And off they went, through the crowd and an uneasy hushEdwards head held high, one hand on her bag with those dreaded letters, the other cradling her arm.
That was the beginning of everything for them. Not straight away, of courseMargaret couldnt meet anyones eye for ages. But Edward never left her side. Hed wait for her after work, walk her home. Six months later, they had a lovely wedding.
They lived the happiest of lives. Edward adored her, treated her like she was precious. Margaret completely blossomed, made a wonderful home, had three sons. And after that night, nobody in the village ever mentioned what happened again. Edward just had to give you a look, and even the worst gossips clamped right up.
The years passed. Edward died three years agoa heart attack. Margaret, or Mrs Margaret Edwards as everyone called her, hasnt been the same since. I often pop in, check on her, have a cuppa.
One autumn, we were sitting in her front room; rain drumming on the roof, logs crackling in the fireplace. She was sorting through some old things in a battered chest of drawers, and pulled out a wooden jewellery boxEdward made it himself, back in the day.
She unlocked it and inside there were those old letters. Yellowed now, still in their envelopes.
You know, Susan, she said, her voice shaking, I always thought hed thrown them out. Or maybe burned them. I was too ashamed to ask, ashamed my whole life for telling such a fib.
She picked up the top envelope, and underneaththere was a piece of lined paper, fresh and white, written much more recently, maybe a month before Edward died.
Margaret put on her glasses, tried to read, but the tears were rolling down her face.
She handed it to me: Read it for me, Susan. I cant see a thing.
I tried to make out his messy handwriting:
Dear Margaret. I found this box, moving things about. Im sorry, my old darling, for never saying this out loud all these years. I could see how you carried the shame of that night, and I wanted to spare you any hurt. But now I think, I shouldve told you sooner, taken that weight off your chest. You see, I realised in that moment outside the hall that it was you writing those letters. Id know your handwriting anywherefrom the receipts at the post office. Do you know why I didnt laugh? Because my heart broke. I thoughthow lonely must a person be to write themselves kind words? And how blind we men were, never seeing a soul like yours. I thank those letters, Margaret. If it hadnt been for them, I might have missed my own happiness. Youve always been the most beautiful to me. Yours, Edward.
We were both in floods by thenthe scents of tea, dried apples, a bit of lavender oil, all mixed with the sharp, aching love in that little room.
Funny how life goes, isnt it? She told that lie out of sheer longing to be seen. And he saw not the falsehood, but the hurt it came from. And spent the rest of his life warming her heart.
Sometimes, looking at that box, I thinkdont be too harsh on those who do silly things. Who knows what hunger for love drives them, really?
