There once lived, in a neighbouring village by the river, a young woman whose name was Abigail. A modest sort, barely noticeable, the kind of person who, if you werent careful, might disappear into the grey of every day. Her eyes were always downcast, her fair, sandy hair plaited thinly and tucked into a worn old kerchief. Abigail worked at the post office: she sorted the letters and delivered pensions to the old folk.
No one, truth be told, paid her much heed. The village lads were always after bright, lively girls with sharp wit and laughter that rang out across the fields. But Abigail well, she simply faded into the background, hardly seen.
One spring, a new mechanic arrived to work on the farm. His name was Thomas: tall, broad-shouldered, with hair dark as midnight and a glint in his eye that hinted at mischief. He played the accordion, too. In the evening, hed sit outside the village hall, stretching the bellows, and every young ladys heart would leap at the music. Abigails heart leapt too, so fiercely that it seemed to knock all sense clear out of her.
But what chance did a sparrow like her have with such a hawk? The prettiest girls twined around Thomas like honeysuckle, while Abigail only watched from afar, sighing so deeply my own heart ached to see it.
And then, my dears, something peculiar began to happen in our village.
Abigail started receiving letters. Not local ones letters from the city. They came in smart, thick envelopes, the handwriting bold and unmistakably from a mans hand. Since Abigail worked at the post office, she was always the first to see them. But secrets in a small village never stay hidden for long. Our senior postwoman, Mrs. Jenkins, was a terrible gossip and quick to spread word:
Our quiet Abigails caught herself a city beau! Writes often, too! Hell be proposing soon, mark my words!
Abigail took to walking with a quiet pride, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. She was transformed, truly her posture straightened, she braided her hair with a ribbon of satin, and when she walked down the lane, letter in hand, she looked as though she carried a medal rather than a bit of post.
Even Thomas began to notice. Men are funny creatures once a woman is wanted by another, she becomes all the more interesting.
Poor Abigail was drawn deeper and deeper into her dreams. Shed sit on the post office step, reading her letters and smiling to herself, while villagers whispered, Just look at that lucky duck!
Then, suddenly, as sudden as thunder on a clear day, everything fell apart.
There was a festival at the village hall. The place was buzzing. The accordion played, the young folk danced, and Abigail stood to the side in a new cotton frock, a handbag slung over her shoulder.
Some of the local rowdies, the Mason brothers, well into their cups, decided to play a trick. They seized her bag. The old strap snapped, the bag fell open, and all Abigails treasures tumbled out, including a fat bundle of letters tied up with ribbon.
One of the brothers, Alfie, snatched the letters and cackled loudly, Lets see what her city admirer writes, shall we?
Abigail, white as a sheet, lunged for them. Please, give them back! she pleaded.
But Alfie was fast. He dodged, pulled out a letter, and began reading it aloud to the whole square. Dearest Abigail! Your eyes are blue as summer pools
The crowd hushed, listening. It was beautifully written. Then Alfie hesitated, frowning. He pulled another crumpled sheet from the bundle, held it up to the light. Oi, listen to this! he boomed, voice silencing even the accordion.
Its all crossed out! First she wrote, Dear Abigail, then crossed it through. My beloved Abigail crossed out again! Its a draft, look! Shes been writing to herself, trying to make it sound just right!
The laughter erupted, echoing across the village green. She writes love letters to herself! Invented a sweetheart!
There was Abigail, standing in the centre, face hidden in her hands, shoulders shaking. The humiliation was unbearable; you might wish the earth would swallow you up. I was young then, too stunned to help, gulping for air.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
Thomas, who had been on the steps with his accordion, set down his instrument and rose. He stepped slowly forward. Folk parted for him there was something unyielding in his expression.
Without a word, he took the letters from Alfie, who lost his smirk at once. Thomas gathered up the scattered envelopes, brushed the dirt from them, and went to Abigail. She didnt move, hands still to her face.
He took her gently by the elbow firm but tender and spoke loud enough for all to hear, What are you all gawking at? Not seen a real person before?
Then, quietly, to Abigail, Come on, Abigail. Let me walk you home. Its dark now.
And off they went, through the hush, Thomas carrying her bag with those battered letters, his other hand steadying her.
That evening marked a turning point. Not straight away, of course Abigail couldnt meet a souls eye for months. But Thomas was persistent. He waited for her after work, walked with her, made her feel safe. Six months later, they were married with a simple, joyful celebration.
They were as happy as any couple youve ever met. Thomas adored her, treated her as his queen, and they became as fine a household as you could wish for, raising three healthy sons. Never again did anyone in the village mention that fateful evening. Thomas had a look that could hush the sharpest tongue.
Many years have gone by. Thomas passed away three years past his heart finally gave out. Abigail, once so lively, faded quietly without him. I often call in, to check her blood pressure, to sit for a cup of tea.
One autumn afternoon, rain drummed softly on the roof and the fire crackled in the grate. Abigail was sorting through things in her old dresser. She pulled out a carved wooden box Thomass handiwork from years before.
Inside were those very letters, now yellowed with age.
You know, Mary, she said, voice trembling, I thought hed thrown them away, or burned them. I was always so ashamed of those lies, never dared ask. She lifted the top envelope, and beneath it found a page, fresh and white, written not so long ago, perhaps a month before Thomas died.
Abigail put on her spectacles and began to read, tears streaming down her lined cheeks. She handed it to me. Read it, dear. My eyes fail me.
I could just make out his wobbly handwriting:
My dear Abigail, Found this old box again, moved it aside. Forgive your foolish old man for keeping silent all these years. I saw how much that night hurt you and never wished to open the wound. But now, I think I should have spoken sooner, spared you a heavy heart. That night at the hall, I knew it was your hand that penned those letters. Id seen your writing often enough. Do you know why I didnt laugh? Because my heart broke. How lonely you must have been, to write such sweet words to yourself. How blind we men were, not seeing the beauty of your soul. I have those letters to thank, Abigail without them, I might have missed out on all my happiness. To me, you were always the finest of all. Your Thomas.
We sat together and wept like children, the room smelling of peppermint, dried apples, and the bittersweet ache of a love you dont often see nowadays.
Such is life, my dears. She lied out of longing, for someone to notice her, and he saw not the lie, but the sorrow underneath and, in loving her, warmed her heart for all their days.
And now, whenever I see that carved box, I remind myself: never judge too harshly the follies of the lonely. Only they know the thirst for love that drives them.
