**Farewell**
The deaf and darkened night faded, inching closer to the inevitable moment of parting. Dawn neared. Beatrice had spent the night sitting by the coffin of her late husband, lost in thoughts, tracing the years she’d shared with Edward. Both had grown old together.
“Edward lived seventy-six years—could’ve been more, if not for the illness,” Beatrice murmured to herself, three years his junior.
“You were a good husband, a fine father,” she whispered aloud as morning light softened the shadows of candlelit night. “Faithful above all, though temptations must’ve crossed your path… Oh, how swiftly life flies by.”
Memories had pricked her soul all night, pages of joy and sorrow turned one by one. Fifty-three years together—no small stretch. When Edward knew his time had come, he’d say, “Beatrice, God’s punishing me for my sins—lived wrong, thought wrong.” But she soothed him:
“Don’t torment yourself. You lived well. No drink, no nonsense like others, loved me and our Lizzie. What sins?” He’d listen and calm.
Now dawn broke. In the kitchen bustled their daughter Elizabeth, alone—her marriage long ended. Her girl, Beatrice’s granddaughter, had just borne a second child and couldn’t come. No farewell for the grandfather, though summers of her childhood were spent here.
Elizabeth had flown the nest young, their only surviving child—two others lost, one after a day, the other a week. Beatrice had trembled over her, shielding her as best she could. But God let her live.
Before leaving school, Elizabeth declared, “Mum, Dad—after this, I’m off to London. I won’t stay in the village. I know I’m your only one, meant to care for you, but the city’s where life happens.”
“Fine by me,” Edward said at once. Beatrice pressed a corner of her headscarf to her eyes. “But love, how’ll we manage without you?” She nearly wept, but Edward shot her a firm look.
“Let the lass make her way, woman. No future for her shoveling muck here.”
In her heart, Beatrice agreed—but fear gnawed at her. Off Elizabeth went, trained in commerce, married, and never truly returned. Beatrice and Edward spent most years just the two of them, working the farmstead side by side, content. In later years, the granddaughter visited summers, though she’d long forgotten the way as her own life took hold.
“She loved haymaking—how she’d shriek when Edward tossed her into the river, teaching her to swim.” Beatrice almost smiled.
“Mum?” Elizabeth had slipped in unnoticed.
“Just remembering. Sit with me. Say goodbye proper, before the village comes. They’ll crowd in soon—respected your father, he did no one harm. Helped all who asked.”
Elizabeth sat, leaned into her mother’s side.
“It’s good,” Beatrice murmured, swaying slightly, “you’ve his face. Time will blur him in my mind, but there you are… So like your father.”
“Mum… how did you two meet? We’ve never spoken of it.”
Beatrice sighed, the memory fresh as dew. “Strange it was. He latched onto me the moment we met, at a farming conference in Essex. Never let go.”
“A conference?”
“I was top milker at the dairy—sent as a delegate, even got a certificate, a little wristwatch. None of the village girls had one! We toured, dined… and there he was, glued to my side. Tall, handsome—but shabby, clothes all askew. No woman’s hand there, I thought. Our lads had all left for cities or army, never came back…”
As Beatrice rose to leave the hall, his voice stopped her: “Take me with you. Name’s Edward. And yours?”
“Beatrice,” she said crisply. “You’ve no notion where I live—some backwater. You’d trade London for that?”
“Would and will. Bachelor, free as air. I’m yours, Bea.” He never called her else.
And he went with her. Stood at her parents’ door and said plainly: “I ask for your daughter’s hand. Forgive the haste, but I’ve neither house nor land. Yet I’ll be a steadfast husband.”
Her parents gaped.
“Sent you for farming honors,” her father spluttered, “and you bring back a groom?”
“It happened,” Beatrice muttered, eyes down. “But I’ll have him.”
A Saturday wedding followed—simple, the whole village feasting at long tables. Then came ordinary days, decades of them. Beatrice was happy. Walking the lanes with Edward, she’d hear whispers:
“Look what Bea landed—tall, handsome. Men like that stray easy, though.”
“Just wait,” old Agatha would mutter. “A year or two, then he’ll sniff round widows. Too pretty not to.”
Word reached them, but they laughed. Edward had eyes for none but her, though children came hard—two lost before Elizabeth.
“Bea, I love our girl, love you. Had I not met you that day—like lightning striking. No other woman exists for me.”
She believed him, though reasons to doubt lurked. Once, at haymaking, Frieda—the village flirt, widowed young, known for luring men with drink—pressed close to Edward, whispering hot promises over the fields. Beatrice watched, heart tight.
But Edward worked on, ignoring her, smiling only at his wife. Frieda trailed them to the river, splashing, laughing: “Ed, save me if I drown!”
“Why should I?” he growled. “My eyes are on my own.” Beatrice’s secret smile was his alone.
Still, fear flickered: Frieda had tricks, and men seldom resisted. Yet Edward passed her by, day after day, no word, no glance—just that faint curl at his lip.
“You never took Frieda’s bait,” Beatrice said once. “I love that.”
“Promised you and your folks I’d be true. Life without you isn’t life.”
“That was our love, Lizzie. You’ve his looks, his laugh.”
In age, Edward’s sight failed—one eye gone blind. Once, in winter’s teeth, he’d trudged to hospital, blizzard howling.
“I knew he’d not return that night,” Beatrice recalled. “Roads buried, no buses. Near dawn, I drowsed—then a knock. Opened to a snow-clad figure, ice-masked, voice a ghost: ‘Missus, what village is this?’ Devils danced in his eyes. It was Edward, walked miles through white hell. How he found the way, I’ll never know.”
Mother and daughter sat entwined by the coffin, weeping softly as villagers gathered outside, then filed in to pay respects.
After the burial, Elizabeth left for London. Alone, Beatrice moved through rooms half expecting Edward’s shadow—sipping tea at the table, humming in the hall.
“He won’t leave me long,” she thought. “He’ll come for me. Knows I’m lost without him.”
