Life isnt measured by the acres you cross, but by the moments you keep. I was just about to turn in for the night when there was a knock at the front door. I slipped on my nightgown and went to answer it, and Tom, my neighbours lad, followed behind. Standing on the step was Tom Hargreaves.
Uncle George, could you come in? he said, his voice low. Mum wants to have a word with you.
I pulled on a jacket and headed over to Toms house. What does Margaret want with me? I muttered to myself as I walked.
Inside, Margaret Toms mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, a thin blanket pulled over her shoulders. She looked up, eyes bright with a secret.
It wont be long for me, George, she whispered. Im not going to live much longer theres something I need to tell you.
I stared at her, bewildered, unable to grasp what she meant.
Id been a wellknown lad back in school, but the only woman I ever truly loved was my wife Emma. Wed been together since we were kids, and Id loved her every day of my life.
We lived quietly in our little cottage on the edge of Ashford, raising three children Mick, Jack, and little Lucy, who was just three. My nature was gentle, my hands as steady as a carpenters. You couldnt find a better bloke in the county.
I worked hard, for a large family needs food on the table, warm coats on the boys, and a little treat for Emma now and then. Whenever a new batch of goods arrived at the village shop fresh coats, bright scarves, or a bottle of perfume from London Id be the first to buy them.
Every night, Emma would stand before the mirror in her white blouse, braid her hair into a neat plait. Id watch her from the foot of the bed, the lamp casting a warm glow, and my heart would swell with pride.
She kept the house immaculate, breakfast, lunch and dinner always ready, and the garden tidy as a pinprick. All the heavy lifting fell on me; the boys helped when I asked, and never complained. I taught them respect for their mother and a sense of order.
Lucy, still tiny, resembled Emma with her blue eyes. She was never left alone; Id often carry her on my shoulders, and no one dared to scold her.
Our home was a haven of peace, unlike many households plagued by quarrels.
One day Jack got into a nasty fight with Tom, the neighbours lad. The rift grew deeper and Emma wept, applying cold compresses to Jacks bruised cheek.
Later I found Tom sitting on his front steps, looking dejected after a sharp word from his mother. When he saw me, he turned away, his face full of sorrow. Something stirred in me pity for the boy, perhaps, or anger that his family had no father to lean on.
I sat beside him and said, Dont stare like that, lad. Do you know why youre in trouble? He remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. I pressed on, Youll have to answer for this.
A heavy silence fell, and my compassion rose again. Tom, stay away from my boys, understand? I warned. He nodded, and I patted his shoulder before walking back.
I hadnt noticed Margaret watching us through the kitchen curtains. I didnt go straight home; my feet carried me into the woods, and memories flooded back.
We were almost eighteen then Emma, Margaret, and I. Wed just finished school, and the village hall hosted a joint graduation for our school and the one next door. Certificates were handed out, lemonade and sponge cakes on the tables, music playing as we all danced.
Everyone looked tidy and happy, but Emma shone brightest. She wore a white dress with lace, tiny heels, her hair braided down to her waist, cheeks flushed from excitement. She was the class star.
That night I promised myself I would tell her Id loved her since the fifth grade and still did, even though my posting to the Army would soon separate us.
But I wasnt the only one watching. The headmasters son, Victor, had long been eyeing Emma. He never let the evening end, and she laughed and waltzed with him. I felt useless standing on the side, brooding, when suddenly Elsie, a friend, took my hand and asked me to dance. I took her hand, and we spun until dawn.
We later walked to the river, sat on the bank, and I kept thinking of Emma, ignoring the girl who pressed against me.
In autumn, just before I was to ship out, word came that Emma was to marry Victor. I wept bitter tears, and she didnt even come to say goodbye. The banquet was large, everyone invited, but beside me sat Margaret, not Emma.
Late that night, while the whole village sang and danced, she pulled me aside, her eyes bright with something I could not name. The details escape me now.
Morning found me home, exhausted, and the looks of my parents heavy upon me as I collapsed onto the bed. I wrote home only sparingly, mainly to my parents, who told me Emma had married Victor and Margaret was off to the city to study.
Youth slipped away, and I said goodbye to my first love forever.
I returned to the village, older, hair cropped short, wearing a sturdy work coat. Emma had given birth to Mick, and another child was on the way. I found her pregnant and weary.
How are you getting on, Emma? I asked, voice trembling.
Fine, she replied. Nothing to complain about.
From her parents I learned Victor was now a drunken drifter, unemployed, constantly arguing with his wife. Hed been stripped of his post as headmistresss husband and was now a simple schoolteacher, struggling to make ends meet.
When Mick was born, tragedy struck. Emmas husband, who had gone off to the river for a laugh, never returned. No one could save him.
The widowed Emma mourned, and I proposed we marry, taking her and her two children under my roof.
At that time the house needed extending; my parents helped with the plot and the building supplies. My own hands were accustomed to bricklaying and roofing.
We moved into the new cottage, the scent of fresh timber filling the rooms. Life settled slowly, the boys grew, and Emma told me about Margaret, whod married a man in London, had a son, and now visited the parents now and then.
Within a month of that conversation Margaret returned to the village for good. Her son, a few years older than Mick, lived apart from his father; theyd divorced.
At first she roamed the village like a vagrant, then her health began to fail. She wilted before my eyes, her envy of Emma who had found a steady home with me plain to see. I turned her away, choosing to stay with Emma and our children.
Now the boys were grown and often argued; I no longer spoke to Margaret, who remained wounded by a grievance she never understood. We never met on the street, everything stayed silent and uneasy.
Winter came, thick with snow, and the boys stopped fighting, though they kept their distance. Tom, Margarets son, grew grim and uneasy.
Then came the day that proved Margaret had truly passed.
One late evening Emma was getting ready for bed when the front gate creaked and a knock sounded. Emma threw on her nightgown and hurried to the door, surprised. I followed her.
On the step stood Tom.
Uncle George, could you come in? Mum wants to speak with you, Tom said, his voice heavy.
Emma ushered him inside. I dressed quickly and went to Margarets room.
What does she want from me? I muttered as I walked.
The bedridden woman, perched on a pile of high pillows, looked gaunt and pale. I pulled a chair, sat beside her, and looked at her face.
It wont be long for me, George, she rasped. Im dying soon I have a secret to tell you.
I stared, confused.
Listen, I beg you, she continued, dont abandon Tom. Remember that night after the sendoff? Hes yours. My husband took me as his wife while I was pregnant. Thats why we never lived together.
She broke into silent sobs.
I left her house feeling hollow, the night cold and bitter. It seemed a single foggy night had ruined an entire life.
Soon the whole village gathered to bury her. After the funeral I took Tom by the hand and led him home.
Tom will live with us, I announced, while Emma sat on a stool, arms crossed over her chest. I gave no further explanation, only that Margaret had asked me not to send him to an orphanage. He would disappear there, but we would raise him kindly.
We arranged everything properly, and the extended family lived together.
Three brothers looked after Lucy, while I worked, Emma kept the house, and the boys took care of chores after school.
I settled with the thought that Tom was my son, or at least as close as blood could make him. Inspections and bureaucracy never concerned me then.
I would never abandon a child, whether my own or anyone else.
