**Second Wind**
Bertram was no looker, not like some Hollywood heartthrob. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a tractor factory. Didn’t drink—well, maybe a pint at Christmas. Didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, never once strayed.
Their daughter married and moved to Bristol, in no hurry to bless them with grandchildren. Bertram didn’t mind. Children were responsibility, noise, toys strewn across the floor. He was used to quiet evenings—newspaper in hand, telly murmuring. What’s the rush? He’d have his fill of grandkids in time.
His wife, Marjorie, ticked every box: pleasant to look at, always put together, home spotless, dinners hot and hearty. On special occasions, a homemade Victoria sponge and beef Wellington. Life, by all accounts, was settled.
Returning from work, squinting against the sunset, he anticipated a warm meal and the familiar glow of the television.
Bertram stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Usually, Marjorie would peek from the kitchen, calling out that supper was nearly ready. Tonight—silence. A prickling unease crept in. He walked into the living room. There she stood by the wardrobe, flinging dresses onto the sofa, where an open suitcase gaped like a hungry mouth.
“Off somewhere? Bristol, to see the daughter? She’s not pregnant, is she?” Bertram asked.
Without a glance, Marjorie folded another dress into the case, bulging at the seams, the zip threatening to split.
“Deaf, are you? I’ve been shouting. Where d’you think you’re going?” His temper fizzed.
She scanned the room, checking for forgotten things, then forced the suitcase shut.
“Could’ve helped instead of gawping like a spare part.” She blew a strand of hair from her eyes.
“I asked where you’re going with all your clothes. Is that such a daft question?”
She met his stare. “I’m leaving you.”
Bertram’s brow twitched. “Why?”
“Because I’m sick of it. Now, are you going to help?”
“Sick of what?” He strode over, slammed the suitcase shut, and zipped it in one sharp motion.
“Everything. You. The stove. Spending every night glued to that blasted telly.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve gone to the theatre—spiced things up.”
“So you could snore through *Hamlet*? One day blurs into the next, and life just… slips away.” Her voice cracked—exhaustion, frustration.
Bertram shrugged. “That’s life. Standing still or marching on, it passes either way.”
“Stop being clever. I want something to *remember*. What’ve I got? Frying pans? Scouring pots? You buried in the *Daily Mail*?” Her shout echoed.
“D’you think I’ve nowhere to go but our daughter’s? I’m leaving for someone who *sees* me—a queen, a goddess. Who writes me poetry—” Her gaze drifted, misty.
Bertram reeled. “And me?”
“You’ll manage. Just cook your own meals now.” She smirked. “I cut my hair two months ago. New colour. Notice?”
The suitcase wheels gouged tracks in the carpet as she dragged it out. Bertram stared at the furrows. Felt them etched into his chest.
Only when the front door slammed did he startle. Marjorie was gone.
He wandered to the kitchen. A cold kettle. The fridge: half-empty—leftover shepherd’s pie, a few eggs, wilted lettuce. He shut it. Appetite gone.
Back in the living room, he sank onto the sofa. No will for telly or paper. Odd, how her presence—humming over the iron, clattering plates—had filled the silence. A hearth, now ash.
Hours bled. The quiet gnawed. He grabbed his jacket, fled outside. Emptiness stalked him.
Passing a pub, laughter spilt through the windows. He craved noise, anything to drown the hollowness. Inside, he ordered a whiskey. Then another. And another.
How he got home, he couldn’t recall. Woke fully dressed, skull pounding. The room spun.
Fumbling for his phone, he squinted. *Saturday*. He staggered to the loo, then collapsed back into bed.
Two hours later, he rinsed off under a scalding shower. Stepped outside. Sun high, streets bustling. Past the pub—his stomach lurched. He hurried toward the riverbank.
A woman approached, smiling. He glanced around—no one else.
“Lovely day for it,” she said.
Bertram grunted. She lingered, expectant.
“Er—do I know you? Bit foggy today.”
Her eyes softened. “Something wrong?”
He exhaled. “Wife left. For some bloke who writes sonnets, apparently.”
“You’re pale.” She touched his arm. “Let’s sit.” Every bench was taken.
“Not a drinker, usually. Just… last night—”
“You ought to rest. Come on, I’ll walk you.”
En route, she lamented her own lot—son married up north, daughter shacked up with a layabout.
“You really don’t know me?” She chuckled. “Accounts, at the factory. That you don’t remember speaks well of you.”
“Good men don’t get left,” he muttered. “Fancy a cuppa? House is like a tomb.”
She hesitated. “Not proper, is it? Your wife just gone—”
“Then I’m not going back either.”
After a pause, she linked arms with him.
Over tea, familiarity nagged him—like they’d met in some half-forgotten dream.
“You’re leaving?” he blurted as she stood.
“Dark out. You need sleep.”
At the door, he asked for her number. When she left, he crashed into bed. Dawn brought a strange lightness. He toasted stale bread, brewed strong tea. Dialled her.
“Ah—realised I never got your name. Rose? Lovely. Fancy a walk? The river, one hour?”
Dressing, he caught himself humming.
After work, he’d wait by the factory gates, drive Rose home. Or they’d eat out, or she’d cook at his place—him chatting nonsense as she stirred pots.
One evening, over spag bol, he said:
“This is daft. You’re cramped with that deadbeat. Move in.”
“Is that a proposal?” No shock in her voice.
“Yeah. Though, technically, I’m still—”
She stayed.
Bertram thrived. Rushed home at six, relished grocery runs, her chatter filling the kitchen. More words traded in weeks than in decades with Marjorie.
Then—a key turned in the lock.
“I imagined you wasting away. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.” Marjorie stood in the doorway, the air crackling.
*”She* left first,” Rose cut in.
Marjorie’s glare swept over her. “And you are?”
“And *you*?” Rose stood, chin lifted.
Bertram sat paralysed, eyes darting between them. Marjorie—familiar, forsaking. Rose—a second wind, a late bloom.
“Well? Say something,” Marjorie snapped.
His voice steadied. “If you’d come back sooner, maybe. But Rose… she made me feel alive again. If it’s the flat you want, we’ll sell. Split it.”
Marjorie’s mouth opened—no words. A final glare, then she turned on her heel. The door clicked shut.
“You’re sure?” Rose whispered.
Bertram took her hands.
“She’s my past. You’re what’s left. If you’ll have me, I’ll make sure you never pack that suitcase.”
Rose rested her head on his shoulder. “And I’ll make sure you never regret it.”
