A Love Story
Margaret didn’t feel well that morning. Snow was falling heavily outside. She was glad she’d gone to the shops the day before—now she wouldn’t have to trudge through the drifts, which was difficult with her bad knees. Her blood pressure seemed high again, too. She took a pill, lay down on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
*I shouldn’t just lie here. I need to make the soup*, she thought, but she couldn’t muster the strength to get up.
It had become tradition—her son and his wife always came for lunch on the first of January. Back when Anthony was little, they’d bring their grandson too. And without fail, her boy would ask as soon as he stepped inside: *Mum, have you made the soup? I’m tired of salads.* Margaret decided she’d rest just a while longer, then start cooking. She’d have time. She listened to her body. The throbbing in her head had eased a little.
She opened her eyes and looked at the photograph of her husband on the wall. She’d hung it there deliberately—so she’d see him last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Seven years had passed, but she still hadn’t grown used to his absence. She often talked to him while gazing at the picture.
“It’s hard without you, George,” she said aloud.
*Remember how you came home empty-handed on my birthday? You’d hidden the flowers under your coat on the hook, taking your time just to tease me. I came out and asked why you were dawdling, and you said you’d lost your wages—that someone had pickpocketed you at the shops while you were choosing my gift. I was furious. I knew you were up to something, knew your wretched sense of humour, and yet I fell for it again.*
*You always had to see a joke through, no matter what. I was already working out how we’d manage the month with no money. Then the guests arrived—Anthony and his wife, your mate Nigel and his missus, and my friend Sarah. We sat down, poured the wine, you gave a toast—then handed me a little box with gold earrings. It was my fiftieth. I was so cross I nearly threw them at you. And you just laughed, delighted you’d tricked me again.* Margaret gave the photograph a reproachful look.
*And what about the time you dropped the keys in the snow? How we searched for them, even the neighbours came out to help. Then you slipped them back into place for me to find. I asked you so many times—you never admitted it was a prank. Too ashamed in front of the neighbours? They wouldn’t have understood. You didn’t just tease me, either—the kids got their share too…* Her silent conversation with George went on.
He listened attentively from the frame. A rare picture—usually he wore a mischievous grin, but here he looked serious. Margaret sighed and sat up on the sofa. Her headache had faded.
She went to the kitchen and began making the soup. Every movement sent a dull ache through her knees. As she worked, memories flooded back…
***
It had been a warm August afternoon. Young Margaret sat in her white wedding dress before the mirror. Her friend Sarah was fixing her hair—she’d been training as a hairdresser in the city. Margaret couldn’t sit still, alternating between happy smiles and nervous stillness.
The groom would arrive any minute, and yet she still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing by listening to her mother.
*Stephen’s family is steady, they’ve got a proper house, and the lad’s hardworking. Who else is there to marry in our village? The city boys have enough girls of their own.* Her mother’s words had worn her down. She was twenty—time to settle. Sarah kept praising her dress, praising Stephen—but tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. The sound of every passing car made her heart leap, only to sink when none stopped.
Then an engine cut out beneath the window, a car door slammed. Margaret tensed. Her heart pounded like a trapped bird’s.
Sarah hurried out to meet the groom, to haggle over the bride’s ransom. Her mother was already waiting on the doorstep…
But Margaret wasn’t thinking about what a bride ought to. Instead, she remembered the day before, when her mother sent her to the shops. There, she’d met George. After his army service, he hadn’t come back to the village—he’d gone straight to work in the city. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d filled out. Not classically handsome, but striking, unmistakably a city man now. The intensity of his gaze made her blush and look away.
“You’re too late, lad. No use gawping at her. She’s not for you—getting married tomorrow,” the shopkeeper, Auntie Mabel, had said.
“We’ll see about that,” George smirked, still watching Margaret.
She barely remembered leaving. Outside, she could finally breathe again. And from then on, she couldn’t forget his eyes.
Margaret listened. They were taking too long negotiating the ransom. Suddenly, the door flew open—but it wasn’t Stephen who stepped through. It was George.
She jumped up, her heart hammering so hard it might burst. Her mother clutched at George’s sleeve, trying to hold him back. Sarah just stood there, watching. He broke free and strode to Margaret.
“I can’t live without you. Will you come with me? Now?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak. So he swept her into his arms and carried her out. Her mother and friend barely had time to move aside. Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder, as if this was how it was always meant to be.
And that was how George stole her from the altar. For years, the village gossiped about it. Later, Stephen turned up drunk, barely able to stand. He just stared at them, then left.
George told her afterward what he’d said to him: *You won’t be happy. I’ll take her back one way or another. You might as well kill me now.*
Stephen was no match for George. He backed down.
They left for the city right after the wedding. At first, they lived in a cramped flat, then George got a proper house through work. They slept on a mattress on the floor, happier than anyone. They had two children—a daughter who’d married and moved abroad, and Anthony, here in England, whose own son was finishing university. Margaret never once regretted running away with George. They’d loved each other deeply.
And always, George had a joke ready. That was just him. Margaret would get cross—she never grew used to it, always falling for his tricks.
Even when his heart first gave him trouble, he joked it was another prank, just to make her fuss over him. But she saw the pain, wept, and fussed anyway. The ambulance took too long—another snowstorm like today’s, roads blocked. They never made it to the hospital…
***
Margaret sighed, blinking back tears, and turned off the stove. Why was she like this? The memories made her head ache again, small hammers pounding at her temples. She went back to the sofa and lay down.
“Seven New Years without you, George. Anthony and his wife will come tomorrow. But he’s got his own life now. He’s so like you—carefree, always playing the fool.”
*Remember how we all used to celebrate together?* Fresh tears blurred her vision—and for a moment, she thought George’s picture moved.
“Don’t cry, Maggie.”
She startled. The pain in her head flared anew. Rubbing her eyes, she looked again—no, George’s portrait was as still as ever. Her mind playing tricks.
*Am I hearing voices now? Losing my mind?*
“Still laughing at me, are you? Can’t even rest in peace?” she asked quietly, gazing at the photo. “How is it there? Do you miss me? The kids? Life? No trouble with your legs, I suppose. Mine are terrible—I’ve no strength left.”
“Everyone’s young here, Maggie. Healthy. Nothing hurts,” George’s voice came again.
*This can’t be real.* She sat up.
“But I’m tired without you.”
“Then show yourself. Unless you can’t? All you do is scare me,” she said. “I’ll take my pills now, before…” Groaning, she tried to stand.
The room swayed. A metal band tightened around her skull. Darkness crept into her vision. She collapsed back onto the sofa, rolling onto her side, and in her fading consciousness, she saw George—young, just as he’d been that August day.
“Hold on, love. It’ll be over soon,” she heard through the ringing in her ears. “Come on, it’s time.” He held out his hand.
She wanted to ask where, to say she couldn’t move, but only a moan escaped her.
Then the pain vanished. She rose effortlessly and took his hand. The flat, the snow outside—gone. Warm, golden light surrounded them,And as they walked together into the shimmering light, she finally understood—this was the love story that never truly ended.
