Margaret woke feeling unwell. Snow fell heavily outside the window. She was glad she’d gone shopping the day before—today, trudging through drifts with her bad knees would have been impossible. Her blood pressure seemed high again, so she took a pill, lay on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
“Why am I lying here? I should be making the stew,” she thought, but her body refused to move.
It had become tradition—every New Year’s Day, her son Edward and his wife came for lunch. Years ago, when Edward was younger, he’d bring their grandson too, always asking the moment he stepped inside, “Mum, is the beef stew ready? I’m sick of salads.” Margaret decided she’d rest a little longer, then cook. There was time. She listened to her body—her head felt better now.
She opened her eyes and looked at the portrait of her husband on the wall. She’d hung it there deliberately, so he’d be the first and last thing she saw each day. Seven years had passed, and she still hadn’t grown used to his absence. She often spoke to him, staring at the picture.
“I miss you terribly, George,” she said aloud.
“Remember the time you came home empty-handed on my birthday? You hid the flowers under your coat on the rack, took forever to take it off—just so I’d come out and ask why you were dawdling. You said you’d lost your wages at the pub, that someone had nicked your wallet while you were picking my gift. God, I was furious with you. I knew you were up to something—your cheeky grin always gave you away—but I fell for it anyway.
And you were so stubborn, seeing every prank through. I was already figuring out how we’d manage the month without money. Then the guests arrived—Edward and his wife, your mate Nigel with his missus, my friend Lizzie. We sat down, poured the wine, you gave a toast, and then handed me a little box with gold earrings. My fiftieth birthday. I nearly threw them at you! But you just laughed, thrilled you’d tricked me again.” Margaret shot the portrait a reproachful glance.
“And when you dropped the keys in the snow? How long we spent searching! The neighbours even came out to help. Later, you slipped them back into my pocket so I’d ‘find’ them. Never once admitted it was a joke. Too embarrassed in front of the neighbours? They wouldn’t have understood. You teased the children just as much…” Her silent conversation with George continued.
The portrait of George listened solemnly. It was a rare photo—usually, he wore a mischievous smile. Margaret sighed, sat up—her headache had eased—and went to the kitchen to make the stew. Every movement sent pain through her knees. As she cooked, she remembered…
***
It was a warm August day. Young Margaret sat in her white wedding dress before the mirror while her friend Lizzie styled her hair. Lizzie was training to be a hairdresser in the city. Margaret fidgeted, smiling one moment, lost in thought the next.
Her groom, Alfred, would arrive soon, yet she still doubted if she’d done the right thing, listening to her mother.
“Alfred’s family is solid, their farm’s prosperous, and he’s a hard worker. Who else would you marry in our village? The city lads have plenty of girls of their own,” her mother had insisted.
So Margaret agreed. Twenty was old enough to wed. Lizzie babbled about the dress, about Alfred—but tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. She kept listening for car engines outside, relieved whenever one passed by.
Then a motor cut out below the window. A car door slammed. Margaret tensed. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
Lizzie rushed out to greet the groom and demand the bridal ransom. Her mother stood on the porch—
But Margaret wasn’t thinking of weddings. She remembered yesterday, when her mother sent her to the shop, and she’d run into George. After his army service, he hadn’t returned to the village—he’d gone straight to the city for work. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d filled out. Not classically handsome, but striking—utterly citified now. His intense gaze made her blush, her eyes dropping.
“You’re too late, lad. No use staring—she’s not for you. Marrying tomorrow,” said the shopkeeper, Mrs. Higgins.
“We’ll see about that,” George smirked, not looking away.
She barely remembered buying anything. Outside, she gulped air, unable to forget his gaze.
Now, listening—why were they haggling so long over the ransom? The door burst open. But it wasn’t Alfred who stepped through—it was George.
Margaret shot up, heart pounding wildly. Her mother grabbed George’s sleeve, trying to bar his way. Lizzie just stood there, watching. George wrested free, strode to Margaret.
“I can’t live without you. Will you come with me? Now?”
She couldn’t speak. He swept her into his arms, carried her out. Her mother and friend barely dodged aside. Margaret clung to his neck, rested her head on his shoulder—as if this was how it should be.
That’s how George stole her from her own wedding. The village gossiped for months. Even Alfred came later, swaying drunk, just staring before leaving.
George later told her he’d confronted Alfred.
“You won’t keep her. I’ll take her anyway. Better kill me now.”
Alfred was no match for George. He backed down.
They left for the city straight after the wedding. First a cramped flat, then a council house from George’s factory job. They slept on a mattress on the floor—and were deliriously happy. Two children came. Their daughter married and moved abroad. Their son stayed nearby, their grandson nearly finished university. Never once did Margaret regret running off with George. They loved each other fiercely.
And always, George played his tricks. That was him. She’d scold, but she never learned—always falling for it.
Even when his heart faltered, he joked, saying he was winding her up so she’d fuss over him. But she saw the pain, wept, fretted. The ambulance took too long—snowstorm like today, roads buried. They never made it to hospital…
***
Margaret sighed, blinked back tears, turned off the hob. Why this flood of memories? Her head throbbed again, hammers banging in her temples. She returned to the sofa, lay down.
“Seventh New Year without you, George. Edward’s coming tomorrow with his wife. But he’s young—his own life now. He’s so like you. That same careless charm.”
“Remember our New Year’s celebrations?” Tears welled again—and for a moment, George’s portrait seemed to shift.
“Don’t cry, Maggie.”
She startled. Pain flared in her skull. Rubbing her eyes, she saw George’s portrait unchanged. Her mind playing tricks.
“Now I’m hearing things. Going mad, am I?”
“Still teasing me? Can’t even rest over there?” she asked softly. “How is it, George? Do you miss me? The kids? Life? Knees giving you trouble? Mine are agony—no strength left.”
“Everyone’s young here, Maggie. Healthy. Nothing hurts.” The voice echoed in her mind.
“This is nonsense.” She sat up.
“Yes, Maggie. It’s lovely here. But I’m tired without you.”
“Show yourself. Or can’t you? Just enjoy scaring me?” She forced a chuckle. “I’ll take my tablets—before I—” Groaning, she tried to stand.
The room swayed. An iron band tightened around her skull. Darkness crept in. She slumped back, onto her side—and through fading vision, saw George. Young, as he’d been that August day.
“Hold on, love. It’ll pass soon,” the voice murmured through the ringing in her ears. “Come. It’s time.” He reached for her.
She wanted to ask where, to say she couldn’t move—but only a whimper escaped.
Then—no more pain. She rose effortlessly, took his hand. The flat, the snow outside—gone. Warm, golden light enveloped them, filling her with peace. Sweetness. A hint of fear—just like when he’d carried her to the car…
The next day, Edward and his wife came. They knocked, waited. Eventually, he fetched the spare key…
Margaret lay still on the sofa, serene as if sleeping. A full pot of stew sat on the stove.
After the funeral, Edward hung a framed photo of her beside George’s portrait. In it, she smiled joyfully—as if she’d finally found what she’d been searching for.
