Florence woke feeling unwell. Snow was falling heavily outside the window. She felt relieved she’d gone to the shops the day before—today, trudging through deep snow would have been too much for her aching legs. Besides, her blood pressure seemed high again. She took a pill, lay down on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
*“Why am I lying here? I need to make the soup.”* But she didn’t have the strength to get up.
It had become tradition for her son, Edward, and his wife to visit for lunch on the first of January. Back when Edward was little, they’d come with their grandson, too. And always, the moment he stepped inside, he’d ask: *“Mum, have you made soup? I’m sick of salads.”* Florence decided she’d rest a little longer, then start cooking. She’d have time. She listened to her body—her head felt slightly better now.
She opened her eyes and looked at the photograph of her husband hanging on the wall. She’d placed 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 spoke to him, staring at the portrait.
*“It’s hard without you, George,”* she said aloud.
*“Remember that time you came home without a birthday present for me? You hid the flowers under your coat on the rack. Took your time hanging it up so I’d come out and ask what was taking you so long. And then you said you’d lost your wages—claimed someone had nicked your wallet while you were picking out my gift. I was furious with you. I knew you were up to something, knew your cheeky ways, and still, I fell for it every time. Stubborn as a mule, you were. Determined to see a joke through to the end. I was already calculating how to get through the month with no money. Then the guests arrived—Edward and his wife, your mate Nigel with his missus, and my friend Ruth. We sat at the table, poured the wine, you gave a toast… and then handed me a little box with gold earrings inside. My fiftieth birthday. I nearly threw the box at your head. But you just laughed, pleased as punch you’d tricked me again.”* Florence gave the portrait a mock-stern look.
*“Or the time you dropped the keys in the snow, remember? How we all searched for them, even the neighbours came out to help. You must’ve planted them for me to find—never once admitted it was a prank. Didn’t want to look silly in front of them? They wouldn’t have understood. Weren’t just me you teased either—the kids got their fair share…”*
George in the photograph listened silently. It was a rare picture where he looked serious—usually, he wore that mischievous grin. Florence sighed and sat up. The pain in her head had eased.
She went to the kitchen and began making the soup. Every movement sent a dull ache through her knees. As she cooked, her memories returned…
***
It had been a warm August afternoon. Young Florence sat before the mirror in her white wedding dress while her friend Ruth styled her hair. Ruth had trained as a hairdresser in the city. Florence couldn’t keep still—one moment she smiled brightly, the next she seemed lost in thought.
Her groom would arrive any minute, yet she still wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision—her mother had convinced her.
*“Stephen’s from a good family, hardworking, no nonsense about him. And who else would you marry in our village? City lads have their pick of girls,”* her mother had said.
So Florence agreed. She was twenty—time to settle down. Ruth kept complimenting her gown and Stephen, but Florence’s eyes filled with tears. She strained to hear the sound of a car outside, hoping each passing engine wasn’t his.
Then the noise stopped just beyond the window—a car door slammed. Florence tensed. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird against her ribs.
Ruth dashed outside to greet the groom, demanding the traditional *“ransom”* for the bride. Her mother was already waiting on the doorstep…
But Florence wasn’t thinking of the things a bride should. Instead, she remembered the day before, when her mother had sent her to the shop—and she’d run into George. After the army, he hadn’t returned to the village, moving straight to the city for work. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d grown taller. Not classically handsome, but striking—completely citified now. Under his steady gaze, she’d flushed and looked away.
*“Too late for that, lad. No point staring; she’s not for you. Getting married tomorrow,”* the shopkeeper, Auntie Mabel, had said.
*“We’ll see about that,”* George smirked, still staring at Florence.
She barely remembered buying anything. Once outside, she could finally breathe—yet she couldn’t shake the memory of his eyes.
She listened now. The bargaining for the *“ransom”* was taking too long. Then—the door swung open. But it wasn’t Stephen who stepped in. It was George.
Florence leapt from her chair, heart pounding madly. Her mother grabbed George’s sleeve, trying to hold him back, while Ruth simply watched, stunned. George wrenched free and strode toward Florence.
*“I can’t live without you. Will you come with me? Right now?”*
She couldn’t speak. He scooped her into his arms and carried her out. Her mother and Ruth barely had time to jump aside. Florence wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder—as if it were meant to be.
That was how George stole her from the altar. The village talked for years. When Stephen finally showed up—drunk, barely upright—he simply stood there, stared, and left.
Later, George told her how he’d visited Stephen before the wedding.
*“I won’t let you have her. I’ll take her from you either way. You might as well kill me now,”* he’d said.
Stephen was no match for George. He backed down.
After the quick ceremony, they moved straight to the city. First, they lived in a tiny flat, then George was assigned a council house through his factory job. They slept on a mattress on the floor at first—and were deliriously happy. Two children followed. Their daughter married and moved abroad. Their son stayed close; their grandson was finishing university soon. Not once did Florence regret running away with George. They’d loved each other fiercely.
And always, George played his tricks. That was just him. Florence pretended to be cross—yet she never grew wise to his pranks, not even after all those years.
Even when George’s heart first gave trouble, he joked that he was faking it so she’d fuss over him. But she saw the pain, wept, and held him. The ambulance took too long. Snow like today’s had buried the roads. He never made it to hospital…
***
Florence swallowed back tears and switched off the hob. Why was she dwelling on the past? Her head throbbed again, little hammers tapping at her temples. She returned to the sofa and lay down.
*“Seventh New Year without you, George. Edward’s coming tomorrow with his wife. But he has his own life now—young, full of energy. Takes after you, that easy, reckless charm of his.”*
*Remember how we all used to celebrate together?* Fresh tears pricked her eyes, and for a moment, she thought George in the portrait moved.
*“Don’t cry, Flo.”*
She startled. Pain flared in her skull again. Rubbing her eyes, she looked—but George’s image hadn’t changed.
*Am I hearing things? Going mad?*
*“Still teasing me, even now? Can’t leave well enough alone?”* She smiled faintly at the portrait. *“How is it there, George? Do you miss me? The kids? Life? No aching legs, I bet—mine are killing me.”*
*“Everyone’s young here, Flo. And nothing hurts.”*
She sat up, unnerved.
*“I’m tired without you.”*
*“Then show yourself. Or can’t you? All you do is frighten me—”* She tried to stand. *“Need my tablets, or else—”*
The room spun. Iron bands tightened around her skull. Darkness crept into her vision. She collapsed back onto the sofa—and in her fading consciousness, saw George. Young again, just as he’d been that August day.
*“Hold on, love. It’ll all be over soon,”* she heard through the ringing in her ears. *“Come on. Time to go.”* He reached for her.
She meant to ask where—to say she felt too ill to move—but only a faint sound escaped.
Then the pain vanished. She rose effortlessly, took his hand—and the flat, the snow outside, all of it melted away. Warm, golden light enfolded them, filling her with peace.
It was sweet. AFlorence smiled as she stepped forward with George, leaving behind the pain and the years, finally together again.