James Whitcombe had never once given his wife a gift in all their twenty years of marriage. It just never came up. He and Valerie married in haste, barely a month after they met. Their courtship had been swift too, without presents. He’d ride to the village where she lived, whistle under her window, and she’d come running out. They’d sit together on the bench by the gate until midnight, exchanging hardly a word between them. He didn’t even kiss her until they were engaged.
The wedding came and went, and life settled into its routines. James became a proper farmer, raising livestock and tending the land. Valerie was no slouch either—her vegetable patch was the envy of the neighbors. Then came the children, with all the nappies, vests, and childhood sniffles. Gifts? No time for that. Just keeping their heads above water. Holidays passed like any other day, marked by nothing more than a modest meal. Their life was ordinary, full of daily toil, but steady and safe.
One day, James went to the market with a neighbor to sell potatoes and bacon, just before Mothering Sunday. He’d sorted through last year’s crop and decided to offload the surplus. And the bacon—might as well sell it now, since they’d soon be butchering a fresh pig. The market was brisk, the air crisp but hinting at spring. To his surprise, the bacon vanished in no time, and the potatoes were snatched up like gold dust. “Made a tidy sum,” James thought cheerfully. “Val’ll be chuffed.”
After stowing the empty sacks in his neighbor’s truck, James wandered the shops. Valerie had asked him to pick up a few odds and ends. But first, as was his habit, he stopped at the pub to toast his good fortune. Not that he was a drunk—but he held an unshakable belief that bad luck would follow if he didn’t have a pint after a profitable sale. A drink or two later, he ambled down the bustling street, idly eyeing window displays and passersby. Then something caught his attention.
A young couple stood by a shopfront. The girl, fresh-faced and bright as her lad, was spellbound by a dress in the window.
“Sarah, come on, what’re you gawking at?”
“Look, it’s gorgeous—and it’d fit me perfect!”
“Blimey, it’s just a bit of rag.”
“You daft sod, it’s all the rage—retro style! Buy it for me, eh? For Mothering Sunday?”
“Sarah, you know we’re skint. If I get this, we’ll be on beans for a month.”
“We’ll manage, won’t we, love?” She planted a firm kiss on his lips and nudged him toward the shop. The lad threw James a knowing look—”Women, eh?”—before they vanished inside. Moments later, they emerged, Sarah laughing, clinging to her husband’s arm. James watched them melt into the crowd, then stared at the dress himself. Simple, floral, like the frock Valerie used to wear when they were courting.
Something stirred in him. A memory of youth, perhaps—or seeing himself in that young couple. A long-forgotten warmth spread through him. “I’ve never given Val a proper present,” he realized. “Always too busy, or thinking it nonsense. But that lad’s willing to go without just to see his wife happy. That’s love, isn’t it? And do I love Val? Thought I did when we wed, but it all faded into the daily grind. Nothing to show for it. Blimey, what a life.”
The stolen glimpse of someone else’s joy burned so sharp in his chest, he ached to feel it himself.
He marched into the shop. A bright young shopgirl hurried over.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Aye. That dress in the window—I’ll take it.”
“Oh, it’s ever so popular! Pure silk, retro chic. Your daughter will adore it.”
“Not for my daughter. For the missus,” James muttered.
“Oh! She’s a lucky woman!” the girl chirped, wrapping it up.
“How much?”
When she named the price, James balked. A small fortune.
“Bloody hell, why so steep?”
“It’s by a proper London designer,” she explained patiently.
James hesitated. Then Sarah’s beaming face flashed in his mind.
“Right. I’ll take it.” He counted out the notes and left, buoyed by his own daring. His neighbor met him outside. The ride home was lively—his mate bragging about his profits, every penny accounted for.
“And you? Make a killing?”
“What’s it to you?” James snapped, inexplicably prickly.
“Steady on, mate. No need to bite me head off.”
At home, Valerie was still out with the livestock. James fed the animals, mucked out the pens, slopped the pigs. The work soothed nothing. He’d done a good thing, hadn’t he? Bought a gift. So why this nagging guilt? He spat in disgust and went inside, pouring himself a stiff drink. Then another.
The door creaked. Valerie trudged in, her usual stern self.
“What’re you loafing about for? How’d it go?”
“Fine. Money’s there.” She counted it.
“Bit short, ain’t it? Bad day?”
“Nah. Spent the rest on… well, it’s in that bag.” She pulled out the dress.
“Who’s this for, then? Our Lizzie? Too big for her—wasting good money.”
“It’s for you,” James mumbled, suddenly sheepish. “For Mothering Sunday.”
“Me?” She stared, disbelieving. “Honest?”
“Aye, course!” He brightened, relieved there’d be no scolding.
Valerie gasped, then darted into the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she returned, eyes red.
“Doesn’t fit. Gone plump, haven’t I?”
“Can’t be,” James floundered. “Just like the one you wore when we sat on that bench—”
“Silly old fool,” she sniffed. “Twenty years is twenty years.”
“But seeing them flowers… I remembered it all. You, so slim beside me, the stars like scattered grain overhead.”
“Aye, James. Those were good times.”
They talked until dusk, lost in memory. The kids tumbled in—first Lizzie, switching on the light.
“Why’re you sitting in the dark?—Oh! What’s this?” She seized the dress. “This is this season’s must-have! Who’s it for?”
Valerie glanced at James. “Your dad got it for you, love. For Mothering Sunday.”
“Dad, you’re brilliant!” Lizzie pecked his cheek, dashed off, and reappeared in the dress, twirling like a model. It fit her perfectly. She threw on her coat. “Off to show Sophie!”—and vanished.
James had brought sweets for the younger ones. Night fell, and soon they all turned in. A sweet, dreamless sleep.
Morning came. Valerie shook him awake.
“Up you get, love. Breakfast’s on.” Her face was soft, her gaze so tender it near drowned him.
“Morning already? Well—happy Mothering Sunday, then.”
“You made it happy yesterday. Ta for that.”
“Ah, go on,” he mumbled, flushing.
“Come on. Wash up and eat.”
They hadn’t shared a morning so warm in years. God willing, there’d be many more.
