The phone buzzed in the quiet of the evening, startling Margaret as she settled into her armchair with a cup of tea.
“Gran, we won’t be able to make it tomorrow for your birthday—sorry,” came Thomas’s voice, her granddaughter Emily’s husband. There was an odd tension in his tone.
“Thomas, love, what’s happened?” Margaret clutched the receiver tighter, a prickle of worry rising in her chest.
“Gran, it’s Emily—I’ve just taken her to the hospital. She couldn’t wait for your birthday. Suppose she wanted to give you an early surprise.” He chuckled nervously, relief and anxiety tangled together. “Haven’t had the baby yet. I’m calling from the ward now.”
“Oh, good heavens!” Margaret exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest. “What a fright you gave me! Calling so late—never do that unless something’s wrong. But what wonderful news! I’ll pray everything goes well for Emily and the little one. Phone me the *moment* the baby’s here. I shan’t sleep a wink otherwise.”
“Course, Gran. I’ll call.”
Two hours later, the phone rang again. This time, Thomas’s voice brimmed with pride.
“Gran, happy birthday—here’s your gift. A grandson. Jacob. Emily’s doing fine. Celebrate without us, yeah?”
“Thank you, Thomas. Kiss Emily for me—tell her she’s done marvelously.”
Margaret turned sixty-five today. Not a grand affair—just her younger daughter, Claire, with her husband and their son, Margaret’s eldest grandson. Then her old workmates, Valerie and Nina, who’d been thick as thieves with her since their days at the factory.
Seven years past, she’d buried her husband, Arthur. A happy marriage, cut short too soon. Fate had other plans, though they’d dreamed of more—retirement by the coast, perhaps. But his heart had failed him, still in his working years. They’d raised Claire, put her through university, and now she lived in the city with her own family.
Margaret and Arthur had spent their years in the village. A large one, really—the factory dominated the place, and nearly everyone worked there. They’d met on the job. Arthur, a fresh-faced engineer, handsome and tall, had spotted Margaret in the canteen, laughing with Nina. After lunch, he’d stopped her by the doors.
“Miss, let’s get acquainted. Arthur’s the name—Artie, if you like, or Art. Can’t say I mind either way.” His smile was easy, his teeth white against his tan.
“Margaret,” she’d murmured, dropping her gaze to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks. Already, she fancied him.
“Lovely name, that. Margaret—like a pearl. Fancy a walk after your shift? Or the pictures, if you’d rather.”
“A walk, please. Hard to talk in the dark at the cinema.”
They’d strolled through the village green that evening, and many evenings after. Love had bloomed between them. When he finally met her parents, he arrived bearing flowers for her mother and a bottle of whisky for her father.
“Evening,” he’d said, stepping into the snug warmth of their cottage. “Arthur. Work with your Margaret. These are for you.” He’d handed the bouquet to her mother and the whisky to her father, who’d snorted approvingly.
“No need for all that,” her mother had chided, but her eyes sparkled. “Sit, lad. Food’s on.”
Arthur had charmed them effortlessly. When he left—early, not wanting to overstay—Margaret had walked him to the gate.
“Your folks are grand,” he’d said, squeezing her hand. “Didn’t expect your dad to tell me to come back. Reckon I passed muster, then.”
They’d married soon after. A proper village wedding, with Arthur’s family driving down from their farm in Yorkshire, laden with eggs, milk, and sides of beef. Margaret’s mother had gaped at the bounty.
“However will we eat all this?”
Arthur’s mother had just laughed. “Men to feed now, love. Takes more than you’d think.”
They’d lived with Margaret’s parents at first—room enough in the cottage. Then, too soon, her parents were gone. And then Arthur.
Time had softened the grief, but the loneliness lingered.
Her birthday passed quietly. Claire and her family stayed only long enough for cake before returning to their lives. Margaret didn’t mind—so long as they were happy. Valerie and Nina lingered a while longer, trading old stories, before bidding her goodnight at the gate.
As she turned back toward the house, she spotted an old Land Rover parked just beyond her fence. A man hunched under the bonnet, torchlight flickering as he wrestled with the engine.
“Excuse me,” he called, spotting her. “Any chance you could hold this torch? Two hands short at the moment. Won’t get far like this.”
“Of course.” She took the torch, holding it steady as he worked. But the engine stubbornly refused to start.
“Thank you,” he sighed at last, wiping his hands. “Looks like I’m sleeping in the car tonight. Won’t drag my mate William out this late. Goodnight, then.”
Margaret returned to the house, tidying the remnants of the celebration. But something nagged at her. Peering out the window, she saw the faint glow of the torch still lit inside the Land Rover.
She walked back out.
Knocked softly on the window.
“Changed my mind,” she said when he rolled it down. “You can’t sleep in there. Come inside—I’ve a sofa you can use.”
His name was William. When he stepped inside, he paused at the sight of the table still half-set.
“You had company.”
“My birthday. Just a small thing.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Back in a tick.” He ducked outside and returned with a jar of honey. “For the birthday girl. Meant for William, but he’ll wait. Happy birthday.”
They talked late into the night. When she woke the next morning, he was gone—only the honey jar remained. That afternoon, a knock at the door. William stood there, flowers in one hand, champagne in the other.
“Couldn’t let the day pass without proper flowers for the lady.”
Three years on, they share the cottage now. William keeps bees on a plot near his old friend’s farm in the Cotswolds. They visit often, tending the hives together.
Margaret never thought love could find her again at her age. But life, it seemed, still had surprises left. And for that, she was grateful.
