Changed My Mind About Marriage
It was another late evening for Arthur, hunched over his bench in the dim glow of the chemistry lab, swapping coloured liquids between test tubes and examining clumps of odd, powdery substances.
He believed, with every ounce of forty-year-old energy he had, that all this meticulous graft would soon pay off, and at last, hed have a discovery from a rare English root to reveala product that might even raise an eyebrow at the Royal Society.
So fixated was Arthur on his research that he barely noticed the newly hired cleaner, Emily, who had started at the Institute just a few weeks prior.
While he chased results with single-minded purpose, it never occurred to him that Emily, having long finished her cleaning rounds, would often stand quietly in the corner of his office, leaning on her mop, studying his back with an almost desperate intensity.
Then one blustery autumn evening, Emily found her courage and broke the awkward silence.
“Mr. Hargreaves, youve been sat there ages. Dont you fancy a cuppa? Ive my travel kettle with me, quite by accident, and some homemade bangers my mum sent up from Sussex.”
Arthurs interest was well and truly piqued at the mention of sausages. He straightened up from his experiment.
“Tea and bangers, you say? Well, itd be a crime to turn that down,” he said, a smile creeping onto his lips.
Emily, glowing with pride, pulled a plastic lunchbox and her handy kettle from her rucksack, her hands trembling slightly as she set everything out.
“Mum gave me some pork mince yesterdayso I whipped these up, bit of fat, some sage, and baked em last night,” she beamed.
Arthur slipped his glasses back on as he examined the lunchbox.
Just to check, how longs that box been in your rucksack today, Emily?
Her smile faltered just a touch.
Well, since this morning, I suppose. Why?
And the lidwas it as tight this whole time?
Um, yes, she replied, frowning. You think theyve gone off? They shouldnt have. The staff cloakrooms always freezingheatings never on.
Arthur weighed up his doubts.
Fair enough. Well then, lets just stick to the tea, shall we? Best take those home with you, keep your hard work for yourself.
Emily, bristling at his concern, swiftly retrieved the box and set it squarely at her place on the desk.
Oh, dont be daft, Mr. Hargreaves,” she protested, flipping open the box. A quick sniff. “Smells fine to me, honestly. You city types always so fussy. Ill eat them myself!”
Undeterred, she poured the tea, banging mugs on the desk a bit louder than needed.
Arthur, feeling he ought to offer some company, edged back to the table. The tea thawed his mood somewhat; the smell of sausage was, if anything, making his stomach ache with hunger.
Pork, is it? he asked.
Yep, Emily said with gusto.
Looks lovely. Doesnt smell odd at all, quite the contrary.
His mouth watered. Logic battled with his senses.
“Technically, by policies, the staff cloakroom shouldnt ever go over twenty-two degrees Celsius, so really, bacteria…”
Emily cut across, Sorry, what?
Arthur noticed a smear of fat running down her chin and another glinting on her nose. His thoughts started to jumble.
“Bet theyre absolutely lush. Goodness, the aroma! Come on, Arthur, dont be silly. You know the risks of eating food with questionable storage. And lets be frankEmily isnt the brightest candle in the box, doubt she thought about food safety or anything…”
He sipped his bland tea, his gut rumbling. And then, as if possessed by something primitive, he reached out, popped a sausage in his mouth, felt the casing burst, the savoury meat melting on his tongue.
Incredible. Who made these?
Told youme, Emily blushed, delighted.
Arthur nearly rolled his eyes back in bliss.
No words, he said, honestly.
Emily beamed, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes.
Knew youd come round! Always think things are off! I know my foodIve been making sausages since childhood.
As a thank you, Arthur offered to walk Emily to the bus stop. They got to talkinghe found out she was just twenty-three.
“Crikey,” he thought. “Barely older than my goddaughter.”
They waited for her bus, which didnt arrive for a quarter of an hour.
I could make you some biscuits tomorrow, she said, shyly. Proper homemade, nothing from the shops. Which do you fancycarrot or cheese scone?
Im not fussy, Arthur admitted.
Ill bring both, then.
Astonishingly, Arthur looked forward to work the next day more than any experiment in years. His calculations and formulas lay forgotten, replaced by vivid dreamshe woke flustered from one in which Emily undressed, pale English skin glowing, her linen shirt slipping from her shoulder.
Embarrassed, forty years with hardly a thought to women, and suddenly there he was, acting like a schoolboy.
Part II
When it came time to meet Emilys family, naturally, Arthur was nervous. In the back of the taxi, he smoothed strands over the bald patch atop his head, wishing hed kept his hat on in the wind.
Just last night, Emily had placed his head in her lap and carefully plucked out every grey hair with her tweezers.
Now clean-shaven and suited, a fresh tie and a last dash of aftershave for confidence, he felt ready for inspection.
Emily pressed her cheek to his, eyes closed like a contented cat.
“Youll be fine,” she murmured. “Mums the understanding sort. And Grahams just easy-going, agrees with everyone.”
“How olds your mum?”
“Forty-five.”
“Blimey. Im forty. Do you suppose shell approve?”
“Dont be silly. And if she doesnt, Ill say Im expecting your baby.”
“Lets not do anything drastic, now,” Arthur spluttered.
They arrived. The wind near tore his hat off as he stepped from the car.
Arthur took in the crumbling terraced cottage with its sagging tile roof, crooked brick chimney topped by a battered old cooking pot. Hed seen such cottages only in pictures of the poorest parts of Yorkshire or perhaps old Kent.
Inside, bare floorboards creaked under rough homemade rugs, the walls lumpy under dripping layers of whitewash. Arthur stared, disbelievingsurely this was a garden shed, or an old fishermans hut?
Emily hissed at him to take his shoes off before shoving him into the cramped parlour.
Mrs. Bradshaw, swathed in an old flannel dressing gown, waited.
“Hello, Mum. This is Arthur, my fiancé. Told you all about him,” Emily chirped.
A chill swept from Mrs. Bradshaw, eyes assessing every inch of Arthur.
“Youre joking, right? What sort of age gap is this?”
Arthur stammered: “Let me introduce myself. Arthur Hargreaves; your daughterEmilyand I…”
“How old are you?” she cut in, voice ringing through the house.
“Forty.”
“And shes twenty-three! Twice her age!”
Look, I know Im older, but I care for Emily. She wont want for anythingsteady job, a flat in town, even a country cottage someday.
No car, though! Mrs. Bradshaw sneered.
Well, my sights not brilliant. Cant drive. But I could always teach Emily, if thats important for you…
Oh, dont flatter yourself! You want to make my daughter your skivvy? This isnt the bloody Victorian era!
Arthurs heart sank. Honestly, I mean to marry Emily. And do things properlychurch ceremony, children and all… I
At that moment, a chap only a little older than Emily, tall and striking, appeared from the kitchenGraham, her stepfather.
“Evening! Lovely to meet you, heard a lot,” he said, all charm, black curls and bright eyes.
Even Arthur had to admit, the fellow looked the parta proper young stallion.
Mrs. Bradshaw rounded on Graham. “Don’t you suck up to him, Graham. I wont let my daughter marry this old scoundrel!”
Emily gasped in protest, “Mum, dont! Hes my guest. If you dont accept it, Ill just go with him.”
“Youre not going anywhere!”
The argument ragedshouting, accusations, tears. Arthur backed away, prising Emilys hand off his and trying to slip out.
“II’m sorry, Emily. But I cant go against your mother. Best say goodbye.”
Emily burst, “So she can carry on with her toy boy in broad daylightwhile Im sent packing? She brings her lover home, and then throws me out if I get in the way?”
Graham shouted back, “Dont you dare talk to your mother like that!”
“Shut up, Graham!” Mrs. Bradshaw bellowed.
Arthur, hunched and white-faced, made for the door. A stool whizzed past his head.
“God save me,” he prayed, stumbling into the freezing night.
He tramped half the village looking for a liftor the local train station, perhaps. Panic and cold pressed him like a vice around his chest.
“Why on earth did I agree to this madness?” he moaned, trudging through snow. “I could be in my warm lab now! But no, I just had to chase this bloody adventure…”
He fiddled with his phone, only to find no signal. Wearily, he circled backrecognising the tell-tale pot on the chimney.
Back at the house, he noticed the rows had ceased, the place silent in the night.
Emily slipped out quietly, bags in hand.
“Arthur?” she whispered. “I thought Id lost you. I… I dont want to stay if Mum wont accept us.”
He stamped on the spot, toes numbit was far too raw for romance. He started doubting things. Was Emily really the one? Her family certainly wasnt the easiest to inherit…
Mrs. Bradshaw appeared on the steps, swaddled in a battered old fur coat, boots stuffed into wellies.
Well, daughter, if youre set on leaving, I wash my hands. Hes responsible for you now.
Emily replied, chin high, “Better with Arthur than with you and your lot, Mum. Arthurs a proper man. Now call us a taxi.”
“Not a chance. Sort yourselves out from now on.”
Emily nudged Arthur, desperate. “Do something!”
Arthur, about to freeze to his socks, muttered: “Cant get signal, Emily. Go knock next door, see if the neighbours have a phone.”
He felt his legs buckle in fear and coldthen collapsed, gasping, in the snow.
Whats happening?! Emily shrieked, louder than any village cockerel. Arthur mustered, “Dizzy… Feels like Ill die here. I just want to go home.”
Noooo! she wailed, her voice splitting the night. For a moment, the entire world seemed to unravel.
A medic from the next street turned up, jabbed him with something, and he started feeling a little more human again.
“You must resthalf an hour, at least,” she said.
“Whats wrong with me?” he croaked.
“Hypertensive crisis. Too much stress.”
“Never used to be anxious, till today…”
He imagined Mrs. Bradshaws scowl hovering above.
“And now hes a sickly old wreck as well!” her voice sneered at him.
Emily brought hot tea and spooned it into him.
The medic packed away her things. “Could you take me with you?” Arthur begged.
“Take you? I live herethis is my patch.”
Emily squeezed his hand, “Youre not leaving, are you? Its all OK now. Mums forgiven us. Were sorted!”
Arthur, now desperate for escape, didnt dare meet her eye.
“They can sort it out as they wishIve made up my own mind. If I get out alive, Im off. And Im never, ever going near women again.”
***
Back in his lab, Arthur packed away his notes.
“All done for today. You too, JaneI did mention it half an hour ago. Locking up now.”
Jane, the lab assistant, thirty-two and painfully shy, blushed and fiddled with her glasses.
“I made a cake… Would you care for a spot of tea?”
“No!” Arthur barked. “Workplace is for working, not for tea parties!”
She smiled, embarrassed, “But the workday finished a while ago…”
“Go home, Jane!” he snapped.
The smile flickered, and she slung her bag on her shoulder.
“Madman,” she hissed under her breath.
Arthur exhaled and locked the door, heading home.
He arrived bang on eight oclock. Emily greeted him cheerily at the door.
“Evening, Mr. Hargreaves!”
“Whats for supper?” Arthur asked, not looking at her.
“Rich duck soup and potato dumplings.”
“Lovely. Im famished. Make a note of what I owe you for groceries, will you? Ill top up your pay at the end of the month.”
Arthur took off his boots, washed up, and sat down to his meal.
Emily fussed about. “Arthur, are you still cross with Mum? She just panicked because youre a respected scientist and probably thought youd never seriously want to marry me. She wanted me to seem valuable, thats all. Silly woman, but I love you still.”
Arthur stirred his soup, feeling an uncomfortable lump in his throat.
“Or was it the fight that put you off?” Emily prattled on. “Honestly, nothing new for us! We row, we make up… Maybe it got a bit wild, but so what?”
Without a word, Arthur stood, guided Emily to the corridor and then out the door, handing her all her things.
“Its late, Emily. Head home tonight. Skip tomorrows dinnerIll eat the dumplings. You can drop by Thursday.”
He closed the door on her teary face, returned to his kitchen, and finally, felt himself at peace.
Personal lesson: Love, for all its promise, is no safe adventureas for me, Ill stick to my chemistry and a quiet flat, thank you very much.
