Back in the day, life in the English countryside was full of simple joys—no internet, just village dances where young folks gathered to laugh, flirt, and let loose.
Emily had fallen head over heels for Jack from the next village over. He’d rolled up to one of those dances on his beaten-up motorbike, taken one look at her blushing cheeks, and that was it.
“Oi, Tom,” Jack nudged his mate, “that Emily—she single?”
Tom smirked. “Course she is. Half the lads fancy her, though. Why, you smitten?”
Jack just grinned. “Proper stunning, isn’t she?”
The music thumped, and Jack didn’t waste time. He swept Emily onto the dance floor, and they didn’t leave each other’s side all night. By the time they stumbled out, the moon was high.
“Fancy a ride?” Jack jerked his thumb at his bike.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather walk, thanks.”
Hand in hand, they wandered under the stars, giddy as schoolkids. Emily had never felt like this—not even when she’d fancied that lad Robbie back in Year 9.
Months later, Jack showed up grinning. “Let’s get hitched.”
“Bit dramatic,” Emily laughed. “Could’ve just asked normal-like.”
“Right then. Expect my mum and dad round with a bottle of sherry to make it official.”
And just like that, they married. Jack’s parents arrived in a proper old-fashioned trap, bells jingling, like something out of a period drama. Emily’s mum had warned her—”Handy blokes like him? Trouble.” But love blinded her.
Village life suited them at first. Then came baby Michael, and soon enough, the city called. “Plenty of work in Manchester,” Jack said. “We’ll get ourselves sorted, bring the lad up proper.”
Factory jobs came easy. Jack strutted about like he owned the place, and the women there noticed. Sandra from the storeroom batted her lashes. “Fancy popping round mine for my birthday drinks?”
Jack smirked. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
One betrayal led to another. Emily turned a blind eye until the factory girls spelled it out. “Your Jack’s playing the field, love.”
“That’s daft,” Emily scoffed. “If you love someone, you don’t cheat.”
Confronted, Jack didn’t deny it. “You’re always knee-deep in nappies. What’s a bloke meant to do?”
Years limped by. The boys grew up. Then one evening, Jack slung a bag over his shoulder. “Right. Off to live with Tracy from accounts. The flat’s yours.”
Emily didn’t weep. She’d seen it coming. But then he circled back, demanding his share of the flat. “Where’d you scrape up that sort of cash?” he sneered when she bought him out.
Scrimping, borrowing, she managed. “Good riddance,” she told herself.
A decade on, she bumped into Rita, an old mate. “Heard about Jack? Tracy kicked him out. Now he’s shacking up with some bird from Bolton.”
Emily just shrugged. “Karma’s a bitch.”
Years later, a frail Jack turned up on her doorstep, wheedled into her home by their son. “Mum, he’s got nowhere to go.”
Emily set rules. “You pay your way. We’re not a couple.”
But then the neighbours started whispering. “Jack says you begged him back!”
Emily nearly choked. “That lying sod!”
She rang Michael. “Fetch your dad. Now.”
The boys tried—Michael’s place, then younger son Ian’s—but wives weren’t having it. Finally, they stuffed him in a care home.
“His pension’ll cover it,” Michael muttered. “We’ll visit. Sometimes.”
Alone at last, Emily sighed. Some men never change. But life? Life went on.
