**Saturday, 10th November**
Sorting Victor’s things today, I found the box again. Tucked beneath old jumpers were the photographs. There it was – the snap from Speech Night, forty years gone. Arthur and I stood side by side, his arm draped lightly over my shoulder as if I were spun glass. Both of us smiling in the picture, but I remember the tremble in my hands when he’d shuffled over and asked to pose together.
“Ellie,” he’d mumbled, cheeks flushing crimson, eyes fixed on his shoes. “Could we? Just… to remember?”
I’d nodded, mute, though my heart pounded like a drum. Foolish girl. All that final year at St. Mildred’s, Arthur met me after lessons, carried my satchel, helped me through maths. I pretended not to notice, pretended indifference.
Now, handling these relics after William’s passing, the enormity of what slipped through my fingers washes over me. Thirty-five years with William. A good man, a devoted father to Arthur and Flora. Yet my heart kept circling back to that bashful boy from Leeds Grammar.
“Mum? Found anything interesting?” Flora popped her head round the bedroom door. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, just looking at old photos,” I murmured. “See how young I was?”
Flora took the picture, studying it intently. “Who’s this next to you? Not Dad…”
“A lad from my year,” I said quickly.
“He’s rather handsome. And the way he’s looking at you… utterly smitten.” Flora smiled impishly. “Was he your sweetheart?”
Turning towards the window, I watched the fine November rain tracing patterns on the glass, catching glimpses of amber maple leaves trapped in droplets. “No sweetheart then. Simply a friend,” I whispered, already feeling the old ache.
I added, almost defensively: “He went off to polytechnic. I went to university. Separate paths.”
Flora shrugged, placed the photo aside, and left. Alone again with the ghosts.
After Speech Night, we met only a few times. He’d visit me at home. We’d sit in the kitchen sipping tea. Mum, bless her, favoured him. “He’s a good sort, Ellie,” she’d say. “Steady, hard-working. Adores you.”
“Mum, don’t imagine things,” I’d protest. “Only friends.”
“Friends,” she’d sigh. “At your age, I was picking the wedding china.”
His last visit was August, before university term. I was buried in textbooks for medical school applications – stacks of chemistry and biology on the table, notes everywhere.
“Am I disturbing?” He stood hesitantly in the doorway.
“Come in,” I said, without glancing up.
Arthur sat opposite, quiet for ages. Then, abruptly: “Ellie… marry me?” My heart stalled. I looked up, met his gaze. He sat rigidly straight, hands clasped on his knees, every word a visible effort. “I mean it. I’ve loved you… terribly, terribly much. Since the first form. Only want you. You’ll finish university, I’ll work – save for a place. We’ll wait ’til you qualify, then… well, start our family.”
I stared, mute, a whirlwind inside. I longed to shout *yes*, fling my arms around him. But something pinned me down – fear of seeming flippant? My need for that degree first? Or mere terror of such overwhelming earnestness?
“Arthur, I…” I began, but he cut in.
“No answer yet. Think it over. I’ll wait.”
A week later, I left for Manchester. Never gave him an answer. When I returned a first-year student, he was courting Sarah Rivers from our year.
Sighing, I put the photo down. Decades passed, yet it feels like yesterday. Sarah triumphantly flashing her engagement ring. Arthur awkwardly nodding when we passed on Elm Street. Me offering polite congratulations.
At university, William found me. He was a year senior, handsome, assured. Persistent courting – flowers, theatre trips. We married during my third year. A grand wedding; people said we were the envy of the town.
“Mum,” Flora asked once, grown up, “did you love Dad?”
“Of course I loved him,” I replied.
And true it was. I loved him. Differently. Not with that fierce, fluttering intensity I might have offered Arthur, but sincerely, as family. William was a fine husband, a fine father. Earned decently. Never drank to excess, never strayed. I worked as a GP, raised the children, kept house. An ordinary life for an ordinary family.
Sometimes I’d see Arthur about town. Aged he had, wrinkles etching his face, hair gone grey. But his eyes remained the same – kind, lingeringly sad. We’d exchange pleasantries about the drizzle in Manchester, the children. I knew he and Sarah had three youngsters, that he worked as a foreman at the plant, lived in a two-bed flat on the edge of town.
The last time was at the Royal Infirmary. William was in coronary care after the infarct. Arthur was in the next ward – his heart too. We collided in the corridor.
“Ellie?” He seemed startled. “You here?”
“Husband’s poorly,” I explained. “You?”
“Took a bit of a turn,” he waved dismissively. “Docs say too much work, nerves…”
We stood quiet, the silence thick. Unexpectedly, he asked: “Remember? When I asked you? In your room, at the table…”
I nodded. Every detail.
“Daft I was,” he sighed. “Shouldn’t have asked for marriage. Should’ve simply said I loved you. Might’ve answered then…”
“Arthur, don’t,” I whispered. “What’s the good now?”
“I think about it sometimes,” he pressed on. “How we’d have been. You a doctor, me a foreman. Pretty children, I’d wager…”
“You *have* lovely children,” I countered. “Sarah showed me pictures.”
“Aye, good kids,” he conceded. “Just… never quite right, do you see? My whole life, off-kilter. Respect Sarah? I do. Fine woman, keeps a spotless house. But loved only you. Love you still.”
My legs weakened. I leaned against the hospital wall, looking at this tired, ageing man, and suddenly understood – so had I. Loved him all my days, not William. Too scared to face it.
“Arthur, I…”
“Mr. Davies?” A nurse called. “Doctor wants you!”
He nodded, turned back. “Go to William. Get him well.”
I meant to speak, but he was already shuffling down the corridor, hunched, trailing a hand along the wall.
William recovered, came home. And a month later, I learned Arthur was gone. A second infarct. Never made it to the hospital.
At the funeral, I stood apart, watching Sarah sob, watching his children weep. Not a tear left me. Inside, I’d turned to stone.
At home, William asked, “What’s wrong? Feeling unwell?”
“No, just weary,” I said.
But that night, alone in the dark as William slept, I wept into my pillow. Wept for never saying the vital thing to Arthur. Never saying I’d loved him all those years
The photograph stood as an eternal testament to silent love, shadows deepening across Michael’s earnest eyes until Evelyn finally turned away without another word, closing the chapter forever.
