Every meeting has its time.
“Why does love fade? It was there, it was real. I was so happy I didn’t notice anything else. Loved him, lived for him alone. And missed the moment he changed. Silly fool. Serves me right. Let my guard down. Shouldn’t have.” Emily stared out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind. The icy roads were gritted with salt. A few days without snow, and the yard had turned muddy brown.
“All I thought about was laundry, ironing, cooking something nice. But he wanted passion, a younger body. Midlife crisis. I noticed he was acting younger—thought he was just trying to hold onto time… Wonder if she can cook? Or do they just eat out? God, what am I thinking? It’s unbearable. Months have passed, and I still can’t move on. And I never will.”
What’s the date today?—Emily wondered.—Must be the 14th. Old New Year. And here I am, sat at home like some old spinster. Right, that’s it—I’ll freshen up and go shopping.”
She set her empty coffee mug in the sink and headed to the bathroom. Turned on the tap, shrugged off her dressing gown, and stepped into the tub. Tried to switch the water to the shower, but the lever jammed. She pushed harder, and it snapped off, clattering into the tub as water gushed from both faucet and showerhead. She scrambled to shut it off, but no luck.
Had to clamber out and turn off the mains. The water stopped gushing, but a thin trickle still escaped. Emily didn’t bother with the soaked gown. Bare as she was, she padded to the bedroom, pulling on joggers and a t-shirt. “There, washed. Everything’s against me. New year, same old problems. How many times did I tell my husband the shower lever was sticking? But he never got round to it—too busy with… whatever.” She muttered to herself as she mopped the floor.
Then she dialled the council’s emergency line. Surely someone was on call. The endless ringing grated on her. What if no one answered? Call her ex? No, she wouldn’t humiliate herself like that. Finally, a weary voice crackled through:
“Hello?”
Emily pictured a frazzled, stout woman drowning in complaints.
“My tap’s burst in the bathroom!” she yelled, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Shut off the water?”
“Yes.”
“Plumber’ll be round Monday.”
“Monday? Two days without water? The pipes run through the bathroom, kitchen, and loo!”
A tired sigh crackled down the line.
“He’s on a job. He’ll come when free. I’ll call him now.”
“How long?” Emily shouted, afraid the woman would hang up. “Water’s still dripping. What if a pipe bursts?”
“Just wait, love. He’ll come when he can.”
Emily wanted to argue, but the dial tone cut her off. “Fine. Wait. God, what did I do to deserve this?” She cursed her ex again, leaving her with ancient plumbing. But what was the point?
Some soap opera droned on the telly. Soon, Emily was engrossed, forgetting the leak entirely. When the doorbell rang, it took her a moment to remember who’d be calling. She checked the clock—only an hour-twenty’s wait. Quick.
She opened the door. A distinguished man, nearing sixty, silver-haired and well-dressed, stood there.
“You called for a plumber?”
“You’re the plumber?” Emily frowned.
“Don’t look the part?” He smiled, crow’s feet crinkling.
“Not really. They’re usually…” She waved a vague hand.
“Fair point. I’m not. But I can fix a tap.”
“Then who—?”
“Neighbour’s his mate. He’s had a skinful celebrating Old New Year—couldn’t work if he tried. Wife asked me to step in, else he’d get sacked. She’s disabled, two kids.” He paused, waiting for an invitation. “Well? Wait ’til Monday or show me the damage?”
“Right, yes—come in.” Emily stepped aside.
He set down a scuffed toolbag, heading straight for the bathroom.
“Water’s off? Good.” He inspected the tap. “Need a new diverter. But this one’s ancient, rusted through. Won’t last. Best replace the whole thing.”
“Your call,” Emily said flatly.
“Don’t fret, I’ll sort it. Just need to pop to the shop.”
“Expensive?” She mentally rifled through her purse.
“I’ll bring the receipt. No funny business.” He waited for approval.
“Fine. Go on, then.”
“Leave my tools here?” He stepped out.
Maybe I should’ve waited, Emily thought, sinking back into gloom. Two days without a loo? No chance. She boiled the kettle, sipped tea, and when the doorbell rang again, there stood the plumber—flushed and winded.
“Quick, eh?” He marched to the bathroom.
Emily lingered in the kitchen, staring out the window. Ought to offer him tea. He rushed here, probably ran.
“All done, missus.”
She turned. He wore a satisfied grin.
In the bathroom, she eyed the spotless tiles. Expected a mess, but not a speck. A new tap, nearly identical, gleamed chrome. She turned it on. Water thundered into the tub. The lever moved smooth as butter.
“Works perfect!” She beamed. “How much do I owe?”
“Nothing. Emergency call-out. Here’s the receipt for the tap.”
She fetched her purse, counted out the cash, adding an extra twenty.
“I can’t take that. You went out of your way.”
“Give it to your neighbour. Wife’s disabled, two kids.”
“Ta. I’ll pass it on.” He pocketed the notes.
“Fancy a cuppa? If you’ve got time,” she offered.
“No other calls. Don’t mind if I do.” He smiled again. “Just let me wash up.”
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. She poured tea, pushed the sugar bowl closer, and set a plate of scones on the table.
“Blimey! Ages since I’ve had homemade.” He took one, devouring half in a bite.
“Good?”
“Brilliant!” He washed it down with tea.
She watched this stranger at her table. Twenty-two years her ex sat there, eating her roasts and cakes, then left for some girl… Traitor, she reminded herself.
He caught her shift in mood.
“You alright?”
“Fine.” She forced a smile. “Sounds daft, doesn’t it? A bit… awkward. My voice shook. “What do you do?”
“Retired army. Pensioner. Just moved back—parents’ old flat.”
“Family?” Why ask?
“Had a wife. Son. She got sick of army life, left twenty years back, took the lad. Done up the flat. Now… dunno what’s next.” He shrugged. “You?”
“Me?”
“You’re alone. If you had a husband, he’d handle this. Left you? Younger woman?”
“Finished your tea?” she snapped. Why’s he prying? “Thanks ever so, but—” She knew she was being rude, but the mention set her off. Like a bull to a rag—except bulls charge at movement, not colour, she recalled.
“Sorry. Overstayed.” He stood sharply, winced, and slumped back down.
“What?”
“Back… old injury… bent too much…” He grimaced.
“Ambulance?” She lunged for the phone.
“Don’t. Got painkillers?”
“Paracetamol?” She rushed back with the box, handed him tablets and water.
“Ta. Mind if I sit till it kicks in?” He exhaled roughly.
“Course. Can you make it to the sofa?” She helped him there, easing him down.
“You served?” Respect softened her tone.
“Aye. Had to.”
His name was William Hartley, invalided out, adrift in civvy life.
“Thanks, Emily. Easing up. Call if you need.” He fished out a modest business card. “Made these for job hunting.” He rose carefully. “Best be off.”
“Your tools—”
“Neighbour’ll fetch ’em tomorrow. Still soused.”
“Mind the ice,” she fretted.
“Be reet.”
Next morning, the real plumber arrived—unshaven, bleary-eyed.
“Tools,” he grunted. “Tap working?”
“Fine. Your mate fixed it. How is he?”
“Good bloke. Laid up, though. Served in Iraq—back injury. My missus gives him jabs—she’s poorly, learned how. Right, I’m off.”
Emily watched snowflakes drift past the kitchen window. Everything looked pristine, festive. ForAs William recovered, he and Emily found comfort in their shared quiet evenings, slowly realizing that love, like the seasons, returns when least expected, though never quite the same.
