Simon Petherick had never once bought his wife a gift in all their twenty years of marriage. It simply never came up. He and Val had wed in a whirlwind, barely a month after they’d met. Their courtship had been swift, too—no trinkets, no fuss. He’d ride to the village where she lived, whistle under her window, and she’d dart out to join him on the bench by the gate. There they’d sit until midnight, trading words like quiet thieves stealing time.
He kissed her for the first time only after they were engaged. The wedding came, then life with its petty burdens. Simon proved a diligent man—livestock piled up in the yard, a small fortune of pigs and chickens. Val, too, worked hard, her garden the envy of the neighbours. Then came children—nappies, tiny vests, childhood fevers. No room for gifts, only the weight of exhaustion. Holidays passed like any other day, marked by simple meals. Their life was quiet, unremarkable, but steady.
One day, Simon rode to market with his neighbour to sell potatoes and bacon—just before the eighth of March. He’d rummaged through the pantry, sorting spares to sell. The bacon, too—why let it sit when a fresh pig would soon be butchered? The market air was crisp but kind, smelling faintly of spring. To his surprise, everything sold fast. The bacon vanished first, the potatoes snatched up like rare gems. “Made good coin,” he thought, pleased. “Val’ll be chuffed.”
After stowing the sacks in his neighbour’s van, Simon wandered the shops. Val had sent him for a few odds and ends. Out of habit, he ducked into a corner pub to toast his good fortune—not that he was a drunk, but he swore by the superstition: fail to drink to luck today, and tomorrow’s trade would sour. A few stiff drinks in, his mood light, he ambled down the bustling street, eyeing shop fronts and passersby. Then his gaze snagged—a young couple stood by a window display. The girl, fresh-faced as morning, clung to her lanky beau, transfixed by a dress draped over a mannequin.
“Sarah, come on, what’re you gawking at?”
“Look at it—perfect for me, isn’t it?”
“It’s just a rag.”
“You daft sod, it’s vintage! The height of fashion. Buy it for me? For Women’s Day?”
“Sarah, you know we’re skint. If I get that, we’ll be on beans for a month.”
“We’ll manage, won’t we, love?” She planted a loud kiss on his lips and tugged him inside. The lad threw Simon a look—what can you do, eh? Women. Soon, they fluttered back out, Sarah giggling, clinging to her prize. Then they melted into the crowd.
Something stirred in Simon’s chest. Was it memory? Or seeing himself in that pair? A long-forgotten warmth spread through him. “Never gave Val a gift,” he realised. “Too busy. Thought it frivolous. But that lad—he’d starve to make her smile. Must love her proper. Do I love Val? Thought I did, once. Then years rubbed it dull. Nothing left but chores. Bloody hell.” The stolen glimpse of joy burned in him like a brand.
He marched into the shop. A young shopgirl fluttered over.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Aye. That dress in the window—the one on the dummy.”
“Oh, it’s utterly chic! Vintage-inspired, pure silk. Your daughter will adore it.”
“Not for the lass—for the missus,” he grunted.
“How lovely!” She chirruped, wrapping it up.
Simon balked at the price.
“Why so steep?”
“It’s by a famous designer,” she explained, patient as if to a child. Then Sarah’s giddy face flashed in his mind. He paid.
His neighbour met him outside, crowing about profits. “How’d you do?”
“Well enough.”
“Made a killing?”
“Since when d’you count my money?” Simon snapped.
“Keep your hair on,” the neighbour muttered, baffled by the shift in mood.
At home, Val was still out. Simon fed the pigs, mucked the stables, poured slop for the hog. Work usually soothed him, but his chest was tight. A good deed, wasn’t it? Then why the dread? He poured himself a double. Then another.
Val came in, sour as ever. “Sat drinking, are we? How’d it go?”
“Fine. Money’s there.” She counted.
“Bit short, innit? You cock it up?”
“Nah. Spent the rest—it’s in the bag.” She pulled out the dress.
“This for our Natalie? Too big for her. Wasting pence, are we?”
“It’s for you,” Simon mumbled. “For Women’s Day.”
“Me?” She blinked. “Honest?”
“Aye, who else?”
Val let out a strange little gasp and fled to the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she emerged, eyes red.
“Don’t fit. Gone too broad, haven’t I?”
“But—” Simon floundered. “I remember one just like it, back when we sat on that bench—”
“You daft old sod,” she laughed through tears. “That were twenty years back.”
“Seeing them flowers—brought it all back. You, so slim under the stars, like someone’d scattered corn in the sky.”
“Aye,” Val sighed. “Proper lovely, it was.”
They sat till dusk. The kids tumbled in first—eldest, Natalie, flicked the light. “Sitting in the dark? What’s this, then?” She pounced on the dress. “Blimey—who’s this for? This season’s must-have!”
Val glanced at Simon. “Your dad got it. For me.”
“Dad, I love you!” Natalie pecked his cheek, dashed off, and re-emerged, strutting like a catwalk model. The fit was perfect. She threw on her coat. “Off to Hannah’s!” Then vanished.
The younger ones got sweets. Night fell soft and strange. Dawn came too soon. Val roused him with a hand through his hair. “Up, love. Breakfast is on.” Her eyes held him, warm as a hearth.
“Morning already? Happy Women’s Day, then, pet.”
“You gave me that yesterday. Ta.”
“Ah, shush,” he muttered, bashful.
“Go wash up.”
They ate in silence sweeter than any gift. Here’s to more days like this.
