Lydia Johnson walked home in her unbuttoned woollen coat, clutching a worn briefcase stuffed with her students’ notebooks. She’d spend the evening grading essays.
Not long ago, the trees had been bare, but now, delicate green buds unfurled under the warm spring sun. The world was waking. Soon, everything would bloom.
Passersby greeted Lydia with respect. She responded with a polite smile. Most had been her pupils once, and now their children sat in her classroom. She was slender, almost girlish, her petite frame belying her age. Her face was still pleasant, though time had etched its marks. But who would marry her here? So she lived alone in a snug wooden cottage on a narrow lane—her teacher’s lodging, assigned twenty-five years ago when she’d arrived from the city.
The town was little more than a village. These days, young professionals got flats in brick-built blocks. But few came. London lured them away.
Lydia had grown fond of her cottage. In spare moments, she tended the garden—something she’d never done before moving here. Life had taught her much: how to stoke the fire, pickle cabbage, make jam. She’d learned to survive.
Life…
It had been spring then, too. Two lads sat beneath her dormitory window, arguing over a word’s spelling. Both were wrong. Irritated, she leaned out and corrected them.
One, quick-witted, asked her to check his entire statement. She did, fixing every error.
*”Ta. Lucky we bumped into you. What’s your name?”*
*”Lydia.”*
*”I’m Victor. Teaching, then?”*
*”Educator, more like,”* she corrected.
Victor reminded her of a bear—steady and safe. When he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.
His mother disapproved.
*”What’ll you do with her—read books? Bet she can’t even cook. You’ll rue the day.”*
She wasn’t wrong. Lydia burned pasta, forgot eggs on the stove. Victor’s mother took over, fearing her son would starve. Lydia tried to learn, Victor cleaned up his act, and for a while, they were happy.
A year later, their son was born—calm, like his father. Too soon, perhaps, but easier than leaving mid-term later.
Victor’s mother grew bolder. *”Useless,”* she’d sneer in front of Lydia.
Lydia endured it. At night, she wept into Victor’s shoulder.
*”I love you,”* he’d murmur, kissing her.
When the boy grew older, Lydia wanted to return to work.
*”Over my dead body. I’ll mind him,”* the old woman snapped.
Lydia was grateful. But Victor began slipping away—rough around the edges, distant. Then came the affair: a brassy shopgirl with copper hair and thick eyeliner. She fed him, didn’t try to change him.
*”It’s true, isn’t it?”* Lydia asked.
*”We’re too different,”* he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
She requested a transfer. A vacancy opened in a village—tiny, barely a dot on the map. The house was a wreck: a sagging shed, a barren woodshed. But she learned. Chopped wood, drew water from the well. Her son thrived, chasing cats through the currant bushes.
Victor paid child support but never visited. He married the shopgirl. They had daughters.
When her son left for uni, he stayed briefly with Victor. *”Cramped,”* he complained. *”The girls are brats.”* The shopgirl and Victor’s mother clashed until she was exiled to a cramped flat. Victor’s mother never visited again.
At first, her son returned for holidays. Each time, Lydia flinched—he looked so like his father. Now he was an engineer, holidaying in the Cotswolds or abroad. Alive. Well.
Opposite her cottage, builders raised a new house. A burly man, tanned and shirtless, caught her eye.
*”Like it?”* he called.
*”Yes.”*
*”Your porch is rotten. Roof’ll leak soon.”*
*”It does—in heavy rain.”*
*”Want me to fix it?”*
*”How much?”*
*”We’ll agree. Finishing next week. I’ll drop by.”*
She hesitated. Forty, maybe. Handsome. What did he want with her? But the house needed repairs. She couldn’t afford anyone else.
He returned, appraised the work, scribbled a list.
*”Saturday, then. Don’t fret over materials. There’s spare from the job.”*
*”I’ve little money,”* she admitted.
*”No rush. Feed me, that’ll do.”*
Over wine, he confessed—left his wife, joined a crew travelling for work.
*”I’m done with drifting. Let me stay while I fix the place. That’s payment enough.”*
She agreed. Neighbours gawped but said nothing.
The house gleamed—fresh paint, a sturdy porch. She still caught herself holding the gate out of habit.
She liked him. *”Foolish old woman,”* she chided herself.
But it happened. She grew younger, let her hair down. They walked by the river, picked berries. Some were happy for them. Others sneered.
*”Plenty of widows about, and he picks that old crow?”*
She ignored them.
For three years, they were happy. Then, one evening, he sat staring at the wall. Her stomach lurched.
*”What?”* she whispered.
*”My wife called. My boy wants me home. He’s grown. She’s struggling.”* He knelt, pressed his face to her stomach. *”I’ve got to go.”*
She packed his things—so many now, even a second-hand car. At the gate, he hugged her.
*”I’ll never forget you. Call if you need anything.”*
He tucked a loose strand behind her ear, then drove away.
She locked the gate, crumpled onto the bed, and wept.
Three days later, hollow-eyed, she returned to school. Everyone knew.
She waited for his call. But weeks passed. *”He’s fine, then,”* she told herself.
She didn’t know. Fifteen miles from town, a drunk driver swerved into him. His old car crumpled. He died before the ambulance came.
Every day, she traced her fingers over the porch he’d built, as if his warmth lingered in the wood.
Time weathered it. The traces faded.
Her son took her to the city when his second child was born. She went gladly.
Maybe one day, she’d bump into Michael on the street.
*”Hello,”* she’d say.
