Happiness had returned to her heart once more.
For some time now, Eleanor had noticed how her husband, William, would clutch at his left side, near his heart. He tried to be subtle about it—a quick rub of his fingers before dropping his hand, glancing around to see if she had noticed. More than once, she had asked him:
“Does it hurt again, William? You ought to see the doctor in town.”
“It’ll pass, just give it a moment,” he would always say.
It had been nine years since Eleanor and William had settled in the village after finishing university. He had studied agriculture, while she had trained as a teacher. But Eleanor had never taken up teaching, for William loved farming, and their yard was always full of livestock—two cows, sheep, a pig, chickens, and ducks. There was always work to be done, so she stayed home, on her feet all day. William worked as a farm manager.
Eleanor had been raised by her grandmother since she was thirteen; her parents had died young, perishing in a house fire while she was spending the night at her grandmother’s. William was from the village, but three years after their wedding, his father passed from a heart attack, and his mother followed not long after.
So it was just the two of them. Life was good, but they had no children. Both had hoped and prayed—Eleanor had wept many nights, begging God for a child. But none came.
One morning, William finished breakfast and prepared for work, only to clutch his chest again. Before Eleanor could reach him, he collapsed. The ambulance arrived swiftly, but it was too late.
After the funeral, Eleanor wept for days, lost in her thoughts.
“Thirty years old and alone. Why must life be so cruel? I loved my husband, and yet God took him from me. Took them all from me. What did I do to deserve this?”
In the mornings, she would enter the barn to milk the cows, crying as she worked.
“Why do I even need all these animals? I do everything out of pity—they must be fed, the cows must be milked…” she sobbed, sometimes breaking into wails, thinking no one could hear.
But someone did. Margaret, the school’s deputy headmistress and their neighbour, visited her one day.
“Eleanor, I hear you weeping. I understand. Why don’t you sell the livestock? What use is it to you now? I’ve heard the village school is in need of a primary teacher. Perhaps you could take the post. Our own school is fully staffed, but the little ones go there, and the older children come here—it’s only three miles away. At least you’d be among people, distracted. Say you’ll do it—you’re a teacher, after all.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You’re right.”
By summer’s end, Eleanor had sold all the animals, and by September, she had moved to the neighbouring village. Soon, the villagers knew her as the kind and gentle Miss Eleanor Price, settled into a large house. She scrubbed the windows, swept every corner, and made the place her own.
“Well, here begins my new life,” she murmured aloud. “Though the fence is in tatters, and the gate won’t shut. It needs mending.”
She asked for help, and timber was delivered for the fence. But the work still had to be done.
“Kate,” she called to her neighbour, who was hanging laundry in her yard, “might you know someone who could fix my fence? The materials are ready.”
Kate wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer.
“There’s a carpenter—skilled hands, but he drinks. Won’t lift a finger without a bottle. His wife, Vera, is to blame—since they married, they’ve both been at it. He was a sober lad before. They’ve two little girls, four and two, but the authorities took them half a year ago. Best you don’t go yourself—I’ll speak to Michael if I see him.”
“Thank you, Kate.”
The next day, Kate returned with news.
“Saw Vera by the shop today—they’ll come tomorrow morning. Just buy a couple of bottles of wine—they won’t work otherwise.”
Sure enough, Michael and Vera arrived early, reeking of drink. Michael dropped his tools in the yard and looked around. Eleanor stepped out.
“Morning, missus,” Vera said loudly. Michael nodded in greeting.
He was unkempt—unkempt hair, unshaven, wrinkled clothes—but his eyes were clear and bright. There was something startling about them—something that made Eleanor pause. They reminded her of her late husband’s gaze.
“The timber is over there,” she gestured.
“Aye, we can see that,” Vera said, plonking herself on the doorstep. “Got anything to drink? Fetch it out—need something to steady the hands.”
She cracked open the bottle, poured two glasses, and they drank. Then Michael set to work.
“If they keep drinking, how will he get anything done?” Eleanor fretted silently. “He won’t even come back tomorrow.” But she held her tongue. “Well, so be it. If Kate recommended him, he must know what he’s doing.”
And though Michael sipped wine as he worked, he did the job well. Everyone in the village knew—once Michael took a task, he’d see it through. His wife hovered nearby, refilling his glass as he laboured. By dusk, the fence stood straight, the gate hung true, and even a small hook had been added to stop it swinging in the wind.
Eleanor inspected it, satisfied, paid them, and thanked them.
“Come back if you need more work,” Vera slurred. Michael gathered his tools, and they left.
Winter came. Eleanor settled into teaching, grateful to Margaret. Slowly, her grief eased. The children adored her, and she loved them in return. As New Year’s Eve approached, she woke one night to knocking. Glancing at the clock, she realised it was nearly dawn.
Thinking she had imagined it, she heard it again. Cracking the door open, she found Michael on the step.
“Vera’s dead,” he said softly. “Didn’t even know she’d left. Woke up, she was gone… found her by your fence. We drank last night—reckon she went looking for more and froze.” His voice was hollow. “Don’t know what to do. She’s just lying there…”
The village buried Vera together, helping Michael through the ordeal. Afterwards, he drank for a week. Then, one evening, Eleanor heard the knock again.
“Today’s the ninth day since she went,” he said. “Thought we might remember her.”
Eleanor frowned. “You’ve friends aplenty—why come to me? I don’t drink. But fine, come in.”
He poured wine for himself, then her. She barely sipped; he drained his glass.
“What do I tell my girls when they ask about their mum? They’ll never give them back to me now. Took them last summer—said we had to find work, clean the house, stop drinking.” He pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket—two little girls with his bright eyes stared up.
“Good Lord, they’ve your eyes,” Eleanor whispered, her heart aching. A wild thought flickered—what if they were hers?
Before she could second-guess herself, she spoke.
“Let’s marry. I’ll take the girls—they won’t give them to me alone. Needs to be a proper family. You needn’t change—live as you like. I just… I can’t bear to see them without a home.”
They wed. The village whispered, shaking their heads.
“Couldn’t she find a better man?”
Only Kate understood. Eleanor gathered the paperwork, fought through the red tape, and finally brought the girls home.
When Michael saw them, he wept.
“Papa! You smell funny,” the elder, Emily, said. Little Grace just hugged him.
Strangely, they never asked about their mother. Emily simply declared, “This is our mum, Eleanor. She loves us. We live here now. It’s clean, and there’s space.”
Eleanor enrolled them in the village nursery and returned to teaching. Michael visited now and then. Once, she asked if he knew where she might buy a cow. He stared at her slender frame and delicate hands in disbelief.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve milked cows before—had two with William. I’ll manage.”
He found one for sale—old Mrs. Stephens was too frail to keep hers. Eleanor bought it. By summer, chickens pecked in the yard, and a pig grunted in the sty.
Michael visited the girls often, playing with them, but each time he left, his heart ached. His old mates still dragged him to the pub. Then one day, Emily said:
“Papa, don’t come smelling of drink.”
It stung—but he knew she was right. Watching Eleanor struggle with a heavy barrow of muck, something in him shifted. He rushed over, taking it from her.
“Why load so much?”
He cleaned the sty, tossed hay to the cow, then went home. Head in hands, he thought
