Love Carried Through the Years
A new family moved into the village just as the local school was being rebuilt. The old headmaster had retired, and the new one, Rodney Peters, arrived with his wife—a maths teacher—and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Elsie.
Elsie wasn’t like the other village girls—she stood out, and that drew all the boys’ attention while the local girls scowled. She was always tidy, her thick plait neatly braided, shoes spotless even when she had to trek through autumnal mud. She’d scrub them clean in a puddle before stepping inside the schoolhouse.
“Look at posh Elsie, splashing about like a duck,” the village girls would laugh, though soon enough, they started washing their own shoes too. They’d noticed the lads preferred a girl who kept herself proper.
Then there was Mick, a broad-shouldered, hardworking lad of sixteen who’d left school after year eight to work the fields. He was a master at stacking hay—so good even the village women marvelled at his neat, towering ricks.
Mick had always been soft on girls. By fourteen, he was already charming them, and by sixteen, he’d had his fair share of romances under those very haystacks. “Bloody Mick, eh? Rutting like a stag,” the villagers would joke, and he’d just grin.
But everything changed the day he saw Elsie. She was walking to the village shop with her mother, looking every bit the prim and proper town girl.
“What’s this, then?” Mick muttered, nudging his ginger-haired mate, Alfie.
“New folk. Her dad’s the headmaster now. That’s Elsie—mum’s the maths teacher.”
From that moment, Mick was done for. All his wild ways vanished as if he’d never glanced at a girl before. There was something about her—some lightness—that made his restless heart stutter.
He knew she was young, so he kept his distance, watching from afar. But the whole village knew Mick had fallen hard. Autumn turned to winter, the river froze over, and the lads took to skating on the ice with their old “Snowfair” skates—just blades strapped to their boots. None of the village girls could skate.
Then, one day, Elsie stepped onto the ice—proper figure skates and all. The way she glided, spun, carved patterns—kids and grown-ups alike stood open-mouthed on the bank.
“Blimey, look at her go!” the lads gasped.
Mick missed the spectacle—he was coming back from work when he heard shouting from the river. He sprinted over without thinking.
“Help! Elsie’s drowning!”
She’d skated too close to the far bank, not knowing about the weak ice where the spring bubbled up. Mick tore across, dropped his coat onto the ice, and crawled towards her. She was flailing, breaking the ice with her hands.
No time to grab a stick—he yanked off his belt and threw one end to her. She clutched it, and he hauled her out, half-dragging, half-carrying her home, soaked and shaking.
The village buzzed with the tale. That evening, Elsie’s mother came knocking, arms full of treats.
“Thank you, Mick,” she said tearfully. “Elsie’s asked for you—she’s poorly, got a fever.”
She led him inside. Elsie lay in bed, weak but smiling, pressing his hand.
“Without you, I’d have—” A tear slipped down, and he wiped it away.
From then on, he visited every evening after work. They’d sit in her little room, talking—mostly her, him listening, loving the sound of her voice.
Elsie turned sixteen. They held hands, walked together, and one day, he kissed her.
At eighteen, Mick left for the army. Their goodbye was long, tearful.
“It’ll fly by. Wait for me, yeah?” She promised.
But fate had other plans. He was sent to a war zone, wounded, lost a leg. He lay in hospital, telling no one—especially not Elsie.
“I won’t come back like this. Not for her to see me hobbling.” He convinced himself she deserved better.
Once he’d adjusted to his prosthetic, he moved to a nearby town with his mate from the ward, Pete. Found work, then married—Vera, who’d offered to take care of him. Not love, but respect.
Yet Elsie never left his heart. Sometimes the memories gripped him so tight he’d grit his teeth to stop himself running back.
Years passed. He visited the village occasionally—his mum still lived there. Saw Elsie too, now a village woman, married to local bloke Zach, three kids, softer round the edges but still beautiful.
Something still tugged between them, but neither acted on it. After each visit, Mick would drink for a week, scaring Vera, before settling back into routine.
Then Vera fell ill, passed quickly. Mick grieved, alone now, the weight of loneliness crushing.
“Dad, come live with us,” his daughter, Alice, urged.
He agreed. But the city flat, the balcony, the long days—none of it felt right.
One winter, an idea took root: *Go home.*
“Alice, I want to die in the village. Bury me next to Mum and Dad.”
She resisted, but he insisted. They drove back together.
The village was overgrown, their old house collapsed under a fallen oak. But word spread fast—soon Elsie shuffled up, leaning on her stick.
“Come to mine,” she said. “I’ll feed you.”
That evening, they talked and talked. Alice left the next morning, uneasy.
“Stay with me,” Mick said to Elsie when they were alone. “Just a week.”
She hesitated—*what will people say?*—but nodded.
Four days passed in easy companionship. Village air, old neighbours dropping by.
On the fifth morning, Elsie found him still in bed. She touched his face, closed his eyes, then wept.
They buried Mick beside his parents.
And in that village, his love still lived—in Elsie.
