Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, scowling as she passed her husband, George, who had been fussing over the well for three days straight—determined to carve ornate patterns, as if there weren’t more important things to do! While his wife bustled about tending to the animals, there he stood with his chisel, covered in wood shavings, just smiling at her. What sort of man had God sent her? Not a tender word, nor a fist to the table—just silent, steady work. Only now and then did he walk over to touch her thick golden braid, his way of showing affection. But Annie longed to hear pet names like “darling” or “my dove”… Lost in thought about her woman’s lot, she nearly tripped over old Buster, their dog. George leapt up, caught her, then scolded the dog with a stern look: “Why are you getting underfoot? You’ll end up hurting your mistress.” Buster dropped his eyes and slunk to his kennel, and once again Annie marvelled at how animals always understood her husband. When she’d once asked him about it, all he’d said was, “I love animals—they give it right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love: being swept up in strong arms, sweet nothings in her ear, flowers on her pillow every morning. But George wasn’t one for grand gestures, and Annie had begun to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours,” called out Bill, popping his head over the fence. “George, you still fiddling with that well? Who needs your fancy carvings, anyway?” “I want my children to grow up to appreciate beauty,” George replied. “First you’ll need some children!” Bill laughed, winking at Annie. George glanced at his wife with sadness, while Annie—embarrassed—quickly returned to the house. She wasn’t in a rush for children, young and beautiful as she was, wanting to enjoy life a bit more, and anyway, George was just so… quiet. But Bill—now there was a man! Tall, broad-shouldered, a real charmer. When he met her by the gate, he made her heart flutter with his gentle, summer-rain whisper: “My dewdrop, my bright sunshine.” Still, Annie always ran from him, loyal to the vows she’d made when she married George—her parents’ marriage had lasted soul-to-soul for decades, and they’d taught her to cherish her family. But then, why did she always find herself gazing out the window, aching to meet Bill’s eyes? The next morning, leading the cow to pasture, Annie met Bill at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you keep dodging me? I can’t get enough of your beauty—it’s simply dizzying. Come to me at dawn. When your fella’s off fishing, slip over to my place. I’ll give you all the tenderness you crave—you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed a furious red, her heart fluttering, but she said nothing, just hurried past. “I’ll be waiting,” said Bill after her. She thought about him all day—she wanted love, wanted tenderness, and Bill’s eyes burned with longing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. At least, not yet. There was still time until dawn… That evening, George fired up the sauna, even invited Bill in for a steam—Bill, always happy to save his own firewood. They lashed each other with birch twigs, relishing the dry heat, then retreated to the anteroom to cool down. Annie brought in a decanter of homemade gin and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers left in the cellar. She ran down, collected the jar, and went to bring it to the men—only to pause as she caught snatches of their conversation through the half-open door. “Honestly, George,” Bill said quietly, “why so hesitant? Come with me—you won’t regret it. Those widows, they’ll spoil you rotten, and some are real beauties! Not like your Annie, she’s just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” Annie heard George reply, voice soft but firm. “I don’t need beauties—don’t even want them. And my wife’s no grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman alive. There isn’t a flower or berry on earth lovelier than her. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—I see only her eyes, her slender waist. Love fills me up like a river in spring, but I just—can’t find the words to tell her how much I love her. She’s angry sometimes, I know it. I know it’s my fault, and I’m scared to lose her. I couldn’t live a day, not even take a breath, without her.” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear tracing her cheek. Then, holding her head high, she strode into the anteroom. “Why don’t you head to those widows, Bill, and leave us to more important matters. We’ve got someone who needs to admire George’s handiwork. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish doubts. I was holding happiness all this time and never even realised. Let’s not waste another moment…” That dawn, George did not go fishing.

Love Is Not for Show

I remember Mary stepping out of the cottage with a full pail of pig feed, her face clouded as she marched past her husband, Henry, whod spent three days now fussing over the old well. Hed suddenly decided to carve fanciful patterns into the wooden surround, thinking it would be prettyas if there werent more pressing things to be done! His wife worked tirelessly in the house and yard, tending the animals, while he stood there with chisel in hand, wood shavings all over him, smiling at her as if nothing in the world could be wrong. What sort of husband had fate granted her? He never uttered a single endearment, never thumped his fist upon the table to show resolvehe just worked away in silence, sometimes pausing to look into her eyes or gently run his hand along her thick, honeyed braidthat was the extent of his tenderness. Yet how she yearned for a sweet wordsome “my dawn,” or “my dear swan”but it seemed such affection was not in Henrys nature.

Lost in thought about her lot as a wife, Mary nearly tripped over old Rufus, their ageing sheepdog. In a flash, Henry was at her side, steadying her, then giving the dog a stern look.

Rufus, you mustnt get underfoot, youll have our Mary in a heap, he cautioned.

Rufus dropped his eyes guiltily and slunk back to his kennel. Once more, Mary marvelled at how her husbands animals understood him so well. Shed once asked Henry about it, and he only said with a shrug, I love animalsthey know, and they return it in kind.

Mary, too, dreamed of a love that would sweep her off her feet, with whispers of passion in her ear and flowers waiting on her pillow each morning But affection came sparingly from Henry; lately, she began to doubtdid he love her, even a little?

God bless your work, neighbours! called out Charles from the other side of the hedge. Henry, still at it with that tomfoolery? Whos going to bother with your carvings?

I want my children to grow up with good hearts and an eye for beauty, Henry replied quietly.

Well, youd best get on with having those children then! Charles laughed, winking at Mary.

Henrys eyes turned a little sorrowful as he glanced at her, and Mary, flushing, hurried back indoors. Shed no eagerness to bring children into the world yet: young, pretty, she longed for life still lived for herself. Besides, her husband was neither forceful nor charminga good man, yes, but hardly dashing. Her neighbour thoughwell, he was tall, broad-shouldered, handsome as they come. And whenever he saw Mary near the gate, hed greet her in such a warm, lilting voice, it was as though a summer rain whispered, “Little rose, shining sun” Her heart would flutter, knees lose their strength, yet she always made her escapeshed promised to be a faithful wife, after all. Her own parents, bless them, had spent a life in perfect unity and taught her the same ideals.

Still, why did she find herself yearning for just a glance at Charles through the window?

One morning, as Mary was driving the cow out to graze, she met Charles by the gate.

Mary, sweet dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? Youre so beautiful it makes my head spin. Come see me at daybreak, when your husband is off at the river for fishing. Ill spoil you with all the tenderness youve dreamed ofyoull be the happiest woman in all of Kent.

Mary blushed scarlet, her heart skipping, but she said nothing and hurried past.

Ill be waiting for you, Charles called softly after her.

Mary thought of him all day. She longed for affection, and Charles was a fine man who looked at her with a fire in his eyesbut she couldnt bring herself to take that step. Still, the sunrise was yet to come, and who knew what might change by then

That evening, Henry lit the wood for the bathhouse, and asked Charles over for a steam. Charles was only too gladnot having to heat his own bathhouse or waste firewood. The two men lashed themselves with birch rods, sighing contentedly at the simple pleasure, then stepped out to the changing room, flushed and cheerful. Mary set out a decanter of homemade gin and some bites for them, but remembered the pickled cucumbers still cooling in the cellar. She went down to fetch some, and upon returning, paused at the half-open doorcatching wind of their conversation, she lingered, straining to listen.

Why so hesitant, Henry? Charles was whispering. Lets get ourselves off to the taverntheres many a widow eager for company, and beauties a-plenty to warm your heart! Not like your Maryshes plain as sparrows milk.

Then, came Henrys quiet, steady reply: No, mate, Ive no wish for any beautiesI dont even want to think of them. My wife is no grey mouseshes the most wonderful woman in all England. Theres not a flower or berry that outshines her. When I look at her, the sun itself dims: I see only her dear eyes and slender shape. My love for her floods through me like the river in spring. Trouble is, I cant find fancy words or warm speeches, and it pains meI know shes hurt by my clumsy silence. But I cannot lose her; Id not survive a day, not even a breath, if she were gone.

Mary stood there motionless, her heart hammering, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She straightened her back, entered the bathing room, and said in a loud, clear voice:

Charles, perhaps youd best be off to keep those widows cheerfulweve more important matters here. Henrys work will need younger eyes to admire it soon enough. Forgive me, my dear husband, for my foolish thoughts and blindnessI had happiness in my hands and failed to see it. Come along, weve wasted too much precious time already

And so, next morning at dawn, Henry did not trek off to fish.