Love
One evening I was tidying up the surgery when I heard the door creaka heavy sound, like someone was leaning into it with their shoulder. I turned around and nearly dropped my mop. There stood what looked like Michael, the most respected and capable chap in the villagea proper jack-of-all-trades. Normally, he wore a full, snowy beard that smelled of sawdust and pipe tobacco, but this fellows cheeks were bare and pale, and there was a plaster across a shaving nick on his neck. He reeked so much of Old Spice that my nose stung. Had Michael really shaved off his beard?
Michael Stevens, I said, letting the floor mat fall, Is that you? Or did your younger brother pop round instead?
He fidgeted, twisting his cap in his hands and avoiding my gaze. Its me, Valerie. ImIm needing something. For the heart. And the nerves.
I went straight into nurse mode, sat him down on the couch, and reached for the blood pressure monitor. Whats wrong? Where does it hurt?
Everywhere, he grumbled. Feels like an iron drum pounding in my chest. Can’t sleep. And lookmy hands are shaking.
His blood pressure was sky-high160 over 100. Not typical for Michael, who never saw doctors and could bend nails with his bare hands.
I spoke sternly. Alright, lets be honest. Overdone it with work or had a row with Margaret?
At the mention of his wife, he flinched, his face blotched red and jaw tightened. Margaret Stevens was a quiet, gentle lady, always by his sidenever raised a word against him. Michael, though, could be as prickly as an old hedge; no one got close easily.
Just give me the drops and stop with the questions. Your jobs to fix, so fix.
I dripped him some corvalol, slipped a heart tablet under his tongue, and waited while he sat and caught his breath. He muttered thanks and left. I watched him out the windowhis walk was brisk, almost youthful.
Goodness, I thought. Is he falling in love again at his age?
A village is like a big beehivesneeze in one corner, and by tea time the other end will say youre on your deathbed.
The next evening, Lucy the postwoman was at my door, breathless: Valerie, have you heard the news about Michael? Hes lost his mind! Not only did he shave, but he took the bus into town today, came back with bags, stashed them under his jacket. Nancy from the department store called me, asking why your Michael was buying fabric in the haberdashery and browsing the jewellers!
My heart skipped a beat. He must fancy someone. But who? Everyone in our villages right in the open.
And Margaret? I asked in a low voice.
Lucys face softened, sympathy all over. Poor Margaret shes darker than a thundercloud. Eyes all swollen from crying.
Neighbours said Michael sent her to sleep in the summer house, claiming he needed peace for his project. What kind of night project does a carpenter need? Everyone could guess.
A couple of days later, Margaret Stevens herself came to me, petite and fragile in her old woolen scarf. Valerie, she whispered, May I?
I sat her near the stove, poured hot tea with raspberry jam. She held her cup with both hands, warming herself, eyes fixed to a spot on the table. Hes leaving me, Valerie. Forty years together, raised the kids, welcomed grandchildren Now its all gone.
Oh, Margaret, dont jump to the worst, I said, but inside my heart was churning.
Hes become a stranger. Shaves daily. That cologne she wrinkled her nose. Yesterday I found a receipt from Golden Thread in his pocket. Hes lying. Wont meet my eyes. The tears spilled, silent and deepage settling more lines on her face. He unlocked the chest in the loft with my old dresses and dowry things. I walked in and he snapped, What are you snooping for? Slammed the door. I know Im old, not pretty anymore. But neither is he
I stroked her thin shoulder, thinking, Oh, men what are you doing?
Hang in there, Margaret, I told her. Maybe its not as it seems.
How? she smiled bitterly. He sings now. Locks himself in the shed, hammering and singingOh, the willow blooms. Never sang before. Hes in love, Valerie. Definitely in love.
She left, and I couldnt sleep all night. Michaels reliable as oaksurely he wouldnt break up his family after all these years. Hes stern, yes, silent, yesbut not cruel.
A week went by. Tension in the village swelled like dough in a proving bowl. Rumours flewsome said he fancied the young librarian from town, others mentioned a city woman whod bought a cottage nearby.
Michael walked around lost in thought, eyes burning, looking thinner, but somehow lighter. Seemed not to notice anyone.
Saturday evening, the neighbours lad rushed over: Aunt Valerie! Granddad Michaels fallen in his garden! Nana Margaret wants you!
I slung my NHS bag over my shoulder and dashed out, galoshes slipping. Only one thought in my head: Please, please, not a heart attack.
I burst into the gardenMichael lay on the grass, face grey, lips blue. Margaret knelt by him, cradling his head, her voice trembling. The whole garden was covered in planks, fancy rails, tins of paint. In the middle stood a half-built, lace-like gazebo.
I knelt by Michael, checked his pulserapid. Took his pressurehigh again.
What happened? I asked.
Lifted heavy board, Michael wheezed. Dizzy shot through my back here He pointed to his chest.
The old man overstrained himself. I gave him a couple of injections, eased his pain, brought the pressure down. He recovered his breath after a while.
Alright, I ordered, Margaret, fetch the neighbour, help carry him indoors. No more lying on damp grass.
We moved Michael onto the bed.
Michael Margaret asked softly. Why build a gazebo now? Its autumnwinters round the corner.
Michael stared at her, breathed deep, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a velvet ring box and an old battered notebook with yellowed pages.
Not quite how I pictured it, Margaret, his voice shook like a schoolboys. You know what tomorrow is?
Margarets brow furrowed. Twentieth of October Sunday
And forty years ago?
She gasped, hand to mouth. Oh heavens, Michael, I forgot. With all this worry and nonsense. Our ruby wedding anniversary!
Michael handed her the diary. Your old journal, Margaret. Found it in the chest in the attic.
You read it? she blushed.
I did, he nodded. Forgive me, daft old fool. I read itand my soul wept.
I held my breath; only the wall clock broke the silencetick-tock, tick-tock.
You dreamed of a house, a gardenand a white gazebo by the stream, where we’d sip tea and listen to records. Youd wear a blue lace dress. All I ever did was workbuilding sites, sawmills. Built the house, but left the gazebo for later. Always, later. Money tight, no time, no energy. And you bore it all quietly, put up with my bear-like temperament.
He turned to her, his voice full of regret: So nearly life slipped by, and Ive given you neither fairytale nor blue dress. I wanted to finish both by our anniversary. Went to town for fabric and a ring. Olga the seamstress made your dress by your old measurements. As for the gazebowell, I overestimated myself, old stump that I am. Wanted a surprise, but all Ive managed is to wear myself out and worry you.
Margaret knelt by the bed, pressed her face against his rough, callused carpenters hand.
You silly man, she murmured through happy tears, enough to fill a bucket. You really are a silly man I thought youd found someone else, someone young, and didnt love me anymore. But you the gazebo
What are you saying, Margaret? he frowned. Another woman? Your dress is in the wardrobe, in the bag. Try it on. Will it fit?
Itll fit, she nodded, head still down. Even if its too small, Ill wear it anyway.
I sniffled, feeling tears threatening. Quietly packed up my pressure monitor.
Right thengruff voice nowYou, my patient, are prescribed bed rest. No boards, no hammers. Ill be back tomorrow to check.
Michael looked at me gratefully: Valerie, dont tell the village. Theyll laughsay the old mans gone soft in the head.
They know nothing, I waved him off. Rest up. Be strong.
I walked onto the porch. The clouds had cleared, and a giant yellow Moon hung in the gap. The air smelled freshwet leaves, smoke, and oddly enough, apples though their season had passed.
In a village, nothing stays secret for long. Someone soon started the rumour that Michael had worn himself out preparing a surprise for Margaret.
The next morning, the Stevens house was busymen brought tools, the blacksmith brought decorative hinges, the joiner paints. The work flew, everyone helping.
By the evening, the gazebo was finishedwhite, elegant, like a bride. Inside, a table covered in embroidered cloth, the samovar and matching cups. Gorgeous! Folks sat within and around it.
Soon, Margaret appeared in her blue gown, ring on her finger, hair done, lipstick on, eyes sparkling, and beside her, pale Michael in his formal jacket, with his work awards, wearing a tie.
He brought out his pre-war gramophone, swapped with a junk dealer in town. Placed a record downit crackled and then sang: Heart, you crave no peace
Michael invited his wife for a dance. Their feet were rusty, but he looked at her as though it had been forty minutes, not forty years since their first meeting.
The whole village watched. Women wiped tears with corners of their scarves, men smoked gloomily and stared at the groundeach probably thinking of his own wife, when he last brought her flowers or just said thank you.
And I thought, how much energy we waste on hurt feelings, suspicions, pointless talkwhen life is shorter than we imagine. Everything precious boils down to the warmth of a familiar hand, and seeing a light in the eyes that burns just for you.
That evening, I understood: Cherish love. Dont wait for ‘later’.
