It wasn’t like the telly, but close enough. Mary loved her soaps and dreamed of life unfolding as prettily as onscreen. But dreams stayed dreams, and reality was quieter, duller. She’d married Mick thinking it was love—well, that’s what she’d told herself. But Mick had always been a restless sort, even as a boy, and marriage didn’t change that. He brought her to his small cottage, and three years in, he announced, “I’m off to the city. Stay if you like—this village is too small for me. My soul needs more.”
“Mick, what’s got into you? We’re all right, aren’t we?” She tried to stop him, baffled.
“*You’re* all right. I’m not.”
And with that, he left, passport and a few belongings stuffed into an old duffel. The village gossips flared up at once. “Mick’s gone and left Mary for some city floozy,” they whispered.
Mary bore it silently. No tears, no complaints—just life in Mick’s house, because where else could she go? Her brother’s family crammed her childhood home, and there was no room for her. No children, either. “Suppose God knew Mick’d make a rubbish father,” she mused, watching the village children play.
Evenings, after chores, she’d sink into the sofa, lose herself in telly dramas full of betrayals and passion. She felt every twist, then lay awake half the night.
Mornings meant feeding the sow, the geese, the chickens, and Plato, her young bullock, whom she tethered by the garden—no sending him to the herd.
“Mary!” The neighbour’s voice rang out. “Plato’s loose—charging about the lane!”
She bolted outside, saw him jabbing his budding horns at the neighbour’s fence. “Plato, love,” she coaxed, offering bread. He tossed his head. “Blast you!” she snapped. The bullock startled, scattering a flock of ducks.
She might’ve chased him forever if not for George the tractor man, who grabbed the trailing rope and hauled him back. Mary watched his strong arms, the muscles under his grubby shirt, and suddenly longed to be held by them.
She shook the thought away. “*What*’s got into me? Like a cat begging for cuddles.”
George wiped his hands on the grass. “Come inside,” she said. “Wash up.” He followed, his gaze burning her back.
She’d noticed his looks lately. “*Why’s he staring so?*” But he just dried his hands on the towel, gave her *that* glance again, and left.
From then on, something hung between them—a secret thread. Mary flushed when he passed. George started taking the long way by her fence each morning, though he never had before.
She rose early now, weeding the garden “for the cool air,” but really hoping to catch him on his way to work. Their eyes met, and in his sly grin she saw something real—admiration, maybe.
She scolded herself. “*Stop it. And watch out for Zoe*.” His live-in woman, built like an ox, was trouble. “God help me if she sees. She’ll drag my name through the mud.”
But George kept walking by, his looks growing bolder. Mary’s smiles softened, and she imagined their story was like *EastEnders*—messy, endless.
One day, sweeping the yard, she heard, “Hello, Mary love.”
She spun. Mick stood there, that same cocky grin, stubble shadowing his cheeks. “I’m back. Take me in?”
Her heart didn’t so much as twitch. Turns out love either dies or never was. She’d shut that door the day he left for his “exciting life.”
But the house was his. Nowhere else to go. She let him in, barricaded her bedroom door nightly while Mick lurked in the other half. She climbed out the window to avoid him.
George noticed. His mood darkened—until he saw her squeezing through the window. “*So she didn’t take him back.*”
Next morning, steps appeared beneath her window. “*Who’d bother? Not Mick—he’s always at the pub.*”
George had built them in the night. He wasn’t married to Zoe—just living together. She’d moved in years ago after a village fête, bringing her daughter from a past mistake.
Winter came. Mick’s money ran out, and the pub crowd snubbed him. Back to the city he slunk. Mary breathed free.
Then Zoe fell ill—strong as she was, it took her fast. The hospital kept her. She didn’t come home.
The village mourned. “Zoe was gentle,” they said. “Never a cross word.”
George stayed alone. Mary often spotted him shovelling her walk before work, glancing up at her windows.
Spring arrived. Mary came home to find the door wide open. Inside, a plump woman sipped tea from her mug, Mick smirking beside her.
“Didn’t expect us, eh? Me and Veronica are moving in. *My* house.” Revenge for rejecting him. “Pack your things if you can’t stand our happiness.”
That night, Mary shoved the dresser against her door and prayed. “*Lord, how much longer?* Maybe old Edna would take me in.”
At dawn, she hauled her things outside. George appeared, wordlessly carried them to his cottage. Mick gawked.
“What’s this, then? You and George?”
George took her hand and led her home. Mick huffed. “Thought she’d be pining for me. Quite the twist.” Veronica elbowed him silent.
Inside, Mary wept—joy? Shock? George lifted her, the ceiling spinning. Both knew: they’d found each other at last.
They married quickly. A baby’s due soon. Mick loiters outside sometimes, watching Mary pass. But what’s it to her? George is her shelter now—the man she’d waited for all along.
