Patience, only patience.
“Mum, Dad—happy golden anniversary!” cried their daughter joyfully as she stepped into the garden with her husband and children. “We wish you another fifty years of love and happiness.”
“Ah, thank you, love, though fifty more might be pushing it,” chuckled Stephen. “But we’ll keep living, don’t you worry.”
And just like that, fifty years of marriage had slipped by for Theresa and Stephen. Fifty years—was it a lot or just a fleeting moment when you looked back? Some could boast such a milestone, others never got the chance. Life was hard, filled with dark days and troubles.
Were Theresa and Stephen truly happy? Maybe the bride’s weary smile hid old grievances. Maybe behind her husband’s grin lurked some unspoken guilt. Who could say?
Theresa was only fourteen when Stephen from next door, seventeen at the time, called out to her as she walked home from school:
“Tess, you’re a right pretty thing, aren’t you? When I’m back from my service, I’ll marry you. So grow up proper, yeah? I’m off in a year.”
“Cheeky beggar,” she snorted, then dashed home without another word.
Boys at school already eyed her, but she paid them no mind. Her mother raised her strict, and the lads thought her untouchable. She could put any of them in their place.
“Tess is a looker, but wild as a March hare,” the boys muttered. “Won’t let anyone near, won’t even talk proper.”
Years passed. Stephen returned from service, stepped out his door the next day, and nearly collided with Tess balancing buckets on a yoke. He froze. Before him stood a tall, striking Tess—so changed he nearly lost his tongue. But he found it soon enough.
“Tess! Lovely Tess, you’ve only got prettier! Got yourself a beau yet?”
“None of your business,” she laughed.
“Come to the village hall tonight. We’ll have a laugh, a proper natter…”
Theresa just shrugged and walked off, leaving Stephen restless. In the army, he’d half-forgotten his old promise. But now? It wasn’t a joke anymore. A girl like Tess—you married her, not trifled with her. And he’d let no one else have her.
All evening, he waited at the hall. Girls buzzed around him, tugging him to dance, but he sat glum, staring at the door. Tess never came. He walked no one home, though some hoped he might.
Next day, he caught her fetching water again.
“Alright, Tess? Why’d you skip last night? I waited.”
“Don’t fancy halls,” she tossed back, chin high. When he blocked her path, she snapped, “Move, you daft sod!”
“Or what?”
She set the buckets down, grabbed one, and upended it over him.
“That’s what,” she crowed as he dripped. “See who wants you now, all soggy!” Off she went, leaving him staring after her.
“Proper firebrand, that one,” he muttered, grinning. “But I’ll wear her down. She’ll be mine.”
He tried every trick—waylaying her walks, trailing her to her gate. Once, he brought her wildflowers. She laughed, delighted, but still kept him at arm’s length.
Then one evening, as he coaxed her onto his garden bench, she finally talked. He couldn’t live without her, dreamed of her, ached to hold her. He never guessed she felt the same.
Truth was, she’d loved him since childhood. Those offhand words about marrying her after service? They’d stuck. That’s why she’d shooed other lads away—she was waiting. And now he was back, but she couldn’t believe he wanted her. Not when village girls flung themselves at him. So she stayed cold, lest he think her just another conquest.
But spring thawed her. Stephen melted her frost with an armful of lilac—her favorite, he’d learned.
“Fancy a walk, Tess? Everything’s blooming. Proper spring, this.”
“Alright,” she murmured, blushing. Only then did he see it—she loved him too.
Soon, whispers spread: Stephen and Tess were courting. He’d won her. No more jibes—she walked hand in hand with him, glowing. Some lads ribbed him:
“Got you on a lead, hasn’t she?”
He just grinned, glad for her nearness.
The deeper he fell, the surer he was—they must wed. One night, he blurted:
“We’re grown, Tess. Time to marry. No more dawdling. We love each other. Why wait?”
She agreed. But then Stephen’s mother died. The wedding waited.
Days later, he told her, “Off to Eastfield tomorrow. Harvest help. No telling how long.”
“You’ll come back?”
“Course. You’re my love, my life. Only you.”
Maybe it was his words, maybe the moment—but she led him to the hayloft.
“Remember me. Come back quick,” she whispered.
He returned in a fortnight. Soon after, Tess told him she was expecting. Their wedding was quiet—too soon after his mother’s passing.
“Daughter, why the rush?” her mother pressed. “Something you’re not saying?”
Tess confessed. Her mother sighed—better wed than shamed, at least.
Afterwards, no woman in the village shone brighter than Tess. She doted on Stephen, radiant. A daughter came—a tad early, the gossips noted—then a son, Stephen’s spitting image. Their love burned brighter still.
The village wives seethed with envy, especially the widows and spinsters. Happiness like theirs couldn’t be hidden.
Years rolled. Children grew. During harvests, Stephen often ate at the field kitchen. The cook, Clara—a lonely woman with a son born out of wedlock—watched his sun-browned arms with hungry eyes.
“Look at him. Strong as an oak. And that wife of his gets it all,” she spat.
Resentment festered. She began poisoning Stephen’s ear:
“Think that lass is yours? When you were off in Eastfield, she wasn’t pining. Ought to toss her out.”
At first, he ignored her. But doubt crept in. His daughter didn’t favor him—his son did.
Drip by drip, Clara wore him down. One night, he drank with a mate, stumbled home late. Tess waited up.
“Stephen, you’re drunk!”
He grabbed her shoulders.
“Know why? ‘Cause I know how you ‘waited’ when I was gone. That girl’s no kin of mine.”
She wrenched free and slapped him.
“How dare you! Believing some tart’s lies. Thank you for that.”
She slept with the children. Furious, he stormed to Clara’s. She welcomed him greedily—her victory.
After that, he spiraled. Clara begged him to leave Tess, but he wouldn’t. Things with Tess smoothed over, yet he came home late often.
Word reached Tess: he visited Clara. The cook preened—once Tess threw him out, he’d be hers.
But Tess played wiser. She loved him harder, smothered him in affection. Slowly, Clara faded from his mind. He rushed home after work, craving Tess’s arms.
Time aged them. Grandchildren came, chores filled their days. Tess’s jealousy died. What use raking over old coals? Their lives were mostly spent.
Now, fifty years on, family and neighbors toasted their golden anniversary.
Sometimes, watching his wife, Stephen mused:
“Clever, my Tess. It could’ve gone so wrong. I love her more for it. She saved us. Still can’t forgive myself for hurting her. My Tess—she’s a saint.”
