Penance Arrived
Gladys was a woman of imagination, her mind brimming with whimsy. Everything she touched turned curious and lovely, and though quiet and unassuming, she was indispensable. She taught the youngest pupils at a village school, where children, parents, and even fellow teachers adored her. If someone fell ill, she’d step in without complaint, even if it meant working late into the evening.
“Miss Gladys, I can’t figure out this problem,” whined her student, little Alfie.
“Have you really tried thinking it through?” she asked, knowing full well he hadn’t—he’d rather copy from his classmates than strain his brain. But she explained patiently until the light finally flickered in his eyes.
“Oh! It’s easy when you think about it!”
Gladys had grown up in an orphanage before training to be a teacher. Left on the doorstep as a baby, she’d been named by a nurse who fancied the sound of it, her surname plucked from thin air. Like all the children there, she learned to endure silently. Who would listen to her complaints?
She’d never known a parent’s love but longed for a family of her own—children to dote on, a husband to cherish. She dreamed of meeting the right man, of building a life together.
Fate, however, had other plans. She married Gregory, a local lorry driver. He’d noticed the young teacher, and she, desperate for a home of her own, accepted when he stopped her one day.
“Gladys, I’ve had my eye on you. You’re a decent sort. Marry me. I’m not one for flowers or sweet talk—I’m blunt as a hammer. Older, too, but never mind that. The house is big. Buried my parents young, so it’s just me. Needs a woman’s touch.”
She’d hoped for romance—a knee, a ring, a tender proposal. Instead, she got a command.
“Alright then, Greg. I’ll take you up on that.”
A small wedding later, she moved into his house.
Some had warned her. “Gladys, think carefully. He’s not the sort for you. You’re delicate, creative—he’s just a bloke. You’re mismatched.”
Gregory had always been a loner, though hardworking and well-regarded by his employers. But he kept to himself, a man of few words. He fancied Gladys because she was pretty—tall, with long plaited hair she sometimes coiled around her head in an old-fashioned style. Greenish eyes, quiet as a shadow. Exactly the wife he wanted.
From the start, she proved an excellent homemaker. The house sparkled, meals appeared on time, the yard stayed tidy. Still, he found her odd—reciting poetry aloud, singing while sweeping, knitting tiny gifts for neighbours. None of it made sense to him.
Gladys often wondered, “Why no baby? It’s been years. Everyone else has children. Ought to be heirs, ought to be normal.”
Gregory noticed her sadness, the fading smiles.
“She’s grieving, poor thing. Can’t conceive. Hanging icons in the corner now, whispering prayers.” He didn’t believe, but let her be. “Does no harm. Plenty keep icons. Some even go to church.”
As a wife, she suited him—obedient, respected in the village for teaching their children well. Then one day, he came home to a goat in the yard. Chickens followed without his say-so.
“Fine,” he thought. “Practical, at least.”
But when a scruffy little pup appeared by the gate, he snapped.
“Gladys, what’s this mongrel doing here? We don’t need a litter of mutts underfoot.”
“Oh, Greg, he’s just a stray. Look how small! Won’t beggar us to spare a bowl of scraps. Everyone has a guard dog—let him bark if strangers come.”
She won him over. He even built the dog a kennel, grudgingly fond of the scamp they named Scruff. Then one evening, he spotted the neighbour’s brute of a dog slinking away from their yard.
“Scruff’s been courting. Useless pups incoming.”
He said nothing, but his mood darkened. Gladys watched him, uneasy.
Then she ran into old Mabel on the lane.
“Gladys, love, forgive me, but how d’you live with that brute Gregory?”
“What’s happened?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Mabel’s eyes widened at her confusion. “Oh, the devil. I was coming back from Millcroft when I saw him dragging Scruff by a rope—she’s near her time, poor thing, fighting him every step. Asked where he was taking her, and he told me to sod off. Hid behind the hedgerows, watched him hand her to some stranger. Ran home before he saw me.”
Gladys clutched her chest and fled. Mabel called after her, “No wonder you’ve no bairns, living with that monster.”
Gregory returned at dusk.
“Where’s Scruff? Why’s the kennel empty?”
She’d never seen him so furious.
“None of your business. Know your place. Dog’s gone. No pups. She’s lost. End of it.”
Gladys locked herself in the spare room and wept. “What kind of man have I married?”
Gregory felt no guilt—until days passed in silence. No meals, no chatter. He tossed at night, haunted by Scruff’s mournful eyes.
A week in, pride cracked. “I’m the man. Should mend things.”
They reconciled, but something had shifted.
Then, miraculously—”Greg, we’re going to have a baby.”
“A son!” he crowed. “I know it’ll be a son.”
But the joy was brief. Gladys grew ill, lost the child. The doctor murmured platitudes. “There’ll be others.”
Gregory buried his grief, but Gladys wilted. Neighbors noticed.
Months later, hope returned. “I’m expecting again.”
He guarded her like treasure—vitamins, rest, no heavy lifting. Yet history repeated.
This time, Gregory lay awake listening to her muffled sobs. And then—a thought. Scruff. Where was she now? Who had that stranger been?
Guilt gnawed. Without a word, he drove to a rescue shelter on the city’s edge, bought sacks of kibble. Dozens of hopeful eyes met his—happy, sad. His chest ached.
“Thank you,” said the volunteer. “We always need food.”
He lingered by a ginger terrier’s pen, watching her black pup with one white ear. “Cheeky little bugger.”
Three trips he made, hauling supplies. On the fourth, he didn’t leave alone.
Gladys was sweeping the yard when his rattling van returned.
“Why so mysterious?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Wait.” He opened the door, and a wriggling ball of fur tumbled out. “Look who’s come home.”
“Oh!” She scooped up the pup, beaming. “What’s his name?”
“Patch. If that’s alright.”
“Patch! Oh, my sweet Patch!” She cradled him, radiant. Gregory hadn’t seen her so happy in years.
The dog grew swiftly, guarding the yard with gusto. Gregory found himself chatting to him as he passed.
Then, one morning—”Greg, we’re going to the doctor. I think—I think there’s a baby.”
A year later, a black dog with one white ear dozed by the pram where their son slept. Gregory pushed it gently, grinning. Gladys watched from the doorstep, her heart full. Penance, at last, had arrived.
