Emily sighed as she listened to the muffled chatter drifting over the garden hedge. Everyone in Meadowbrook wondered why Emily Hughes, such a capable woman, had such rotten luck finding a man. She had everything – intelligence, good looks, and a skilled job as a vet for the sprawling Meadowsweet Farm. “Probably because she’s not from round here,” they whispered. Truth be told, Emily stood out from the village women.
“She needs to shift that little crown off her head,” declared Agatha, kicking off the debate among the women perched on the stone wall bench after supper. “Then maybe she’d find a fellow. Mind, the decent ones are like gold dust these days, but still, a man’s presence in the house is something.” Agatha always started the dissection of village lives; she knew the gossip before it happened.
Beatrice, her lifelong friend – and lifelong rival – was always there to disagree. If Beatrice said white, Agatha swore it was black. The women turned expectantly to Beatrice, eager for the daily spectacle. She didn’t disappoint.
“What nonsense! So she should lower herself just to have some lazy sod filling the place with the stink of socks? No, listen to her! Women don’t need anything from a man except his dirty laundry? Honestly! I’d rather wear the crown!”
Agatha flushed scarlet. “What rubbish are you spouting? A woman’s meant to have a husband! A man about the place!”
“And why, pray? You said yourself only the scrapings are left! What’s he good for? Fetching and carrying?”
Agatha jumped up. “You daft bat! What about having children?”
“You’re the daft bat! Have a child, then spend your life dragging that *so-called* man behind you? Why not just pop down to the city, find a proper handsome chap, do the deed? Skip feeding a useless drunkard and live for yourself!”
A gasp went through the group. Beatrice and Agatha’s fiercest clashes were always over men. Once they fell out for a month, too furious even to gather on the wall, leaving everyone bored stiff. The root lay in their histories: Agatha had one husband, buried these twenty years, while Beatrice had buried three, and now had Barry the retired plumber regularly visiting, suggesting they ‘join households’. Beatrice was past seventy, Barry nearing eighty. It suited them just fine. Naturally, their views collided.
A huge argument seemed inevitable until the subject of their discussion appeared.
“Evening, girls!”
Emily stopped, smiling at the old ladies.
“Emily, love! Back from the city?” Beatrice chirped.
“Just got in, Beatrice. Brought that flea treatment, actually. If anyone’s cats are scratching, let me know, I’ll pop round.”
“Oh, Emily,” Agatha sniffed, “cats are supposed to have fleas!”
“Really, Agatha. These drops now – one application, and your cat’s on the bed for six months.”
Beatrice shot her friend a withering look. “Thank you, Emily love, do come to me. Unlike some stuck-in-the-past individuals, I appreciate progress. Pay no mind to them; wouldn’t surprise me if they still use ash for soap in the bathhouse.” Beatrice dissolved into tiny hiccups of laughter. Agatha went crimson with anger.
Emily smiled. Six years in Meadowbrook had taught her personal privacy was a foreign concept. Everyone lived publicly. At first, it hurt, but she realised it was the norm. It meant you mattered. Silence was the real insult.
***
Emily had come here answering a call deep within. A city girl through and through, she’d somehow dreamed since childhood of village life, treating horses, cows, all creatures. Animals, she always said, were the most loyal, trusting souls; they just couldn’t tell you where it hurt.
Seeing the advert for a vet at the new farm complex, complete with a cottage, she hadn’t hesitated. Called, came, stayed. Took two months to whip the place into shape, borrowing a bit off her folks in Leeds, but paid it back quickly – the wage was fair.
Her parents visited, admired the place, then urged her back.
“Emily, pet, what’s here? No shops, no theatre… nothing! Not even a lamp-post after dark,” her mother fretted. Her father just looked grim, ready to agree.
Emily laughed. “Just you wait! I’ll get a pig! Supply you with fresh bacon!”
They shook their heads, mystified.
***
Emily kept her word. She had a piglet now, chickens, even turkeys. Her parents, seeing she was set, gave up and started enjoying their countryside breaks.
But one thing truly troubled Emily. Like most women, she *wanted* to marry. Though later she realised it was more the expectation than the desire. A child, though? At thirty-two, that felt like it was time. Her mother constantly raised the topic. “You’d have been married years ago if you lived properly in Leeds!”
So Emily decided to marry. Only needed one thing: a groom.
First, she tried the locals. Take George, the farmhand. He’d fancied her for ages. Sturdy, pleasant-looking. What’s not to like? Once she smiled back, he was at her door that evening. Emily was no fool. She set the table, they sat, shared a nip of sloe gin. When the bottle was empty, Emily started clearing. George looked stunned.
“Hold on. We’ve barely had a moment. No more?”
“All gone. Couldn’t you pop into the Spar on the way? Champagne? Chocolates? Standard date stuff?”
“Mum didn’t hand over the cash. Said it was chucking money away.”
Emily lost it. She laughed as never before. George fled and never returned. The village chattered about the failed courtship for a week and forgot.
Next was Roger, the village agronomist. He walked around her cottage with a measuring tape, calculating how much they’d get for her place (she’d bought it a year back) and how much extra they’d need for a flat.
After that, Emily nearly gave up, not wanting to disappoint her parents. Then, entirely by chance on a trip to Leeds, she met Oliver. Nice looking, educated, crucially – single. Neat, pressed. Said he was a manager at a firm, lived with his mum…
Emily liked him; he seemed to like her more. They started dating. Loads to talk about. On the third date, blushing, he invited her home.
“Mum’s at her weekend cottage… Don’t know the proper way, so I’ll just say it – I want you to stay tonight.”
Emily agreed.
***
The day Emily stopped by the old women, she was just back from Leeds, from Oliver’s. Their time together had been wonderful. Emily felt sure Oliver wouldn’t just let her leave. He begged to visit her.
“Oliver, I don’t think you’ll like it. Tumble-down country cottage… You’re city through and through.”
“Eh? So were you! Maybe I’ll love it too.”
“Course. Come down. We’ll see.”
Emily walked home smiling. Oliver was coming tonight! If the village women saw him… weeks of talk guaranteed.
Emily watched the last trace of evening light fade over the meadow, accepting that tonight wouldn’t bring marriage, but only peaceful solitude, so she turned towards her cottage door, ready for the early morning rounds at Meadowsweet Farm.
