Joyce woke up feeling unwell. Snow was falling heavily outside. She was glad she’d gone to the shops yesterday—today the drifts would have made walking painful with her bad knees. Plus, her blood pressure seemed high again. She took a pill, lay on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
*”Why am I just lying here? I need to make the stew.”* But she couldn’t summon the energy to get up.
It was tradition—her son, Andrew, and his wife always came for lunch on New Year’s Day. When Andrew was little, he’d bring their grandson too, and the first thing he’d say stepping through the door was, *”Mum, have you made the stew? I’m tired of salads.”* Joyce decided she’d rest a little longer, then start cooking. There was still time. She listened to her body—her head felt a bit better.
She opened her eyes and looked at the portrait of her husband on the wall. She’d hung it there deliberately, so she’d see him last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Seven years had passed, but she still hadn’t got used to his absence, often talking to him while staring at the photograph.
*”It’s hard without you, George,”* she said aloud.
*”Do you remember the time you came home on my birthday with no present? You hid the flowers under your coat on the rack. Made a show of taking forever to take it off so I’d come out and ask what was taking so long?”*
*”You told me you’d lost your wages. Said someone had nicked your wallet while you were picking a gift. God, how cross I was! I knew you were up to something—that cheeky grin of yours always gave you away—but I fell for it anyway.”*
*”You always had to see a joke through, didn’t you? I was already working out how we’d manage a month with no money.”*
*”Then the guests arrived—Andrew and his wife, your mate Nigel and his missus, and my friend Emily. We sat down, poured the wine, you gave your toast… and then handed me a little box with gold earrings inside. My fiftieth birthday. I was so cross I nearly threw them at you. And you just laughed, chuffed you’d tricked me again.”* She gave the portrait a reproachful look.
*”Or that time you ‘dropped’ the keys in the snow? We searched forever. Even the neighbours came out to help. Then you slipped them back so I’d ‘find’ them. Never did admit it was another prank. Too embarrassed in front of the neighbours? They wouldn’t have understood. And it wasn’t just me—you pulled the kids into it too…”*
George in the photograph listened attentively. It was rare to see him serious—usually, he wore that mischievous half-smile. Joyce sighed and sat up. The headache was easing.
She went to the kitchen to start the stew. Every movement sent a twinge through her knees. As she cooked, she remembered…
***
It was a warm August afternoon. Young Joyce, in her white wedding dress, sat at the mirror while her friend Emily styled her hair. Emily had been training as a hairdresser in the city. Joyce fidgeted—one moment she was beaming, the next lost in thought.
The groom was due any minute, and still, she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing listening to her mother.
*”Peter’s family’s solid, good property, and he’s a hard worker. Who else in our village would you marry? The city lads have their own girls,”* Mum had insisted.
So Joyce had agreed. Twenty was old enough to settle down. Emily kept complimenting her dress, Peter—but tears welled in Joyce’s eyes. She kept listening for car engines outside, half-hoping they’d drive past.
Then the engine died outside, a car door slammed. Joyce tensed. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
Emily rushed out to meet the groom, to haggle for the ‘ransom.’ Mum was already on the doorstep…
But Joyce wasn’t thinking of what a bride should. Instead, she remembered the day before, when Mum had sent her to the shops. There, she’d run into George. After the army, he’d skipped the village and gone straight to work in the city. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d filled out. Not handsome, exactly, but striking—utterly citified. She’d flushed under his gaze, dropping her eyes.
*”Too late, lad. Stop gawping. That bride’s not for you,”* shopkeeper Mrs. Brown had said.
*”We’ll see about that,”* George smirked, still watching her.
She barely remembered what she’d bought. She’d bolted outside, gulping air. And ever since, she hadn’t been able to shake his look.
Joyce listened—the bargaining was dragging on. Then the door flew open. But it wasn’t Peter—it was George.
She shot up, her heart hammering. Mum tried to block him, grabbing his sleeve. Emily just stood there, wide-eyed. George shook free and strode to Joyce.
*”Can’t live without you. Will you come with me? Now?”*
She couldn’t speak. He swept her up and carried her to the door. Mum and Emily barely leapt aside in time. Joyce clung to his neck, resting her head on his shoulder—as if it was always meant to be.
That’s how George stole her from the altar. The village talked for ages. And why let good food go to waste? Later, Peter turned up, drunk, swaying. He’d stared at them, then left.
George later told her what he’d said to Peter.
*”I won’t let you be happy. I’ll take her back. Better kill me now.”*
Peter was no match for George. He’d backed down.
After the wedding, they’d moved straight to the city. First a tiny flat, then George got a house through the factory. They’d slept on a mattress on the floor. And been so happy! Had two kids. Their daughter married and moved abroad. Their son was here, their grandson nearly done with uni. Never once had Joyce regretted running off with George. They’d loved each other fiercely.
And always, George was playing tricks.
Even when his heart gave out, he’d insisted he was joking, just to get her fussing. But she’d seen the pain, cried, fussed. The ambulance had taken too long—same blizzard, roads blocked. Never made it to hospital…
***
Joyce swallowed her tears and turned off the hob.
*”What’s got into me?”* The memories had brought the headache back, hammers in her temples. She went to the sofa and lay down.
*”Seven New Years without you, George. Andrew’s coming tomorrow. But he’s got his own life—young, just like you were. Takes after you, that easy laugh, that cheek.”*
*”Remember our New Years together?”*
Tears welled again—and for a second, she thought George in the portrait moved.
*”Don’t cry, Joy.”*
She jolted. The headache flared. She rubbed her eyes. No, George in the portrait hadn’t moved.
*”Hearing things now? Going barmy?”*
*”Still teasing me, even there? No peace from you?”* she said, not unkindly. *”How is it, Georgie? You miss us? Your knees ever trouble you? Mine are killing me…”*
*”Here, everyone’s young, Joy. And nothing hurts.”*
That voice—in her head again.
*”Yes, Joy. It’s nice here. Just tired without you.”*
*”Show yourself, then. Or can’t you? Just good for scaring me,”* she muttered. *”Need my pills. Don’t fancy fainting…”*
She groaned, standing—then the room spun. An iron band tightened around her skull, darkness creeping in. She collapsed onto the sofa, sideways, and through dimming vision, saw George. Young, as on that August day.
*”Hold on, love. It’ll pass soon,”* she heard through the ringing. *”Come on. Time to go.”* He held out his hand.
She wanted to ask where, to say she couldn’t move—but only a groan escaped.
Then—no pain. She rose effortlessly, took his hand. The flat, the snow outside—gone. Warm light wrapped around them, filling her with peace. A flutter of fear, sweet and familiar, like when he’d carried her to the car…
The next day, Andrew and his wife arrived. Knocked, waited, then fetched the spare key…
Joyce lay on the sofa, still, as if asleep. A full pot of stew sat on the stove.
After the funeral, Andrew hung the framed photograph of his mother beside George’s. In it, she smiled—as if she’d finally found what she’d been looking for.
