Love Carried Through the Years
A new family moved into the village just as the local school had been rebuilt. The old headmaster had retired, and the new one—Richard Pembroke—arrived with his wife, a maths teacher, and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Elsie.
Elsie wasn’t like the village girls at all—neat, always with her thick braid tied tightly, shoes scrubbed clean even after walking through muddy lanes in autumn. She’d wash them in puddles before stepping into school.
*”Look at Elsie splashing about in puddles!”* the village girls would tease, though soon enough, they started doing the same when they noticed how much the boys liked her tidy ways.
There was a lad in the village—Tommy, sixteen, tall and broad-shouldered. He’d left school after Year 9, working hard—haymaking, stacking bales so perfectly even the women stopped to admire them.
Tommy had a way with girls. Handsome as he was, he’d been charming them since he was fourteen, and by sixteen, he’d known more than his fair share of sweethearts in the hayfields.
*”Tommy’s got an eye for every girl in the village,”* folks would say, and he’d just smirk.
But everything changed the day he first saw Elsie. She was walking with her mother to the village shop, so proper and lovely it took his breath away.
*”Who’s that then?”* he muttered to his freckled, ginger-haired mate, Jamie.
*”New family—her dad’s the new headmaster. That’s Elsie. Her mum teaches maths.”*
Just like that, Tommy was gone. Forgot every girl he’d ever known, as if he’d never glanced at one before. There was something about Elsie—something light, untouched—that made his wild heart stutter.
He kept his distance, though. She was young, and he wouldn’t push, but the whole village knew he was smitten.
Winter came. The river froze, and the village boys strapped on their old *Snow Fairies* skates—rusty blades tied to boots. The girls never joined—too unsteady.
Then one day, Elsie glided onto the ice in proper figure skates, graceful as a swan. The whole village stopped to watch, mesmerised as she spun and swooped.
*”Blimey, look at her go!”* the older boys gasped, while the little ones stood gaping.
Tommy missed it at first—he was coming back from work when he heard shouting.
*”Help! Help!”*
Someone was floundering in the thin ice near the far bank. Without thinking, he bolted across the frozen river.
*”Elsie’s fallen in!”* the kids screamed.
Tommy knew that spot—a hidden spring kept the ice weak there. He flung off his coat, crawling toward her as she clawed at the cracking ice.
No time to grab a stick—he yanked off his belt and threw one end to her. She caught it, and he hauled her out, carrying her—soaking, shaking—straight home.
By nightfall, the whole village knew. Elsie’s mother came to Tommy’s cottage, bringing gifts, tearful with thanks.
*”Tom, love, she wants to see you. She’s feverish, but she asked for you…”*
Elsie lay in bed, weak but smiling. She pressed his hand, a tear slipping free. *”If it weren’t for you…”*
He wiped it away.
After that, he visited every evening. She’d talk, and he’d listen, loving the sound of her voice.
Years passed. She turned sixteen; they held hands, took walks, and one day, he kissed her.
Then he turned eighteen—off to the army.
*”I’ll be back,”* he promised as she cried.
*”I’ll wait.”*
But war is cruel. He was sent to the front, wounded, losing a leg. He never wrote, never told her.
*”I won’t go back like this,”* he thought in the hospital. *”Better she forget me.”*
He moved to a nearby town with a mate from the ward, got a job, and married—Vera, kind and patient. A marriage of respect, not love.
*”Tom, let’s wed,”* she’d said. *”I’ll take care of you.”*
He agreed. They had a daughter, Alice.
Yet Elsie stayed in his heart.
Years later, he visited the village. Elsie had married—three kids now, softer with age but still lovely.
They exchanged glances, words unspoken.
Later, when Vera passed, loneliness crushed him.
*”Dad, come live with us,”* Alice urged.
But one day, he asked: *”Take me back to the village.”*
It was overgrown, his old home in ruins. But Elsie—older, leaning on a stick—still lived nearby.
*”Stay for tea,”* she offered.
They talked all night.
In the morning, he turned to Alice: *”I’m staying.”*
*”Dad—”*
*”Elsie,”* he said softly, *”I never stopped loving you.”*
She hesitated—*what would people say?*—but nodded. *”A week, then.”*
Four days passed in easy peace.
On the fifth morning, he didn’t wake.
Elsie closed his eyes herself, then wept.
They buried Tommy beside his parents, in the village where his love still lived.
