Love Carried Through the Years
A new family moved into the village just as the brand-new school was finished. The old headmaster had retired, and the new one, Reginald Peters, arrived with his wife—a maths teacher—and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Tamsin.
Tamsin was nothing like the local girls, so all the boys noticed her straight away, while the village girls just scowled. She was always neat, her thick plaits tightly braided, shoes spotless even in autumn, when she’d somehow manage to scrub the mud off them in a puddle before stepping into school.
“Got nothing better to do than splash about in puddles,” the village girls would laugh, though soon enough, they started washing their own shoes too—since the lads clearly fancied a girl who took care of herself.
Now, there was Michael in the village, sixteen years old, tall, broad-shouldered, and hardworking. He’d left school after Year 8 and did odd jobs—haymaking with the men, stacking it so perfectly even the farmers’ wives were impressed.
But lads? Well, Michael had a bit of a reputation. He’d been chasing girls since he was fourteen, and they didn’t mind—he was handsome. By sixteen, he was sneaking off with them behind haystacks. By seventeen, the whole village knew him as a lad who couldn’t be tied down.
Then he saw Tamsin for the first time.
She was walking to the village shop with her mother, all neat and proper.
“What’s this then?” Michael muttered to his mate, ginger-haired Tom.
“That’s the new headmaster’s daughter. Tamsin. Her mum teaches maths.”
And just like that, Michael was done for. Forgotten all his flings, like he’d never so much as glanced at a girl before. There was something about her—something delicate, untouched—that made his wild heart skip.
He kept his distance, though. She was still young. But the whole village knew—Michael was smitten.
Winter came, freezing the river solid. The lads dragged out their old skates, lashing them to their boots, while the village girls just watched. Then Tamsin stepped onto the ice—proper figure skates and all—and glided like she’d been born on it. The kids gawked as she spun and twirled, cutting perfect shapes into the ice.
“Blimey, look at her go!” the older lads whistled.
Michael missed the show—he was coming home from work when he heard screams from the river.
“Help! Help!”
He bolted towards the sound. Someone was flailing in a hole near the far bank—where the spring kept the ice thin.
“It’s Tamsin! She’s drowning!” the kids shrieked.
Michael didn’t think—just ran, tearing off his coat as he went. He spotted her terrified eyes as he crawled closer, the ice cracking under him.
“Should’ve grabbed a stick—” he thought wildly, then yanked off his belt and flung one end to her. She grabbed on, and he hauled her out, dragging her to safety before carrying her, soaked and shaking, all the way home.
The village buzzed with the news by evening. Then Tamsin’s mother knocked on Michael’s door.
“Thank you, Michael,” she whispered, pressing a tin of biscuits into his hands. “Tamsin asked for you. She’s feverish, but she wants to see you.”
He went. Tamsin lay in bed, weakly smiling as she reached for his hand.
“Thank you,” she murmured, a tear slipping down. He brushed it away with his thumb.
After that, he visited every evening. She’d chatter away in her little room, and he’d just listen, enchanted by her voice.
By the time she turned sixteen, they were sweethearts—holding hands, stealing kisses. Then Michael turned eighteen and left for the army.
“I’ll come back,” he promised as she cried. “Just wait for me.”
But life’s cruel. He was sent to a conflict overseas, wounded, lost a leg. He lay in hospital, refusing to write—not wanting Tamsin to see him broken.
“I won’t go back,” he decided. “Let her live her life.”
Once he could walk on a prosthetic, he left with a mate, settled in a small town, and even married—Vera, a kind woman who offered to look after him. He respected her. But he never loved her, not like he loved Tamsin.
Years passed. Visits home were rare. Tamsin married a local lad, had three kids, lost her figure but kept her smile. Whenever they met, something still lingered—but neither acted on it.
Then Vera fell ill. Gone in months and alone for the first time, Michael ached with loneliness.
“Move in with us, Dad,” his daughter Emily begged.
He agreed—but his heart wasn’t in it. The city suffocated him.
One night, over dinner, he blurted, “I want to go back. To the village.”
Emily argued, but he insisted.
They drove down, finding the place overgrown, his childhood home in ruins. Word spread fast—soon Tamsin hobbled over, leaning on her stick.
“Come to mine,” she said softly. “I’ll feed you, at least.”
That evening, they talked for hours. In the morning, Emily announced they were leaving.
Michael stayed on the porch, looking at Tamsin.
“I didn’t come back for nothing,” he admitted. “I want to stay. Be buried here, near my folks. Maybe… with you?”
Emily scoffed. “Dad, you can’t just—”
“Hush, love,” he murmured. “This is between us.”
Tamsin hesitated, then sighed. “A week. We’ll see.”
Emily left. Michael and Tamsin talked like no time had passed. But on the fifth morning, he didn’t wake up.
She closed his eyes herself, weeping as she called for help.
They buried him in the village churchyard, next to his parents.
Right where his heart had always been.
