Seven long years have passed since the earth took Lydias body. Seven years of silence ringing louder than any music in his ears, and loneliness soaking into the walls of the house like the scent of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not old, yet no longer young, as if frozen between two shores: behind him, a life once full of love and storms; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt denied him health. His body, hardened by years of labour, still held strength, but his soul was broken and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully. Hed cared for her until her last breath, her last silent tear on a sunken cheek. Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the world. The Lord hadnt blessed them with children, so theyd lived soul to soul in their own little universe, bound by the lanes of their village.
Hed grown used to Lydia being the sun of his small planet. She was the warmth that heated the house, the light that filled it with comfort. Her hands cooked the richest stews, baked pies with pastry so light it melted on the tongue. She ran the household: the dairy cow, the chickens, a calf fattened yearly so theyd have their own meat in winter. The garden was her kingdom, ruled by perfect rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His work was the ploughing, the digging, the mending of whatever broke. He was the outer defence; she, the heart of their fortress.
Hed grown used to the silence. At first, it pressed in, ringing in his ears, making him flinch at every creak of the floorboards. Then it became background. Dull? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? That was fates will, and no man could stand against it.
The village women, of course, had noticed him. Stevie was a fine figure, hardworking, his home prosperous, and childlessness in the village was almost like winning the lottery. Matchmakers came, hints were dropped, somestill youngeven offered outright to «make a family.» But he turned them all away, swatting them off like persistent flies.
«I miss my Lydia,» hed explain, looking past their heads into the emptiness. «She sees everything from up there. She wouldnt approve of me bringing another woman into her home. She wouldnt want her memory overshadowed.»
But in the quiet of his thoughts, he reasoned differently: «To live together, there must be at least a spark. A drop of affection. And there isnt any. Maybe Im not ready yet. My soul hasnt moved on, hasnt thawed.»
After his wifes death, hed sold the cowwhat did one man need with so much milk? The good old Friesian had given two buckets a day. Selling her to a neighbour twisted something inside him, as if hed betrayed another living thing tied to Lydia. But he kept raising a calf each summerfor meat. So he lived: his own meat, his own eggs, milk borrowed or bought from old Mrs. Hargreaves, who watched him with silent pity.
Stevie limped. Long ago, a stubborn mare had broken his leg. The bone set crooked, but hed shrugged it offno time for fussing. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a walking stick appearedcarved oak, a gift from Lydia. No one remarked on his unsteady gait anymore; it was just how things were.
That day, he sat at the kitchen table alone, ladling freshly made stew into a deep bowl. Summer heat shimmered outside, the air thick over the fields. The back door stood wide open, letting in lazy waves of warm air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sunlit rectangle on the floor.
«Afternoon, Stevie! Mind if I come in? Door was open, so I thought Id say hello!» The booming voice of Tom, his neighbour two doors down, rolled through the kitchen. Tom was younger, brimming with restless energy and schemes Stevie couldnt fathom.
«Afternoon,» Stevie muttered. «Fancy some stew? Just off the stove. Chop some spring onions inwont regret it. Join me.»
«Dont mind if I do! Love your stew! Hot as it is, nothing beats a proper meal. Well cool off after.»
As Tom wolfed down the stew, he eyed Stevie slyly.
«Been thinking, Stevieyou ought to remarry. No life for a man, stuck at the stove alone. A woman could cook your meals, warm your bed, and well, you know.»
«Playing matchmaker now?» Stevie chuckled. «Found me a bride, have you?»
«Whats wrong with that? How long dyou plan to mope? Youre no spring chicken, but youre fit. Could live like a king with the right lass!»
«A womans more than just company,» Stevie said quietly but firmly. «Souls have to fit. Silence should say enough. One look, and you understand.»
«Oh, souls!» Tom waved a hand. «Youre past seventy! Who cares about souls? At your age, its about having someone to fetch your tea, tend to you if youre poorly. Think ahead!»
«Ahead?» Stevie set his spoon down and stared. «You think Im some doddering fool, ready to shack up with the first woman who nods? No, Tom. Ill choose whenand ifIm ready. Ill live as I please till then.»
«Didnt mean it like that! No offence!» Tom backpedalled. «Just looking out for you! Thats why I brought it up. Got an aunt, seeAgatha. Lives over in Millfield. Firecracker of a woman! Not old, handy as they come. Keeps pigs, geese, a calf. Built strong, too. Names Agatha! Saw her last week. Sharp as a tack, but lonely. Fancy meeting her? If you like her, jobs done. Bring her back here.»
«Whats in a name?» Stevie sighed. «Living together means work. Modern women love themselves more than labour. Will she dig the garden, tend the animals? They want pampering nowadays. Im no charmer. And at my age, chasing brides feels daft.»
«Rubbish! Ill go with you. Shes familywed be almost related! You know me, I know you. Wed get on grand!»
The conversation dragged on till evening. Wearied by Toms persistence and his own sudden curiosity, Stevie relented. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Toms battered old Rover.
When Tom left, Stevie sat in the heavy quiet. The idea of remarriage, once abstract, now felt real. He glanced around his home and saw it anew: dust on the windowsills cluttered with jars, nails, dried leaves Lydia once collected. The floor, long unscrubbed. A mountain of dishes in the sink.
Next morning, he rose at dawn, driven by some inner whip. He wiped the sills, ruthlessly tossed the clutter. Scrubbed the floor, and the smell of freshness oddly lifted him. Then the dishes. He found an old bottle of soap, squeezed out thick, lemony foam.
«Blimey,» he thought, watching plates gleam under the tap. «Moods better already. Might as well do the mugs. Havent tidied up like this in years.»
Saturday morning, Tom honked outside. Stevie wore his only suit, still decent though smelling of mothballs and the past. The road was long and potholed. They arrived by noon.
Toms car stopped by a leaning but sturdy fence. A woman stepped out at once. Pleasant-faced, early fifties, making her a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was broad, oddly rehearsed.
«Finally! Ive waited agesdinners going cold! What kept you?» she called before reaching them.
At her tone, something inside Stevie chilled. It was clearhed been «spoken for» without his say. His hand twitched toward the door handle, ready to tell Tom to turn back. But then he heard her whisper to her nephew:
«Hes not crippled, is he?» Her eyes flicked to his stick.
«No, Aunt Agatha, just an old break. Limps a bit. Nothing serious,» Stevie said stiffly.
She stepped closer, offering a hand. Her palm was unexpectedly warm and soft, as if unused to toil.
«Welcome, love. Im Agatha,» she said brightly.
He awkwardly shook her fingers.
«Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie, if you like.»
A glance at her yard noted its tidiness: neat rows, a freshly whitewashed shed, no clutter. «Hard worker,» he thought. «Proper homemaker.»
Inside, the same order reigned. But the table drew his eyegroaning with food: braised pork and potatoes, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes, a stack of golden pancakes beside a jug of cream, salted bacon, spring onions, and, crowning it all
