The next morning I stood before the mirror for a long while, unable to recognise the face looking back at medark circles under my eyes, a pallid complexion, and on the nightstand lay the folded scrap of paper with the address she had given me.
If I go, Ill look a complete fool. If I dont, Ill never stop thinking about her, I whispered to myself.
In the end I just grabbed the car keys. On the way I stopped outside a tiny flower shop. The roses seemed too gaudy, the lilies far too mournful. Then I spotted a simple bunch of wildflowersdaisies and chamomile. Plain, honest, just like her.
The house was at the far end of the village of Littleford, halfruined, its roof sagging and its garden overgrown. Yet a thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney and the air smelled of freshly baked bread. I knocked on the door.
She opened almost at once. No veil, her blonde hair pulled back, her face marked with scars she could no longer hide. But her eyesthose same clear, blue, quiet eyescaught me.
Good day, I said, unsteady. Ive come as promised.
She nodded and, as before, took her little notebook.
Come in. The tea is ready.
I stepped inside. The modest room was tidyembroidered curtains hung on the walls, books lined the shelves, and on the table sat a kettle and two cups. The scent of mint and warm bread filled the air.
I sat down. She poured tea and handed me a cup, then wrote:
I havent spoken for three years. Fire. The house burned. My husband didnt get out.
I went pale.
Sorry I whispered.
She brushed my hand away.
Dont apologise. I just live here. Its quiet. Folks pass, buy herbs, then Im left alone again. I like it that way.
I stared at her for a long moment.
Then why did you give me the address? I asked.
She gave a barely perceptible smile and wrote:
Sometimes peoples foolishness is the only thing that can change fate. You didnt look foolish. You looked ashamed.
I managed a sad smile. No one had ever seen me that waynot through a suit and a briefcase, but as a man.
From that day I began to visit often. At first to apologise, then to help, then simply to be there. I brought books, ran errands, repaired the gate, fixed the old awning. Occasionally we sat on the bench outside the cottage in silence, the wind doing the talking, and that was enough.
Soon the notebook filled with short lines:
Dont pity me.
I feel when you smile.
If I could speak Id still say little.
Three weeks passed. One evening, as the sunset painted the sky pink, I turned to her.
I have another offer for you. Real one. Not a quarrel.
She looked up and wrote:
Are you sure? Isnt it a pity?
No, it isnt a pity. Ive spent my whole life waiting to meet you.
She didnt answer straight away. She stepped out into the garden, returned a minute later with a single daisy, placed it on the table and wrote:
If in a week you feel the samecome back.
Exactly seven days later, at the same hour, I was there again, holding the same bunch of daisies, wearing a white shirt, heart quiet.
She was in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands. When she saw me she froze. I moved slowly forward, pulled a small box from my pocket and said:
This isnt a game. It isnt a regret. I just want to stay with you.
She stared for a long time, then trembling wrote:
Yes.
A month later we were married. No guests, no music, no fancy dressjust the two of us and the scent of flowers drifting through the parish hall.
When Paul and Gordon heard about it they could barely believe it.
Have you gone mad, Andrew? Paul shouted. Youre marrying a woman you barely know!
I do know her, I replied calmly. Better than anyone else. The rest Ill learn with time.
Six months went by. I stopped going troutfishing. Evenings were spent on the veranda, tea in hand, listening to the quiet. She never spoke, but her presence said more than any words could.
One morning she pulled out an old, charred box. Inside were photographs, letters, childrens drawings.
This is all I have left from before, she wrote. But Im no longer afraid. Ive found everything I need.
I held her close and realised my promiseto marry only for lovehad been fulfilled. Love wasnt loud, not the sort the movies make out of; it was quiet, true.
When spring arrived I was again on the terrace, but not alone. Beside me she sat, notebook on her lap, a coffee cup steaming. She wrote:
Now I hear you even when youre silent.
I answered:
And I understand you even when you dont write.
And then I knew that sometimes silence can echo louder than any spoken word.
