Ethel was a heavy woman. At thirty her weight tipped the scales at 120kilograms. Perhaps some hidden illness, a metabolic glitch, or a hormonal imbalance was to blame, but the truth was buried deep inside her. She lived in a tiny, forgotten village tucked away on the edge of the map, a speck of stone that seemed to have slipped through the hands of the cartographers. The nearest specialist centre was miles away and far beyond what she could afford.
In that outoftheway hamlet time seemed to answer to the seasons rather than the clock. Winter froze the world solid, spring melted the mud into a sticky mess, summer smothered everything in a stifling heat, and autumn wept with relentless rain. It was within this slow, relentless tide that Ethels everyday life dissolved.
At thirty, her existence felt like a swamp from which she could not escape. The 120kilograms were more than a number they were a fortress, a wall that kept the world at arms length. It was a barricade of fatigue, loneliness and quiet despair. She sensed that the cause lay somewhere inside her, a broken part of her body, but travelling to a city hospital was unthinkable: too far, too shameful, too costly.
She earned a living as a nanny at the towns nursery, Little Bellflower. Her days were scented with baby powder, boiled porridge and perpetually damp floors. Her large, exceptionally gentle hands could soothe a crying infant, straighten ten cots in a flash, or mop up a spill so the child felt no guilt. The children adored her, gravitating toward her softness and calm. Yet their affection was a thin consolation for the emptiness that waited for her beyond the nursery gates.
Ethel lived in an old council block of eight flats that dated back to the postwar years. The building creaked at night, its beams groaning with every gust of wind. Two years earlier her mother, a quiet, wornout woman, had moved out, leaving behind the weight of unfulfilled dreams within those walls. Ethel could barely remember her father; he had vanished long ago, leaving only a dusty photograph and a cloud of memories.
Life at home was harsh. The tap dripped rustcoloured, icy water; the toilet sat outside, turning into an ice box in winter and a steaming sauna in summer. The biggest tyrant was the old castiron stove. In winter it devoured two loads of firewood, sucking the last pennies from Ethels meagre wages. Long evenings found her staring into its flames, watching as the fire seemed to consume not only logs but also her years, her strength, her future, leaving only cold ash behind.
One twilight, as a grey melancholy settled over the room, a quiet miracle occurred. The sound was as soft as a neighbours footsteps in worn slippers. Nora, the lady from next door, knocked and held out two crisp notes.
Ethel, Im sorry to bother you, but heres two hundred pounds. I havent forgotten the debt, she muttered, sliding the money into Ethels hand.
Ethel stared at the cash, her old debt already written off in her mind.
Dont worry about it, Nora, she said, surprised.
It matters! Nora insisted, voice trembling. Now I have money! Listen
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, and told a wild tale. Some Tajik workers had come to the village. One of them, seeing her with a broom, offered a strange, almost frightening job fifteen thousand rubles.
They need citizenship fast, you see. Theyre looking for fictitious brides. Yesterday they already signed someone up. I dont know how they manage it at the registry, probably with cash, but its quick. My brother, Rashid, is already in the system, and soon hell be free. My daughter, Svetlana, agreed too she needs a coat for the coming winter. And you? Look at the chance. Moneys needed, right? Who will marry you?
Noras words fell flat, yet carried a bitter truth. Ethel felt a familiar sting in her chest and thought for a heartbeat. Nora was right. A real marriage was never in the cards for her. She had no fiancé and none could ever appear. Her world was limited to the nursery, the shop, and the stoveeating flat. And now money. Fifteen thousand rubles, enough to buy firewood, plaster new walls, to chase away the gloom of the cracked, peeling plaster.
Fine, Ethel whispered. Ill do it.
The next day Nora brought a candidate. When Ethel opened the door, she gasped and stepped back into the dim hallway
Season after season I see the same picture: Ethel, as she swings the door, lets out a startled cry and retreats into the dark porch, trying to hide her massive frame. Standing on the threshold was a young man. Tall, lean, his face still untouched by lifes harshness, his eyes dark and unusually sorrowful.
Good heavens, hes still a lad! Ethel blurted.
The young man straightened.
Im twentytwo, he said, his accent barely noticeable, his voice melodic.
See? Nora chuckled. Hes fifteen years younger than me, but the age gap is hardly anything about eight years. Hes in the prime of his life!
At the Register Office they refused to process the marriage immediately. A stern clerk in a proper suit measured them with a suspicious glance and dryly explained that the law required a onemonth waiting period. So they have time to think, she added, pausing meaningfully.
The Tajik workers completed their part and left for their jobs. Before departing, the lad they called him Oliver asked Ethel for her phone number.
Alone in a strange town, he said, and in his eyes Ethel recognised a familiar feeling bewilderment.
He began to call each evening. At first the calls were short, awkward, then grew longer and more open. Oliver proved a remarkable conversationalist. He spoke of his mountains, of a sun that rose differently, of his mother he adored, and of why he had come to England to support his extended family. He asked about Ethels life, her work with the children, and she, to her surprise, started to share. Not complaints, but anecdotes from the nursery, descriptions of her home, the smell of fresh spring earth. She caught herself laughing into the receiver, bright and girlish, forgetting her age and her weight. Over that month they learned more about each other than many couples do over years.
A month later Oliver returned. Ethel, slipping into her only dress a modest silver number that clung tightly to her shape felt a strange flutter: not fear, but a trembling excitement. Witnesses were his fellow countrymen lean, serious lads. The ceremony at the Register Office was swift and routine, but for Ethel it felt like a flash of light: the sparkle of rings, the formal words, the surreal sense that something extraordinary was happening.
After the registration Oliver escorted her home. Stepping into the familiar room, he solemnly handed her an envelope with cash, just as they had agreed. She took it, feeling an odd weight in her hand the burden of her choice, her desperation, and a new role. Then he produced from his pocket a small velvet box. Inside, on black velvet, lay a delicate gold chain.
This is for you, he whispered. I wanted a ring but didnt know your size. I I dont want to leave. I want you to truly be my wife.
Ethel froze, unable to speak.
In the month weve spoken, Ive heard your soul over the phone, he continued, his eyes alight with an adult, serious fire. Its kind and pure, like my mothers. My mother passed away; she was my fathers second wife, and he loved her dearly. Ive fallen for you, Ethel. Truly. Let me stay here, with you.
It was no longer a sham marriage. It was an offering of heart and hand. Looking into his sincere, melancholy eyes, Ethel saw not pity but something she hadnt dared to dream of for years: respect, gratitude, tenderness blossoming right before her eyes.
The next day Oliver left again, but it was no longer a goodbye it was the start of an awaiting. He worked in the city with his friends, but returned every weekend. When Ethel learned she was carrying a child, Oliver made a decisive move: he sold part of his share in a joint venture, bought a secondhand van, and settled permanently in the village. He began a transport business, ferrying people and goods to the nearby market town, and his enterprise grew quickly thanks to his hard work and honesty.
Soon a son was born, and three years later a second followed. Two healthy, fairskinned boys with their fathers eyes and their mothers gentle nature filled the house with laughter, shrieks, the patter of tiny feet, and the scent of genuine family happiness.
Oliver never drank or smoked his faith forbade it and he was astonishingly diligent, looking at Ethel with a love that made the neighbours stare enviously. The eightyear age gap melted away in that affection, becoming invisible.
But the greatest miracle was Ethel herself. She seemed to blossom from within. Pregnancy, a happy marriage, caring not only for herself but for her husband and children made her body change. The excess kilos melted away day by day, as if the unnecessary shell that had hidden a delicate, tender creature was shedding itself. She didnt go on diets life simply overflowed with movement, tasks, joy. She grew more beautiful, her eyes sparkled, her step became springy and confident.
Sometimes, standing by the stove now tended lovingly by Oliver, Ethel watched her boys tumble on the rug and caught the warm, admiring glance of her husband. She thought back to that strange evening, the two hundred pounds, the neighbour Nora, and realised that the biggest wonder does not come in thunder and lightning, but in a quiet knock at the door. With a stranger of sorrowful eyes who once offered her not a fake union but a real life, she discovered something new. A true, fresh beginning.
