Seven long years had passed since the earth swallowed Lydias body. Seven years of silence that rang louder than any music in his ears, and loneliness that clung to the walls of the house like the smell of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not old, yet no longer young, frozen between two shores: behind him, a life once wild and full of love; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt cursed him with ill health. His body, hardened by years of labour, still held strength, but his soul was cracked and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully, and hed tended to her till her last breath, till the final silent tear on her hollow cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in all the wide world. The Lord had granted them no children, so theyd lived heart to heart in their own little universe, bound by the lanes of their village.
Hed grown used to Lydia being the sun of his small planet. Her hands had stirred the richest stews, baked pies with dough so light it melted on the tongue. Shed ruled the household: the dairy cow, the chickens, a calf fattened each year 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 broken things. He was the outer wall of their fortress; she was its heart.
A man grows accustomed to anything. Stevie grew accustomed to silence. At first, it pressed in, ringing in his ears, making him flinch at every creak of the floor. Then it became background noise. Boring? Yes. Unbearably empty? Of course. But what could he do? Fate had spoken.
The village women had noticed him, of course. Stevie was a sturdy man, a good provider, his house well-kept, and with no childrena winning lottery ticket in their eyes. Matchmakers came whispering, some bold enough to propose marriage outright. But he brushed them off like flies.
“I miss my Lydia,” hed tell the villagers, staring past them into the void. “She sees me from up there. Wouldnt approve of another woman in her home, shadowing her memory.”
But in truth, his thoughts were quieter: “To live together, there must be a spark. A drop of warmth. And there isnt any. My soul hasnt thawed yet.”
After Lydias death, he sold the cowwhat use was all that milk to one man? The poor beast had given two pails a day. He sold her to a neighbour, guilt gnawing at 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 the neighbours. Mrs. Agnes next door sometimes left a jug by his door, her eyes soft with pity.
Stevie limped. A horse had broken his leg long ago in his youth. The bone healed crooked, but hed shruggedno 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 uneven steps anymore. It was just how things were.
That day, he sat at the kitchen table, alone, ladling fresh stew into a deep bowl. Summer heat hung thick, the air shimmering over the fields. The back door stood wide open, letting in lazy waves of scorched air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sunlit rectangle on the floor.
“Afternoon, Stevie! Didnt knockdoor was open!” The boom of Arthurs voice, his neighbour two houses down, rolled through the room. Arthur was younger, brimming with restless energy and schemes Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Afternoon,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the stove. Toss in some spring onionswont regret it.”
“Dont mind if I do! Love your stew. Hot as blazes out, but nothing beats a proper meal. Well cool off after.”
As he ate, Arthur eyed Stevie sidelong, sharp as a fox.
“Been thinking, Stevieyou ought to wed again. No life for a man, rattling round a kitchen alone. A wifed cook your meals, warm your bed, well you know.”
“You playing matchmaker now?” Stevie smirked. “Found me a bride?”
“Why not? How long dyou plan to mope? Youre a catchdecent house, no kids. Could live like a king with some pretty thing!”
“A wife isnt just there,” Stevie said softly but firmly. “You need to fit. To understand without words. One look, and you know.”
“Fit?!” Arthur waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Who cares about fitting? You want someone to tend you, fetch your tea when youre poorly. Think ahead!”
“Ahead?” Stevie set down his spoon. “You reckon Im some doddering fool? That Id shack up with the first willing woman? No, Arthur. Ill choose. And Ill live as I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that!” Arthur flushed. “Just looking out for you! Got an aunt, seeAgatha. Over in Mistlethorpe. Firecracker of a woman. Keeps pigs, geese, a calf. Sturdy, sharp. Fancy meeting her? Could drive you over.”
Stevie sighed. “Whats in a name? A roof shared, a life built. Modern women love themselves more than work. Would she dig potatoes, tend livestock? They want pampering now. And Im no charmer. Feels daft, my age, courting.”
“Rubbish! Ill come with. Shes familywed be proper kin! You know me, I know you. Wed get on like a house on fire!”
The talk dragged on till evening. Wearied by Arthurs push and his own flicker of curiosity, Stevie gave in. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Arthurs battered old Rover.
When Arthur left, silence swallowed the house again. The thought of remarriage, once vague, now had weight. Stevie looked around as if seeing his home for the first time. Dust on the windowsills, cluttered with jars and nails and dried leaves Lydia had once gathered. The floor, long unscrubbed. A mountain of dishes in the sink.
Next dawn, he rose as if whipped by some unseen hand. He wiped the sills, tossed the clutter. Scrubbed the floor till the smell of soap lifted his spirits. Then attacked the dishes, squeezing foamy detergent, watching plates gleam like new under the tap.
“Blimey,” he thought, polishing a mug. “Almost cheerful. Should do this more.”
Saturday morning, Arthur honked outside. Stevie wore his only suit, still decent though it smelled of mothballs and yesterday. The road was long, potholed. They arrived by noon.
Arthurs car halted by a leaning but sturdy fence. A woman stepped out at oncepleasant-faced, mid-fifties, a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was bright, too practiced.
“At last! Dinners gone cold waiting!” she called, too familiar.
From those words, that tone, ice settled in Stevies chest. Hed been bartered already, without his say. His hand twitched toward the door handletell Arthur to turn back. Then he heard her whisper:
“Hes lame?” Her stare fixed on his stick.
“Just an old break, Aunt Agatha. Walks a bit off, no bother,” Arthur said quickly.
She stepped closer, offering a hand. Her palm was soft, oddly smooth.
“Pleasure, dear. Im Agatha,” she simpered.
He shook her fingers stiffly. “Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie.”
Her yard was neat: tidy beds, a whitewashed shed, not a scrap out of place. “Hard worker,” he noted.
Inside, the table groanedroast pork, pickled vegetables, stacks of golden pancakes, a jug of cream. “Generous,” he thought.
Agatha piled his plate, fluttering. “Oh, Stephen, so distinguished! Cant believe you live alone! And your limphardly notice!”
He stiffened at “old.” He was no invalid. Suddenly, he blurted: “Why wait? Marry me. Were not kids planning a year-long engagement.”
“Why not?” she sighed. “But youre lame Howll you manage the farm?”
“Whats that to do with anything?” he snapped. “I do my work! Built my house, my shedask Arthur!”
“True, Aunt! Stevies handy as they come!”
“And wherell we live?” She eyed him slyly. “Yours or mine?”
“Where? Mine, of course! Im no lodger. Your place can lock upbring what you need.”
She startled. “Arthur, darling, help me a moment!”
They stepped outside. Summer air carried every word.
