Seven long years had passed since the earth swallowed Lydias body. Seven years of silence, ringing louder than any music in his ears, and loneliness that clung to the walls of the house like the scent of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not quite old, not quite young, as if stuck between two shores: behind him, a life once full of love and turbulence; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt cheated him on healthhis body, hardened by years of labour, still held strength. But his soul was cracked and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully, and hed nursed her to her last breath, to the final quiet tear on her worn cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the wide world. The Lord hadnt blessed them with children, so theyd lived soul to soul in their own little universe, bounded by the edges of their village.
Hed grown used to Lydia being the sun of his small planet. She was the warmth that heated their home, the light that filled it with comfort. Her hands made 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 each year so theyd have their own fragrant meat in winter. The garden was her kingdom, ruled by perfect rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His work was the heavy liftingploughing, digging, fixing what broke. He was the outer wall of their fortress; she was its heart and soul.
A man gets used to anything. Stevie got used to the silence. At first, it pressed on him, ringing in his ears, making him flinch at every creak of the floorboards. Then it became background noise. Boring? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? Thats how fate had dealt the cards.
The local women, of course, had noticed him. Stevie was a sturdy, capable man, his home well-kept, and childlesswhich in the village was practically a winning lottery ticket. They sent matchmakers, dropped hints, some even outright offered to “start a family.” But he brushed them all off like pesky flies.
“I miss my Lydia,” hed explain, staring somewhere past their heads into the emptiness. “Shes watching from up there. Doubt shed approve of me bringing another woman into our home. Wouldnt want her memory overshadowed.”
But in the quiet of his thoughts, he reasoned differently: “To live together, thered need to be a spark. A drop of affection. And there isnt any. Maybe Im not ready yet. My soul hasnt thawed.”
After Lydias death, he sold the cowwhat use was all that milk to a man alone? A fine Jersey she was, giving a pail morning and evening. 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. Thats how he lived: his own meat, his own eggs, milk borrowed or bought from neighbours, sometimes given as pity by Annie next door, who watched him with silent sympathy.
Stevie walked with a limp. Long ago, in his youth, a stubborn horse had broken his leg. The bone set crooked, but hed shruggedno time for fussing. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a cane appearedcarved oak, a gift from Lydia. No one remarked on his unsteady gait anymore, as if it had always been that way.
That day, he sat at the dining table alone, ladling freshly made stew into a deep bowl. The summer heat hung thick, the air shimmering over the fields. The back door stood wide open, letting in lazy waves of scorching air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sunlight on the floor.
“Alright, Stevie? Mind if I pop in? Door was open, so I thought Id save the knock!” boomed the voice of Tom, his neighbour two doors down, loud as a church bell. Tom was younger, brimming with restless energy and schemes Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Alright,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the stove. Chuck in some spring onionswont regret it. Keep me company.”
“Dont mind if I do! Love your stew! Hot as it is, nothing beats a proper hot meal. Well cool off after!”
Tom wolfed it down, glancing at Stevie sidelong between mouthfuls.
“Been thinking, Stevieyou ought to remarry. No life for a man, stuck at the stove alone. A womand cook your stew, make your bed, and well, you know.”
“Turning matchmaker now?” Stevie smirked. “Found me a bride, have you?”
“Whats wrong with that? How long dyou plan to mope? Man like you could have his picklive like a king with some beauty!”
“A womans not just for having,” Stevie said quietly but firmly. “Got to be kindred spirits. Understand each other without words. One look, and its all clear.”
“Oh, spare me the poetry!” Tom waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Who cares about souls at your age? Just need someone to look after you, bring you tea if youre poorly. Think ahead!”
“Ahead?” Stevie set his spoon down and looked Tom dead in the eye. “You reckon Im some doddering old fool, ready to shack up with the first woman wholl have me? No, Tom. Ive still got a choice. And Ill live as I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that! No offence,” Tom backpedalled. “Just looking out for you! Thats why I brought it up. Got an aunt, Agatha. Over in Millfield. Firecracker of a woman! Not old, proper homemaker. Keeps pigs, geese, a calf. And easy on the eye. Names Agathaproper English, eh? Visited her lately. Full of life, she is, and lonely. Fancy a trip? See if you hit it off. If you do, bring her back. Simple!”
“Whats in a name?” Stevie sighed. “Sharing a roof means sharing a life. Modern women love themselves more than work. Would she bother with a garden, livestock? These days, they want pampering, carrying about. Im no young buck. And at my age, wife-hunting feels daft.”
“Come off it! Ill go with you. Shes familypractically makes us kin! You know me, I know you. Wed get on like a house on fire!”
The conversation dragged on till evening. Wearied by Toms persistence and his own flicker of curiosity, Stevie gave in. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Toms battered old Volvo.
When Tom left, Stevie sat in the tomb-like silence. The idea of remarrying, once abstract, now had flesh and bone. He scanned his house 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, as if prodded by some inner whip. He wiped the dust from the sills, ruthlessly tossing the clutter. Scrubbed the floor, the fresh scent oddly lifting his spirits. Then tackled the dishes, digging out a long-forgotten detergent, squeezing out thick, fragrant suds.
“Blimey,” he thought, watching the plates gleam under the water. “Almost cheerful. Might as well do the mugs. Been ages since I spruced up like this.”
Saturday morning, Tom honked outside. Stevie donned his only decent suit, still fitting well enough, though it smelled of mothballs and the past. The road was long and bumpy. They arrived by lunchtime.
Toms car rattled to a stop by a leaning but sturdy fence. A woman stepped out from the gatepleasant-looking, early fifties, a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was broad, oddly rehearsed.
“Finally! Ive been waitingdinners going cold! What kept you?” she called before theyd even reached her.
From those words, that over-familiar tone, Stevie felt a chill. It was clearhed been “sold” to her without his say. His hand twitched toward the car door, ready to order Tom to turn back. But then he heard her whisper to her nephew:
“Hes not crippled, is he?” Her eyes flicked to his cane.
“Nah, Aunt Agatha, just an old leg break, walks with a limp. Nothing serious,” Stevie said stiffly.
She stepped closer, offering a hand. Her palm was unexpectedly warm and soft, as if never roughened by work.
“Welcome, dear, so pleased to meet you. Im Agatha,” she said warmly.
He shook her fingers awkwardly.
“Afternoon. Stephen or Stevie, whichever.”
A glance around the yard showed
