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 old, not young, just stuck between two shores: behind him, a life full of love and storms; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt cursed him with poor healthhis body, hardened by years of labour, still held strengthbut his soul was cracked and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully, and hed cared for her until her last breath, until the final silent tear on her hollowed cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in all the world. Theyd had no children, so theyd lived soul to soul in their own little universe, bordered by the edges of their village.
Lydia had been the sun of his small planet. The warmth that heated the house, the light that filled it with comfort. Her hands made the tastiest 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 meat in winter. The vegetable patch was her kingdom, ruled by perfect rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His workploughing, digging, fixing whatever brokewas the outer wall of their fortress. She was its heart.
A man gets used to anything. Stevie got used to the silence. At first, it pressed on him, rang in his ears, made him jump at every floorboard creak. Then it became background noise. Boring? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? Thats just how fate had dealt the cards.
The local women, of course, eyed him. Stevie was a sturdy man, good with his hands, his house well-kept, and no children to complicate thingsin the village, that was practically a winning lottery ticket. Matchmakers came, hints were dropped, some even boldly offered to “start a family.” But he brushed them off like flies.
“I miss my Lydia,” hed explain, staring past them into the empty air. “Shes up there, watching. Wouldnt approve of me bringing another woman under her roof. Wouldnt want some stranger blotting out her memory.”
But in the quiet of his thoughts, he knew the truth: “To live together, thered have to be at least a spark. A drop of affection. And there isnt any. My soul hasnt thawed yet.”
After Lydia died, he sold the cowwhat use was all that milk to one man? A fine Guernsey, giving 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 a calf each summerfor meat. So he lived: his own meat, his own eggs, milk traded from neighbours or given as charity by old Annie next door, who watched him with silent pity.
Stevie had a limp. Years ago, a stubborn mare had shattered his leg. The bone healed crooked, but hed shrugged it offno time for fussing. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a walking stick appearedoak, carved, a gift from Lydia. Nobody noticed his uneven gait anymore, as if it had always been that way.
That day, he sat at the kitchen table, alone, ladling freshly made stew into a bowl. Summer heat hung thick, the air shimmering over the fields. The back door stood wide open, letting in sluggish waves of scorched air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the rectangle of sunlight on the floor.
“Alright, Stevie? Thought Id pop in! Door was open, so here I am!” boomed Tom, his neighbour two doors down, his voice like a church bell echoing through the kitchen. Tom was younger, brimming with restless energy and schemes Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Alright,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the hob. Chuck in some spring onionswont regret it. Keep me company.”
“Wouldnt say no! Love your stew. Hot as it is, still hits the spot. Well cool off after!”
Shovelling stew into his mouth, Tom eyed Stevie sideways.
“Reckon you ought to remarry, mate. No life for a man, stuck at the stove all day. A wife could cook your meals, warm your bed you know.”
“Turned matchmaker, have you?” Stevie smirked. “Found me a bride?”
“Whats wrong with that? How long dyou plan to mope? Youre pickycouldve had your pick of the village by now!”
“A wife isnt just a wife,” Stevie said softly but firmly. “Got to be soul to soul. Understand each other without words. One look, and you just know.”
“Oh, soul!” Tom waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Who cares about souls now? Just need someone to look after you, bring you tea if you croak. Think ahead!”
“Ahead?” Stevie set his spoon down and looked Tom square in the face. “Think Im some doddering old fool? That Id shack up with the first woman who nods? No, Tom. Ive still got choices. And Ill live how I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that! No offence,” Tom backpedalled. “Just looking out for you! Got an aunt, see. Agatha. Lives over in Millfield. Firecracker of a womannot old, sharp as a tack. Keeps pigs, geese, a calf. Sturdy, she is. Names Agatha! Saw her last week. Full of life, but alone. Fancy meeting her? Could drive you over. Hit it offjob done. Bring her back here. Eh?”
“Whats in a name?” Stevie sighed. “Sharing a roof means work. Modern women love themselves more than labour. Would she dig a garden, tend livestock? They want pampering now, carrying on shoulders. And Im no knight. And at my age, wife-huntings just awkward.”
“Ah, nonsense! Ill come with. Shes familywed be practically related! You know me, I know you. Wed get on like a house on fire!”
Talk dragged on till evening. Wearied by Toms pushing and his own flicker of curiosity, Stevie gave in. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Toms battered old Rover.
When Tom left, Stevie sat in the hollow silence. The idea of remarrying, once abstract, now had flesh and bone. He scanned his house and saw it anewdust on the sills, cluttered with jars and nails and dried leaves Lydia once collected. The floor, long unscrubbed. A mountain of dishes in the sink.
Next dawn, he rose as if prodded by some inner whip. He wiped the dust, threw out the clutter. Scrubbed the floor, the fresh smell oddly lifting his spirits. Then the dishes. Found an old bottle of detergent, squeezed out foamy suds.
“Well,” he thought, watching plates gleam under the tap. “Moods better already. Might as well do the mugs. Been a while since I spruced up.”
Saturday morning, Tom honked outside. Stevie wore his only decent suitstill fitted well, though it smelled of mothballs and yesterday. The road was long and potholed. They arrived by noon.
Toms car halted by a leaning but sturdy fence. A woman stepped outpleasant-faced, mid-forties, a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was bright, but rehearsed.
“Finally! Lunch is going cold! What kept you?” she called before theyd even reached the gate.
Her tone, her familiarity, sent a chill through Stevie. Hed been “spoken for” 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 walking 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 soft, as if unacquainted with hard work.
“Welcome, dear. Im Agatha,” she said warmly.
He shook her fingers awkwardly.
“Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie.”
Glancing around, he noted the tidy yard: neat beds, a freshly whitewashed shed, not a speck of mess. “Hard worker,” he thought. “Proper homemaker.”
Inside, the same order. But the table stole his attentiongroaning with food: stewed potatoes and pork, pickles, golden pancakes beside a pot of cream, bacon, spring onions, and, crowning it all, steaming meat pies. “Generous,” he noted. “Pulled out all the stops.” Tom winked: “Told you so!”
Agatha was a lavish hostess, piling his plate, shower
