She left for the countryside and found her happiness.
Evelyn Whitaker hurriedly packed her belongings, her hands trembling, tears gathering in her eyes. After twenty years of marriage her husband, George, announced he was leaving her for a younger, carefree womannothing like Evelyn, who was weary from work, perpetually swamped with household chores and looking after the children.
The children were already grown. Her son studied in another town and visited rarely; her daughter had married and moved in with her husband. Evelyn was alone in a large flat that suddenly seemed empty and alien.
She shoved clothes into a suitcase without thinking about what she was actually taking. What did it matter? All she wanted was to run, to hide from the pain and the humiliation.
The phone rang as she was fastening the suitcase. The name of a friend lit up on the screen, and she sighed. She didnt feel like talking to anyone.
Hello, she answered reluctantly.
Evelyn, love! I just heard How are you? Emilys voice was full of concern.
Fine, Evelyn replied tersely, packing.
Where are you off to?
I dont know, Evelyn confessed honestly, I just cant stay here any longer.
You still have that cottage up in the village, the one your grandmother left you. Why not go there?
Evelyn froze. Indeed, she owned a small, aging cottage inherited from her maternal grandmother. They had gone there when the children were small, then stopped. George had always complained that the village was boring and that he preferred the sea.
Emily, youre a genius! Evelyn exclaimed, Thats exactly where Ill go!
Is it habitable? Does it have heating?
Theres a stove and electricity. Thats all I need.
An hour later Evelyn was on the commuter train heading toward Malton, about fifty miles north of Londona world apart from the city.
The village welcomed her with quiet and the scent of lilacs. The cottage sat on the edge of the lane, surrounded by ancient apple trees. She struggled to push open the creaking gate and stepped onto the overgrown lawn.
Everything looked abandoned: grass up to the waist, a sagging porch, a broken window. Evelyn let out a heavy sigh. What was she to do here? She was a city girl, accustomed to comforts.
A hoarse voice called out, Whos there? From behind the house waddled a stooped old lady with a stick.
Good day, Evelyn stammered, Im the granddaughter of Mary Whitford. This is her house.
Marys house? the old woman squinted, studying the stranger, And you are Evelyn?
Yes, Evelyn replied, And who are you?
Im Mabel, a neighbour. We were friends with your grandmother. What brings you back?
Im here to live, Evelyn said, surprised at her own firmness.
Live? Mabel shook her head doubtfully, You cant live in a place like this. Its derelict, needs repair. And youre a city folk, arent you?
Ill manage, Evelyn said stubbornly and walked toward the front door.
The key was in her bag. She turned the lock, entered, and was hit by the smell of damp and dust. Inside she found old furniture blanketed in grime, a stove in the corner, a table, two beds, and yellowed photographs on the wallsone showing her grandmother, young and beautiful, smiling.
Evelyn sank onto a bed and wept. For the first time in a long while she let the tears flow freely, sobbing out the hurt and the betrayal. When the tears finally dried, a strange calm settled over her. In that old house she felt shielded from the world; no one would see her weep, no one would judge.
The next morning she awoke to birdsong and bright sunlight slipping through the window. She washed her face with cold water from a bucket and stepped outside.
Morning, Mabel, called a familiar hoarse voice. Mabel stood by the fence with a bundle of bread and milk.
Morning, Evelyn replied.
I brought you some milk, bread, and a few potatoes. The shops a long walk.
Thank you, Evelyn said, touched, Youre very kind.
Mums the word, Mabel waved her hand, Neighbours look after each other. So, are you really staying?
Yes, but I dont know where to start.
Start with cleaning, Mabel suggested, handing over a rag and a broom. They spent the day scrubbing, dusting, airing the rooms. By evening Evelyn collapsed from exhaustion, yet for the first time in years she felt a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
Tomorrow well check the stove, Mabel said as she left, May still bring a cold snap.
Evelyn nodded. She began to understand that village life meant constant work, but the thought no longer frightened her; it soothed her.
The following days were spent repairing the stove, glazing the broken window, straightening the porch. Evelyn learned to cook on the woodburner, fetch water from the well, and tend the fireheated bath. Her hands grew calloused, her back ached, but her body adjusted to the labour.
One evening a stranger entered the cottage with a woman in tow.
Meet Tessa, she works at the village library, Mabel introduced, She heard we had a newcomer and thought shed say hello.
Pleasure, Evelyn said, smiling.
Likewise, Tessa replied, shaking Evelyns hand, We dont get many fresh faces here, especially ones who intend to stay.
What did you do in the city? Tessa asked.
I was an accountant, Evelyn answered.
Whats your qualification?
Economics, she shrugged, Why?
Our school cant find a maths teacher. Might you give it a go, even temporarily?
Evelyn was taken aback. She had never considered teaching, but the idea sparked interest.
Ill think about it, she said.
A week later Evelyn stood before a handful of village childrenfifteen of them, ranging in age. The school ran a mixedage programme, letting one teacher handle several classes at once.
Good morning, children, she began, voice wavering, Im Evelyn Whitaker, and Ill be your maths teacher.
The children watched cautiously. Evelyn took a deep breath and began. To her surprise the lesson flowed; the youngsters asked inquisitive questions, and by the end she felt an unexpected lift.
Teaching, gardening, and the companionship of new neighbours filled Evelyns days. She rarely turned on her mobile; her son sent occasional messages, her daughter called now and then. She replied simply, All is well here, and it was true.
The city faded into a distant, unfamiliar landscape. Occasionally she recalled the flat, the office, George, but those memories no longer caused pain; they became a chapter closed behind the village lane.
One evening a sturdy farmer named Thomas Pritchard knocked on her door, his broad shoulders and friendly beard making an immediate impression.
Evelyn, may I have a word? he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
Please, come in, she offered, Would you like some tea?
Gladly, Thomas said, entering.
They sat at the kitchen table, tea steaming with honey. Thomas spoke of his farm, of future plans. Evelyn listened intently.
Evelyn, I need a hand with the accounts, he said finally, My farm is growing, the paperworks beyond me, and Im not good with numbers. Could you help?
The proposal was unexpected but tempting; she missed professional work.
Ill consider it, she replied.
Think soon, Thomas cautioned, The seasons starting, theres a lot to do.
A few days later Evelyn accepted. Her mornings were spent in the school, afternoons in Thomass office, evenings in her garden.
Thomas later offered assistance with the overgrown plot.
Youve got a lot to do alone, he said, I have a tractor and a few strong hands.
The next day he arrived with the tractor, ploughing the soil in hours. Together they planted potatoes, onions, carrots, laughing and arguing in equal measure.
Your fence is practically gone, Thomas noted, eyeing the yard, Well need a new one.
I have no money for a fence, Evelyn sighed.
Well share the work, Thomas smiled, Ive got the timber, youve got the meals. Deal?
She agreed, feeling a warmth toward the reliable, downtoearth man.
The whole village turned up to help. Mabel brought her son, Tessa her husband, and other neighbours joined. They worked all day, then held an impromptu celebration in Evelyns yard.
To the new home! Thomas raised a mug of homemade cider.
To new beginnings! Tessa added.
Evelyn looked at these simple, open people and felt she had finally found her placeamong nature and honest hearts.
One autumn, her former husband George arrived in a sleek city car, pulling up to the gate while Evelyn was tending the garden.
Evelyn, he called, May I come in?
She straightened, wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded. George stepped into the yard, eyes scanning with evident surprise.
You live here? he asked.
Yes, she replied simply.
But you have a flat in London. All the comforts
I like it here, Evelyn shrugged.
George studied her; she had changed. She was healthier, slimmer, moved with confidence, and her eyes held a new light.
You lookdifferent, he noted.
Im different, she answered, smiling, Would you like some tea?
They sat on the porch, sipping tea sweetened with her own blackcurrant jam. George spoke of his new life, but the words no longer cut her.
Ive come to ask you to return, he said finally, I was wrong. That other woman was a mistake. I love only you.
Evelyn looked at him, the old emotions now distant. She felt only calm.
George, Im grateful for your words, she said gently, But I will not go back. My home is here.
But this is just a village! he exclaimed, There are no theatres, no restaurants, no shops!
Yet there is a real life, Evelyn replied, And real people.
What about our marriage? Twenty years together
Our marriage ended when you left, she said without blame, And Im thankful for that. Had you stayed, I might never have found myself.
George stared, bewildered by the confident woman before him.
Are you happy here? he asked at last.
Yes, she said simply, I am happy.
When George left, Thomas arrived with a bucket of apples from his orchard.
Evelyn, fresh apples for you! he called, Antonias the sweetest around!
Thank you, Thomas, she answered, Could you help me pull the carrots? Its hard alone.
Of course, he replied, Anything for you.
They worked side by side, the sun dipping low, painting the sky pink, the air scented with apples and autumn leaves.
Who came to you in that city car? Thomas asked later.
My exhusband, Evelyn said.
And what did he want?
To bring me back to the city.
Thomas paused, holding a carrot, then asked, And you?
I turned him down, Evelyn smiled, Im happy here.
Thomas beamed and returned to the work. Their silence was comfortable, a quiet understanding between two people who knew each other without words.
That evening, as Thomas prepared to leave, he turned to Evelyn and said, Theres a village fete on Saturdaymusic, dancing. Would you like to go with me?
Evelyns smile widened.
Id love to, Thomas, she replied.
On Saturday evening Evelyn donned her best dresssimple, yet elegant. Thomas arrived, neatly dressed, a bouquet of wildflowers in hand.
You look lovely, he said, handing her the flowers.
The concert was heartfeltlocal singers, poetry, folk dances. Later, Thomas invited Evelyn to a waltz. He was clumsy but earnest; his strong, gentle arms held her firmly.
Evelyn, he whispered, eyes meeting hers, Im a simple man, no city airs. But Im completely taken with you.
She saw the kind eyes, the sturdy figure, and felt a flutter she had not known for decades.
I feel the same, Thomas, she answered softly.
They danced until the night grew deep, then Thomas escorted her home. At the gate he took her hand.
May I come again tomorrow? he asked.
Come, she said, Ill be waiting.
She lingered at the window, watching his broad silhouette disappear down the lane, and realized, for the first time in her life, that she truly was happy.
Winter settled over the village, blanketing Evelyns cottage in snow. Each morning Thomas cleared the paths. Evenings were spent over tea, talking, planning.
Tessa once remarked, You and Thomas make a wonderful pair. Whens the wedding?
Evelyn blushed, Were just friends.
Yes, Tessa teased, Friends who look at each other with lovers eyes.
By spring Thomas asked Evelyn to marry him, plain and sincere.
Will you marry me, Evelyn? I love you.
Ill marry you, Thomas. I love you too.
The whole village celebrated. Evelyns son James and daughter Clara arrived, initially shocked by their mothers decision, but soon accepted it, seeing her radiant joy.
The important thing is youre happy, Mum, her daughter said, hugging her.
Evelyn truly was happy. She had found her place in a small English village, among humble folk, beside the man she loved. The happiness was genuine, free of pretence.
Every morning she rose with a smile, eager for the day ahead. School, farm work, home duties, evenings by the fire with Thomasall gave her life meaning.
Sometimes she thought of her former city lifehustle, stress, empty chatter. How could she ever have called that happiness?
Now she knew: happiness is being where you belong, doing what you love, surrounded by people who truly value you.
She had fled to the village, escaping pain and disappointment, and discovered love and herself. And she lived, at long last, happily ever after.
