By the well…
Margaret Thompson heaved the wooden yoke onto her shoulders, the iron buckets clanging faintly in the still morning air as she walked along the narrow village footpath. The water from the well—clear, icy, pure—was something sacred to her. Even past seventy, she made the daily trek to the far end of the lane. Stubborn and strong, she wouldn’t hear a word when her daughter-in-law scolded her.
“Mum, really! There’s water right in the yard, and indoors! People talk. Isn’t it too much for you?” grumbled Lucy, rolling her eyes.
But Margaret acted as if she hadn’t heard. The tap water? She wouldn’t even cook with it—”smells like pipes,” she’d mutter. The well water was different—fresh, alive. Sweet as a tear of memory.
She paused, set the buckets down, and straightened with a quiet sigh. A breeze rustled the leaves of the young sycamore—just planted by someone near the well. Once, an old oak had stood there, broad and mighty, where she’d once met Arthur in her youth.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart raced when she’d dash to the well! And there he’d be—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the stone rim, waiting. Every girl in the village envied her. Especially Millie, her closest friend.
“Just try and take him from me, Millie,” Margaret—Maggie then—had warned. “I’d give my soul for him.”
But Millie had smirked, glancing sideways.
“A fortune-teller told me he’d be mine… Only joking!” she’d added quickly.
Maggie waved it off. But unease settled in her heart—just as fever struck. Burning, weak, she’d begged Millie, “Go to the well. Tell Arthur not to wait. Say I’m ill—tomorrow.”
Millie had smiled… oddly. Then vanished, heels clicking. What she’d told Arthur, Maggie never knew. But when she returned the next day, she saw them together.
Side by side. She’d turned, breath frozen, and fled. Tears choking, heart splitting.
A week later, a neighbor—quiet, gentle Thomas—asked for her hand.
“Send for me, Tom,” she’d said, clutching her pain like a secret. “Before I change my mind.”
Millie came later, weeping. “Nothing happened—please, Maggie…”
“You got what you wanted. But you’ll never be happy. Nor will I. Now go. For good.”
The wedding felt like a funeral for her dreams. Parents fretted, but Thomas… Thomas spent years ensuring she’d never regret it. Cooked, cleaned, woke for the children. The village called him “golden-handed.” Yet… she never loved him. Respected, yes. But no fire.
Millie married Arthur. He didn’t stay. Left after the vows—”building a house,” he claimed. Really, he ran—to Liverpool, then Newcastle. Anywhere.
News came from Liverpool: a timber accident. Crushed.
The village buried him together. Maggie didn’t go. Couldn’t parade her grief. But that evening, she stood at his grave. Prayed without words. Cried—quiet, endless, like she hadn’t breathed in years.
Then… a hand on her shoulder. Millie. Black-clad. They locked eyes. Walked away silently.
Years passed. Millie died. Now Maggie often visited the churchyard—husband, parents… and that grave. Two side by side.
She tended them. Wiped the stones. Plucked weeds. One evening—she saw Millie again. Faint as twilight.
“Still visiting him, Maggie? Even now?”
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Maybe that’s comfort…”
And then Maggie understood—she’d never loved Arthur. Just the dream of them. While beside her all along stood a man—real. Steadfast. Thomas. Husband, friend. And she’d hidden in her memories like an old chest, chasing ghosts.
No anger left for Millie. None of it matters now.
…Margaret lifted the buckets. Inhaled the fading scent of marigolds—time to cut fresh ones. Millie had loved their spice, their bitterness… like promises unkept.
From the path, she called, “Tom! There’s something I must say!”
“What’s wrong?” His voice anxious.
She smiled, pressing her face to his chest. “I love you, Tom…”
Blushed like a girl. He just held her tighter. No words needed. His eyes held it all—wonder, gentleness… the love he’d carried through their life.
Maggie no longer passed those graves without stopping. Wiped the granite. Whispered prayers. Hoping, perhaps, that somewhere—peace had finally come. True. Endless.
