No Wedding for Tilly
Tilly graduated from teacher training college with top honours, dreaming of university. But life had other plans. Her father was badly injured in a car crash and spent months in hospital. When he was finally discharged, her mother took leave from work to care for him at home until he adjusted to his wheelchair.
There was no university in their town—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Tilly decided to postpone her studies for a year. She couldn’t leave her parents alone during such a difficult time. Instead, she took a job at the local primary school.
The doctors had been hopeful—with physiotherapy, massage, and medication, her father might walk again one day. Her mother sold their holiday caravan to pay for private sessions and prescriptions. But her father never left his wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” he said one day. “Stop wasting money. I’m not getting up, so what’s the point?”
His temper soured. He became irritable, suspicious, picking fights over everything. His worst moods were reserved for Tilly’s mother. If he called, she had to drop everything and run—usually because he was thirsty, or bored, or just wanted to chat. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“Dave, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My whole life’s ruined, and you’re moaning about potatoes? Easy for you to say—you’ve got working legs. Can’t even bring me a glass of water?” he’d snap.
Sometimes, in a fit of rage, he’d hurl a mug or plate at her. Worse, he started asking for whisky. Drunk, he’d lash out, blaming Tilly’s mother for the accident as if she’d been behind the wheel.
“Dad, stop drinking. It won’t help—you’ll just feel worse. Play chess. Read a book,” Tilly pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are all lies—you read them. Life’s not like that. I’m useless now,” he’d grumble.
“Mum, don’t buy him any more whisky,” Tilly begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream the house down. He’s suffering. What else can we do?” her mother sighed.
“He needs to exercise, not drink. The doctors said he could walk again. He just doesn’t want to. Likes making us run around after him,” Tilly fumed.
She pitied him, but life was hard for her and her mother too. One evening, Tilly came home exhausted, her throat sore, desperate to rest. But her father kept calling her. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough. I’m shattered. You’ve got wheels—get your own drink. You’re not the only one in a wheelchair. Hundreds of people manage, even compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t wheel yourself to the kitchen? Go on, try it. I’ve got lessons to plan.” She marched to her room.
She heard the whir of his wheelchair, the clatter of a glass on the kitchen table, the pause outside her door. She braced for him to burst in, shouting—but the wheels moved on. After that, he became more self-sufficient.
On warm days, Tilly left the balcony door open. Her father would sit in his chair by the threshold—his version of “fresh air.” The narrow door and step kept him from entering. They couldn’t afford to widen the doorway anyway.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t talk like that! You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mother soothed.
“You say that now. Wait till you’re sick of emptying my bedpan. You’ll stay out of pity. What use is a cripple? You’re still young…”
And so life went on. A year slipped by unnoticed, and rainy autumn returned. One afternoon, Tilly left school just as a cold downpour began. She ducked under the bus shelter’s glass awning, but the wind blew rain sideways. Cars sped through puddles, drenching waiting passengers.
A lorry suddenly pulled over. A bloke hopped out, holding his jacket over his head as he dashed to the shelter.
“Hop in—I’ll drive you home.”
Tilly’s toes were numb in her soggy shoes. She ducked under his jacket, breathing in the smell of petrol and engine oil. The cab was warm and dry.
“Mike,” he said.
“Tilly.”
“Matilda, then. Where to, Matilda?”
She gave her address. As they drove, Mike chatted about why he’d become a lorry driver.
“Single mum raised me. Time to look after her now. A mate got me a job at his garage. After my stint in the army, I got my HGV licence. Pays decent, plus there’s extra cash—moving furniture, hauling scrap. So if you ever need a lift, just ring. I’m at your service.” He’d slipped into informal “you” without blinking.
“You in school or working?” he asked.
“Teaching at the primary.”
“Nice,” he nodded. “I’ll pull up outside, you hop in, and all the kids’ll be jealous. What’s funny? It’s a big lorry. No one’s got one like it.”
It was easy with him. And what if she did need help someday? She gave him her number. That evening, he called and asked her to the cinema.
“Can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I swing by your place? Quick cuppa?”
“Why?” Tilly asked.
“Want to see you. Fancy you,” he said bluntly.
“Maybe you’re not my type. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“What—not good-looking enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?” he shot back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. Fine, I’ll come out,” she said, hanging up.
The next day, a horn blared outside. Tilly peered out to see Mike’s lorry.
“Who’s that causing a scene? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Not a suitor. Just a friend. Can I pop out for five minutes?”
“Go on, before he wakes the whole street.”
Mike started showing up almost daily. Sometimes he’d pick her up from school, drive her home. They’d sit in the cab chatting, sharing tea or coffee from his thermos, sandwiches packed by his doting mum.
“Someone’s keen. Quite the catch,” her mother remarked once as Tilly returned home and the lorry rumbled off.
“He’s not a catch.”
“Why not? Youth flies by. All your mates are getting married. Planning to stay single till retirement? He’s not driving here for fun.”
“Mum, I’m busy. Got marking to do,” Tilly mumbled, retreating.
Mike had brought up marriage a few times, but Tilly asked him to wait. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She didn’t melt at his touch. Worse, he kept talking about money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got savings for the wedding. We’ll do it proper. Autumn’s busy—firewood deliveries, clearing out sheds. You won’t go hungry with me, Tills,” he’d say, squeezing her in the cramped, oily cab. “Getting a posh car by winter.”
No flowers—”waste of cash.” No restaurants—just thermos tea and sandwiches. When his mum visited her sister, Mike would invite Tilly over. Sex was functional, unromantic. Rare, too—she made excuses to avoid it.
She knew she didn’t love him. But where would she meet anyone else? School, then home. Mike was there—didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Her mother nudged her. So Tilly said yes, on one condition: wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, full of second thoughts. But spring came fast. After the bank holidays, Mike insisted on registering their wedding date. He’d handle everything. Tilly just needed a dress and to show up.
Then, one evening, she collided with a man in her dimly lit stairwell.
“Tilly?!”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul! Didn’t recognise you?”
“Paul?! What are you doing here?”
Her childhood friend—once a scrawny boy, now tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s every summer. She lived next door. Tilly would visit for potato cakes and courgette fritters.
They’d promised to stay together forever—aged seven, clutching sticky hands. When his parents took him back to London, they’d sob. She’d count the days till Christmas, then till summer.
As teens, they’d grown awkward. The last time she’d seen him was at his gran’s 70th.
“Here for Gran’s 75th. Blimey, you’re gorgeous,” Paul said, grinning.
“You’ve changedThey married the following spring, and though life wasn’t always easy—her father still grumbled, her mother still nagged—Tilly knew she’d made the right choice when Paul held her hand at the altar, his smile brighter than any lorry’s headlights.
