The deep, dark night fades, bringing the inevitable moment of farewell closer. Dawn approaches. Margaret sat by her late husband’s coffin all night, lost in memories of her life with John. Both had grown old together.
“John lived seventy-six years,” Margaret thought to herself, “he could’ve lived longer if not for the illness.” She was three years younger.
“You were a good husband and father, John,” she murmured aloud as daylight revealed his face better than the candlelight had. “Most of all, you were faithful, though temptations came your way… oh, how quickly life passes.”
All night, memories tugged at her heart, flipping pages of their shared history—sorrows and joys woven through fifty-three years of marriage.
When John knew he wouldn’t rise again, he often told his wife:
“Meg, God’s punishing me for my sins. I must’ve lived wrong, thought wrong.” But she’d comfort him.
“Don’t blame yourself, John. You lived well—no drink, no trouble, just love for me and our daughter. What sins could you have?” He’d listen and calm down.
Dawn broke, and their daughter, Emily, busied herself in the kitchen. She’d come alone from London—no husband, long divorced. Her daughter, Margaret’s granddaughter, had just had her second child, so she couldn’t come. No final goodbye for her granddad. Still, she’d spent every summer here as a child.
Emily had been their only surviving child. Two others had died—one after a day, the other after a week. Margaret had clung to Emily, protecting her fiercely. But God had spared her.
Before finishing school, Emily announced:
“Mum, Dad, I’m moving to London after school. I don’t want to stay in the village. I know I’m your only one, meant to care for you in old age, but life’s more exciting in the city.”
“Fine by me,” John said at once. Margaret pressed the corner of her headscarf to her eyes.
“Oh, love, how will we manage without you?” she nearly wept, but John shot her a stern look.
“Let her make her way, woman. No need for her to stay here—let her rise in the world. Plenty of farmhands without her.”
Margaret agreed in her heart, but sending Emily alone to London terrified her. Emily left, studied at college, became a shop manager, married, and never returned.
Margaret and John lived most of their years together, working on the farm, content without quarrels. In old age, they’d take their granddaughter for summers. But she outgrew the visits, busy with her own life—though her grandparents missed her.
“We took her haymaking—she loved splashing in the river after.” Margaret almost smiled, remembering how the girl shrieked as John carried her into the water, teaching her to swim.
“Mum?” Emily’s voice broke her reverie.
“Just reminiscing. Sit with me, let’s say goodbye properly before the neighbours come. They’ll crowd in—everyone respected John. He never wronged anyone, only helped.”
Emily sat close, hugging her mother.
“It’s good you look so like your father. Time will blur his face in my memory, but you’re here… so like him,” Margaret murmured, swaying gently.
“Mum, how did you and Dad meet? We’ve never talked about it.”
“Well, love, it was strange. He latched onto me the moment he saw me at that county fair—stuck for life.”
“How’d that happen? What were you doing there?”
“I worked at the farm, always a top worker. They sent me to the fair for a meeting of the best—gave me a certificate and a little wristwatch. None of the village girls had one, and I was over the moon. They took us on a tour, women from all over the county, a few men too.
After, we went to the canteen, and that’s where I met your dad. He couldn’t take his eyes off me—made me uneasy. Tall, handsome, but his clothes were a mess. Unwashed, crumpled. I realised—no woman looking after him. And young men were scarce in the village—most left for the city or the army and never returned.”
Margaret sighed heavily, reliving the memory. As she left the canteen, a man’s voice spoke beside her:
“Take me with you. Name’s John. Yours?”
“Margaret,” she said sharply. “You don’t even know where I live—some backwater. You’d trade London for that?” She laughed.
“I’d go. I’m single, free. I’ll come, Meg,” he said—and he’d called her that ever since.
And he did go with her. John charmed her at once. Arriving in the village, he marched to her parents’ door and announced:
“Hello. I’m asking for your daughter’s hand. Forgive the haste, but I’ve no house, no land. I’ve taken a shine to Meg. I’ll be a good, caring husband.”
Her parents were stunned.
“Emily, we sent you to a fair, and you came back with a fiancé?” her father said.
“It just happened,” she murmured, eyes down. “But I’m willing.”
They agreed, set the wedding for Saturday. Her parents saw he was decent and began preparations. Village weddings back then? A table in the yard, neighbours of all ages feasting. Then came everyday life—Margaret and John’s shared years.
Margaret was happy. Walking the village with her husband, she’d hear whispers:
“Look at the husband Maggie’s got—tall and handsome. Men like that chase women, or women chase them.”
“Wait and see—once the newness wears off, he’ll stray. A looker like that won’t resist,” old Martha would say.
The gossip reached them, but they ignored it. John saw no one but his wife. But they had no luck with children at first—two lost before Emily arrived, strong and healthy.
“Meg, how I love our girl. How I love you. I don’t know what I’d have done if I hadn’t met you. Like lightning struck me toward you. No other woman exists for me.”
Margaret believed him. Yet there were moments of jealousy. Once, haymaking, she noticed Lucy—known village-wide for her way with men—hovering near John. Pretty, widowed when her husband drowned in the spring flood.
The women despised Lucy. She’d tempt local men, and wives would drag their husbands from her place—always stocked with moonshine. She’d had her hair pulled, been slapped, but nothing stopped her.
She’d eyed John at Margaret’s wedding.
“Fine man, that John. Where’d she find him? Well, I’ll bide my time—get my hooks in him,” Lucy had decided.
Margaret saw Lucy’s brazen flirting—shoulder nudges, whispers:
“John, meet me behind the barn tonight. I’ll show you fire…”
John worked silently, unmoved. He’d glance at Margaret and smile, seeing her discomfort. After haymaking, they all swam in the river, sticky with sweat and chaff.
John walked with Margaret, carrying both rakes. Lucy trailed, seething.
“What does he see in her? Pretty enough, but I’m lovelier, hotter.” She dreamed of their barn rendezvous. But he ignored her. In the river, she grabbed his arm, splashed, laughed.
“John, if I drown, will you save me?” she flirted.
“Why would I? I’ve my own to watch,” he said gruffly, smiling at Margaret—her secret smile only he understood.
Margaret’s heart fluttered:
“What if he gives in? Lucy’s skilled at stealing men.”
But John resisted, never glancing Lucy’s way. She tried again, waiting after work, offering drinks. He walked past, polite, just a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“John, I love you for ignoring Lucy’s bait,” Margaret once said.
“Meg, I promised you and your parents I’d be good. I love you—life’s nothing without you.”
“That was our love, love. You’re beautiful like him, and such a joker he was.”
In old age, John’s sight failed—one eye gone blind.
“Once, he went to the hospital in town about his eyes,” Margaret recalled. “Winter, blizzarding. I knew he wouldn’t return that day—roads blocked, no buses. I stayed up all night, worried. At dawn, I dozed off. A knock woke me. I opened the door—a snow-covered figure, barely audible: ‘Missus, what village is this?’ Eyes wild. It was John, walking home through the storm. How he found the road, I’ll never know.”
Mother and daughter sat embraced by John’s coffin, weeping quietly. Neighbours gathered outside, then filed in. So they bid farewell to their beloved husband and father.
After the funeral, Emily returned to London. Margaret stayed, alone. She’d imagine John walking the house, sipping tea in the kitchenShe closed her eyes, whispering to the empty chair, “I’ll be with you soon, my love.”
