Love Carried Through the Years
A new family arrived in the village just as the new school was completed. The old headmaster had retired, replaced by Rodney Whitcombe, his wife—the new maths teacher—and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Felicity.
Felicity was nothing like the village girls, so all the boys noticed her, while the local girls scowled. The newcomer was always neat, her thick plait tightly braided, her shoes spotless—even in autumn, she’d wade through the muddy lanes, wash her boots in a puddle, and step into school clean.
“Felicity’s got nowt better to do than splash in puddles,” the village girls cackled, though soon they began scrubbing their boots too.
Because they saw—the lads liked tidy Felicity.
In the village lived Michael, a brawny lad of sixteen, tall and broad-shouldered. He’d left school after year eight and worked the fields with the men, scything hay and stacking it so well even the farmers’ wives marvelled.
Michael was hopeless with girls—since fourteen, he’d flitted between them, and they didn’t mind; he was handsome. By sixteen, he’d taken sweethearts under the haystacks. Now seventeen, he carried on.
“Bloody hell, Mike, sowing oats left and right,” the villagers muttered, but he just grinned.
Then everything changed when he saw Felicity. She walked to the shop with her mother after arriving, all prim and proper.
“Who on earth’s that?” Michael blinked, nudging his freckled mate, Alfie.
“New lot. Her dad’s the headmaster, and that’s Felicity. Mum teaches maths.”
And just like that, Michael was lost. His wild streak vanished as if he’d never glanced at a girl before—like love had struck him for the first time. He even winced when he saw her, something ethereal about her that jolted his reckless heart.
He knew she was too young, so he watched from afar, but the village knew—Mike had fallen hard. Autumn faded into winter. The river froze, and the lads skated on it with old “Snowflakes” strapped to their boots. The village girls never skated.
Then a miracle happened. Felicity stepped onto the ice—proper figure skates, sleek and polished, just like her. The way she glided… the children gaped from the bank, watching her spin and twirl, one foot then the other.
“Blimey, Felicity’s got moves,” the older lads murmured, while the little ones stood slack-jawed.
Michael wasn’t there when she stepped on the ice, but he heard screams as he walked home from work.
“Help! Help!”
He sprinted toward the river, shoving through the crowd. Someone flailed in a thin patch of ice near the far bank—a hidden spring kept it weak.
“It’s Felicity!” the kids shrieked.
No time to think. Michael tore off his coat, crawling toward her, shards of ice cracking under his weight. Her terrified eyes met his.
“Should’ve grabbed a stick—” he thought wildly, then yanked off his belt and tossed one end to her.
She clutched it. He hauled her out, dragging her to safety before scooping her up, drenched and trembling, and carrying her home.
The village buzzed—Mike had saved Felicity. That evening, her mother knocked on his door, clutching a basket of treats.
“Michael, thank you,” she said shakily. “Felicity wants to see you. She’s feverish.”
He followed her. Felicity lay in bed, weak but smiling, pressing his hand.
“Thank you. If not for you—” A tear slipped, and he wiped it away.
After that, he visited each evening. They sat in her little room, her voice like music as she talked and he listened.
At sixteen, she let him kiss her. At eighteen, he was conscripted. They parted in tears.
“Time’ll fly,” he promised. “Wait for me?” She nodded.
But fate is cruel. Michael was sent to a war zone, wounded, and lost a leg. He lay in hospital, telling no one—especially not Felicity.
“I won’t go home like this,” he thought. “Not for her to see me broken.”
Once fitted with a prosthetic, he vanished, moving with a mate to a nearby town. He married—not for love, but Vera was kind. They had a daughter, Evelyn.
Years passed. He visited the village occasionally, seeing Felicity—now a stout farmer’s wife with three children. Still beautiful, but life had rounded her edges.
When they met, something still flickered between them. But duty held them back. After each visit, Michael drank for a week, frightening Vera before settling again.
Then, old age crept in. Vera passed. Loneliness crushed him.
“Dad, come live with us,” Evelyn urged.
He agreed, but his heart was heavy. Until one day, he returned to the village. Felicity’s husband was long gone. The place had grown wild, his childhood home in ruins.
She hobbled over, her cane tapping. “Stay with me,” she said softly.
Evelyn protested, but Michael stayed. They talked for days—old memories, lost years.
On the fifth morning, he didn’t wake.
Felicity closed his eyes, weeping. They buried him beside his parents, in the village where his love still lived.
