In the days of old, when the mills still hummed and the cobbled streets echoed with the clatter of hooves, I took as my wife a woman with three children, when none would lend them aid.
Andrew, are you quite serious? Marrying a shopgirl with three little ones? Have you lost your wits? Vitiusmy lodgemate at the boarding houseclapped me on the shoulder with a grin.
What of it? I muttered, not lifting my eyes from the pocket watch I was prying apart with a penknife.
Back in those yearsthe seventiesour little town carried on at its own quiet pace. And I, a bachelor of thirty, lived a life that circled between the factory, my narrow bed, and the occasional game of draughts with mates at the pub. After my schooling, that was all there was: work, idle pastimes, the wireless set, and rare visits with friends.
Sometimes, Id glance out the window and see children playing in the lane, and memories would risehow Id once dreamed of a family. But Id shake it off quick enough. What sort of family could a man keep in a boarding house?
All that changed one damp October evening. Id gone into the grocers for a loaf of bread, same as ever. But this time, behind the counter stood herRosemary. Id never noticed her before, but now my gaze caught and held. Tired eyes, yet warm, with a light deep within.
White or brown? she asked, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
White, I mumbled, as tongue-tied as a schoolboy.
Fresh from the bakers this morning, she said briskly, wrapping it and passing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something sparked. I fumbled for shillings in my pocket while stealing glances at her. Plain, in a drab frock, thirty if she was a day. Worn thin, but with a quiet strength about her.
Days later, I saw her at the tram stop. Rosemary struggled with her bags while three children fussed about her. The eldest, William, fourteen and solemn, hefted a heavy sack. The girl, Margaret, held the little ones hand.
Let me help, I offered, taking the bag.
No need, thank you she began, but I was already loading it onto the tram.
Mama, whos this? the little one piped up.
Hush now, Samuel, his sister scolded.
On the ride, I learned they lived near the factory, in a cramped flat. William, Margaret, little Samuel. Rosemarys husband had been lost at sea years before, and since then, shed borne the weight alone.
We manage well enough, she said with a weary smile.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Her eyes, Samuels voicethey lingered in my mind, and somewhere inside, a long-forgotten feeling stirred, as though something important lay ahead.
From then on, I found excuses to visit the shop. Milk, biscuits, anything. The lads at the factory took notice.
Andrew, whats this? Three trips to the grocers in a daysounds like love, teased Peter, the foreman.
Fresh goods keep better, Id retort, turning away.
Now we sit in our own little house, Rosemary and I, listening to the childrens laughter, knowing this family is the greatest gift life ever granted me.
