The first time I walked down the aisle was at fiftyfive.
Five years have now gone by since we said I do. Im sixty, hes sixtyfive. It isnt shocking that I tied the knot at fiftyfive these days anything can happen. The funny part is that its both of our first marriages.
I never intended to be a bride, mind you. When I was a teenager, not yet even twenty, my sweetheart Steve dumped me while I was five months pregnant. At first I swore Id never get married again; I even thought life wasnt worth living. Then I pulled myself together and vowed Id stay single forever I didnt want another scoundrel to dash off at the first chance.
And I kept that promise. My daughter grew up, got married, had grandchildren, while I trudged along like a stubborn mule, dragging my solitary existence behind me. Men? Not a single one knocked on my door. My stubborn streak meant that when I set my mind to something, I saw it through, even if it turned me into a rougharoundtheedges old lady with little of the usual feminine allure.
But fate is a mischievous little thing, and Im about to tell you how a single fellow managed to rope me into marriage after all.
When I retired, I did what most retirees do: I turned my attention to a garden. I inherited a modest cottage with a plot of land in the countryside from my parents. Id take the commuter train from London to the nearest station, a journey of a little over an hour, and Id bring a crossword magazine to make the time fly.
One morning, at a tiny halt, a couple a man and a woman with a tiny, spry old fellow perched on the bench hopped on beside me. We all sat in a polite silence, until I heard a soft voice from the woman next to me.
Steve, love, lets pop over to the kids and give them a hand, alright? she whispered. Youre the dad, after all.
Before she could finish, the rumble of the approaching train swallowed her husbands booming reply.
Whats the use, love? Do you expect me to crawl on my knees for those idiots? he bellowed.
What followed was an astonishing tirade aimed at his wife and children. I couldnt help but glance at my new neighbours. My eyes landed on a scowling, shouting old man, and I went stiff as a board. It was Steve the same Steve who had left me pregnant all those years ago! Hed barely changed; the lines on his face had deepened with age and bitterness, and he was still a mountain of a man.
Steve didnt recognise me, but when our gazes met he shouted, What are you staring at, you muppet! Keep your eyes shut or Ill poke you in the eye!
I was frozen, my limbs refusing to move part surprise, part terror. Then something remarkable happened. The tiny elderly gentleman opposite me rose up, planted himself squarely between me and Steve, and said in a firm, confident tone:
If you dont stop hurling abuse at women, youll have me to answer to. I have no patience for men who treat women like rubbish. Ill give you a good old knuckle sandwich!
My heart dropped to my boots. What on earth was a knuckle sandwich? Steves face twisted, and he muttered something unintelligible. It dawned on me that this blustering fellow could only show his strength in front of women; when faced with a genuine, brave man, he folded like a cheap suit.
It was baffling. Had I spent my whole life misreading such blokes? Tears welled up, and the whole scene sped past like a reel of a film compressing thirty years into a minute.
Steve and his wife alighted at the next stop, and I broke down. A hollow, bitter feeling settled in my chest.
Even your tears wont ruin that lovely face of yours, the brave old man said, smiling at me. He was no longer just a little man with a twitchy nail. Before me sat a sturdy, courageous gentleman. His name was Frederick Bennett, a retired army officer.
Thats how I met my lateinlife husband. And for the first time in many, many years, I felt the urge to be a wife, to be loved as a woman.
And thats exactly what happened.
Frederick and I are very happy together. Life does have a way of setting things right, no matter what age youre at. Even the autumn of ones years can be filled with love and happiness.
