The Secret
In a small English hamlet, barely more than a smattering of cottages stitched together by winding lanes and mossed hedgerows, lived a girl named Prudence. Her mother, given to odd beliefs and the occasional reading of tea leaves, once took Prudence with her to visit the village fortune-teller, an elderly woman known for her thick shawls and mysterious manners.
The old lady shuffled her battered deck and declared,
Prudence will find happiness. Life will favour her. Onlyno man stands at her side.
Prudence was perhaps ten then, the words slipping silently into her memory to rest among daydreams and shadows, misunderstood but impossible to forget.
Years wafted by. Prudence grew tall and striking, with a beauty that made the local lads daft. But though she took teas and walks with this one or that, she never settled her heart. After school, she stayed put and didnt chase after higher education, though her marks couldve managed. Instead, she took work at the nearby creamery, where rumours sprouted like mushroomsthere was said to be an affair with a manager, but nobody ever caught them together.
In the bottling room, the older women whispered advice to the new hand:
Dont get stuck here like Prudence, love, or youll blink and lifes passed you by. Youd do better off in townLondon would snatch you up before you could say pound note.
Prudence would listen and smile without reply.
Suddenly, whispers swirled: PrudencePregnant!
Speculation ran wild on who might have blessed the villages most renowned beauty. They guessed, they pondered, but no name ever surfaced.
Prudences mother left no doubt:
Well done, Prudence! Youve shamed us. Youre on your own now. Dont expect me to help. Sorted yourself out? Then sort the child as well. And youd best find somewhere else to live. Youve a month.
Very well, Mum, replied Prudence calmly, Ill leave. Dont try calling me back.
Within two weeks, Prudence purchased a modest little cottage, complete with its old armchairs and pots. Luck, it seemed, smiled upon her: the last owners children took her to the city and let the place go for a song. Where did Prudence get the cash, heavily pregnant as she was? The mystery nestled in a corner, unsolved.
From then, strange things unfolded. The cottage, in no time, was restored to near perfectionscrubbed brick, new fence, a fresh well dug out back. Unfamiliar vans appeared, strangers industriously fixing, painting, tiling.
Neighbours watched as deliveries brought boxes of shiny appliances and new furniture. Prudence flitted about, radiant, always with a gentle word for passersby. She looked anything but forlorn.
Autumn crowned her with a sonJamie. A gleaming blue pram appeared outside the neat little house. Prudence thrived after the birth, her loveliness blooming afresh. Trimly dressed, poised, she strolled the village lanes, always appearing at ease.
Home life was busy: a baby, a garden plot, the ancient range oven needing constant coaxing, errands for milk and bread, a mountain of washing. Trained from a young age to never shirk work, Prudence bore it all with quiet resolve, never a complaint to anyone.
Impressed by her cheerful grit, the women next door drifted into friendship, sometimes minding Jamie when Prudence needed to dash off, sometimes sending a husband to dig or weed, sometimes lending their own handsthough mostly Prudence needed none.
Jamie was nigh on two when one neighbour burst into another’s tidy kitchen, eyes wide:
Did you see?
What?
Our Prudence is expecting again!
Nonsense, youre seeing things.
Not a chance. See for yourself.
And so talk in the hamlet flared anew. Tongues wagged, yet once again, no one could say who might be the father.
Prudence ignored the gossip, letting it swirl like wind through the hawthorns. She went on. Now the yard boasted a neat little bathhouse, a gas line newly diverted just for her. In the garden, glowed a modern greenhousepolycarbonate, no less, quite the expense.
Where does a solitary woman get that sort of money? locals wondered aloud. No doubt, some bigwig admirer is bankrolling her. Yet Prudence kept her secret, if there ever was one.
That winter, the blue pram rolled back out, this time for Jamies brother, Oliver. Two years on, another brother, Samuel, joined them. Three sons born unto Prudencenobody knew of whom.
Some scoffed at her, muttering about the lack of sense, othersseeing how healthy the children, how hard Prudence worked, how clear her eyesstood quietly in awe.
Mothers pointed at her, using Prudence as warning to their own daughters. Her own mother, unable to grasp her, kept her distance, never so much as glimpsing her grandsons.
Yet Prudence walked always with head held high, unmoved by wagging tongues.
Time waltzed forward. One day, a grand car rumbled to Prudences garden gate, glinting in the pale sun. From it stepped the creamery director, Mr. Thomas Blackburn, bouquet of English roses bulging from his arms. He entered the home, and soon half the village ringed the place, curiosity sharp.
Whats going on? Whys Thomas Blackburn here, and in broad daylight?
Everyone remembered that a year past, Mr. Blackburn lost his invalid wife, whom hed nursed tenderlynever shirking her side, dignified to her last.
When Prudence emerged to see him off, a hush descended; the crowd thick as orchard mist. Thomas drew her close with a flourish and kissed her for all to see.
Then, with a voice ringing clear, he announced:
Prudence has agreed to marry me. We, and our sons, invite you all to the wedding!
A stunned silence, save for the wind. Then, as faces searched the boys features, villagers pieced together what had always been in front of them
Congratulations showered down. After a splendid feast of a wedding, Thomas gathered Prudence and the children to his expansive house; neighbours helped cart her things across fields and lanes.
A year later, a long-awaited daughterMatildawas born into their home.
And after all that, who could ever again put trust in fortune-tellers?
