By the Well…
Margaret Thorne heaved the wooden yoke onto her shoulders and trudged along the narrow village path, the steady clang of the iron buckets cutting through the crisp morning air. The water from the well—clear, icy, pure—was something sacred to her. Though well past seventy, she made this walk to the far end of the lane every day without fail. Stubborn and strong, she paid no mind when her daughter-in-law scolded her.
“Mum, honestly! There’s water right in the yard—even indoors! People talk. Isn’t it too much for you?” grumbled Lucy, rolling her eyes.
But Margaret acted as though she hadn’t heard. The tap water, she insisted, reeked of pipes—she wouldn’t even boil tea with it. The well water, though? That was different. Living water. Sweet as a memory’s tear.
She paused, set the buckets down, straightened her back, and closed her eyes for a moment. A breeze rustled the leaves of a young lime tree—someone had planted it by the well not long ago. Years back, a sprawling walnut tree had stood there, under which young Margaret had once met Frederick.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart had raced as she hurried to the well! And there he stood—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the well’s stone rim, waiting. All the village girls envied her. Especially Evelyn, her closest friend.
“Don’t you dare try anything, Evelyn,” Margaret had warned, “I’d give my soul for him!”
But Evelyn had only smirked, her gaze sly.
“He’ll be mine, they say. A fortune-teller told me so—oh, just joking!” she’d teased.
Margaret had waved it off, but unease settled in her chest. Then, as if fate mocked her, she fell ill—feverish, limbs weak as rags. She’d begged Evelyn, “Go to the well. Tell Freddie not to wait. Tell him I’m ill—tomorrow, I’ll come.”
Evelyn had smiled… oddly. Then vanished, her heels clicking behind her. What she’d told Frederick, Margaret never knew. But when she returned the next day, she found them together.
Standing side by side, they turned as she arrived. Her breath turned to ice. She spun and ran, choking on tears, heart clawing its way out.
A week later, Thomas, a quiet neighbour who’d always looked at her as though she were a miracle, asked for her hand.
“Send the matchmakers, Tom,” she’d said stiffly, jaw clenched against the ache. “Before I change my mind.”
Evelyn came later, weeping. “Nothing happened, I swear! Margaret, please—”
“You got what you wanted. You won’t be happy. Neither will I. Now go. And never come back.”
The wedding felt like burying a dream. Her parents fretted, but Thomas… Thomas spent his life making sure she never regretted it. He cooked, he cleaned, he woke with the children at night. The whole village knew—steady hands, a gentle heart. Yet… Margaret never loved him. She lived beside him with respect, but no fire.
Evelyn married Frederick. He didn’t stay. Left right after, claiming he’d build a house—refused to live with parents or in his wife’s home. Truth was, he fled. From her. First to Bristol, then to Newcastle—always farther away.
News came from Bristol: crushed by a falling log at the timber yard. The village buried him together. Margaret didn’t go. Wouldn’t parade her grief. But that evening, alone, she stood by his fresh grave. Praying, though she didn’t know for what. Weeping silently, as though she’d held her breath for years.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Evelyn, in black. Their eyes met. No words. They parted without a sound.
Years passed. Evelyn died. Now Margaret visited the graveyard often—Thomas was there, her parents… and that grave. Two, side by side.
She tended them. Wiped the headstones. Pulled weeds. Then one evening—she saw Evelyn again. A ghost in the twilight.
“You still come to him, don’t you?” Evelyn murmured. “Even now?”
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Maybe that’s some comfort…”
And then Margaret realised—she hadn’t loved Frederick. She’d loved the dream they’d shared. Loved the echo of what might’ve been. And all the while, a real man had stood beside her—faithful, tender, true. Thomas. Husband, friend, her rock. Yet she’d hidden in memories like an old chest, sniffing for traces of the past.
She bore Evelyn no grudge now. None of it mattered. Not anymore.
…Margaret lifted the buckets. Inhaled the scent of marigolds. Already fading. She’d cut some—for the grave. Evelyn had loved their bittersweet spice, like a promise just out of reach.
From the path, she called out, “Tom! Tommy, I’ve something to tell you!”
“What is it?” he asked, alarmed.
She smiled, pressed her face into his chest, and whispered, “I love you, Tommy.”
Then blushed like a girl. He only held her tighter, wordless. His eyes held everything—surprise, tenderness… and the love he’d carried through all their years.
Margaret didn’t pass those two graves unseeingly anymore. She stopped. Wiped the granite. Murmured prayers. As if hoping that somewhere beyond, there was peace at last. True peace. Endless.
