Every meeting has its time.
“Why does love fade? It was there, it truly was. I was so happy I noticed nothing else. I lived for him alone, blind to the moment he changed. A foolish woman, that’s what I was. Serves me right. I let my guard down—should never have done that.” Margaret gazed out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind. The icy streets were dusted with grit, and after days without snow, the courtyard had turned dark.
“All I cared for was washing, ironing, cooking his favourite meals. But what he wanted was passion, youth—a midlife crisis, I suppose. I noticed him trying to look younger, thought he was just fighting time… I wonder, does she cook well? Or do they dine out? Lord, what am I even thinking? It’s unbearable. Months have passed, and still, I can’t move on. I never will.”
She frowned. “What’s the date? The fourteenth, I think. Old New Year’s. And here I sit, an old woman. Enough—I’ll tidy myself up and go shopping.”
Empty coffee cup in hand, she walked to the bathroom. She turned on the tap, shed her dressing gown, and stepped into the tub. When she tried switching the water to the shower, the lever jammed. She pressed harder—it snapped, clattering into the tub as water gushed from both faucet and showerhead. She twisted the taps frantically, but with no luck.
She scrambled out, soaked, and shut off the pipes. The flow slowed to a trickle but didn’t stop. Too damp for the gown, she pulled on joggers and a T-shirt. “There’s my wash. Just my luck. New year, same old troubles. How many times did I tell him the shower lever stuck? But he never had time…” Grumbling, she mopped the floor.
Next, she dialled the council’s emergency line. Endless ringing grated her nerves. What if no one answered? Should she call *him*? No—she wouldn’t grovel. Finally, a weary voice answered:
“Council repairs.”
Margaret pictured a stout, beleaguered woman drowning in complaints.
“My tap’s burst!” she blurted.
“Water off?”
“Yes!”
“Plumber’s in Monday.”
“*Monday?* You expect me to go two days without water? The pipes run through the whole flat!”
A tired sigh crackled down the line. “He’s on another job. I’ll call him—he’ll come when he’s free.”
“How long?” Margaret barked, afraid the woman would hang up. “It’s still leaking! What if a pipe bursts?”
“Madam, you’ll have to wait.”
She opened her mouth to protest—then heard the dial tone. “Fine. I’ll wait. God, what did I do to deserve this?” She cursed her ex-husband, who’d left her alone with faulty plumbing. But what good did it do?
A soap opera flickered on the telly. Soon, she was absorbed—until the doorbell startled her. She checked the clock: just an hour and twenty minutes. Quick work.
She opened the door to a distinguished man, grey-haired, well-dressed, nearing sixty.
“Plumber called?”
“You’re the plumber?” She eyed him dubiously.
“Do I not look it?” His smile creased the corners of his eyes.
“Not really. They’re usually…” She waved vaguely.
“Fair point. I’m not him. But I can fix a tap.”
“Then who—?”
“His neighbour. He’s… overcelebrated Old New Year. His wife begged me to cover—he’ll be sacked otherwise. She’s disabled, two kids.” He paused, waiting for an invitation. “Well? Monday, or shall I take a look?”
“Right, come in.” She stepped aside.
He set down a scuffed toolbag, examined the tap in the bathroom. “You shut the water off? Good. Needs a new diverter. But the whole fixture’s rusted—won’t last. Best replace it.”
“You’d know better,” she said tonelessly.
“Don’t fret, I’ll manage. I’ll fetch a new one from the shop.”
“Expensive?” She mentally counted her purse.
“Receipt’s yours. No fuss.” He waited.
“Fine,” she said flatly.
“Leave the tools?” He headed out.
*Maybe I should’ve waited till Monday*, she thought glumly. *But no water for two days? Unthinkable.* She boiled the kettle, had a cuppa—then the bell rang again. The “plumber” stood breathless on the threshold.
“Quick, wasn’t I?” He marched straight to the bathroom.
She retreated to the kitchen window. *Ought to offer him tea. He hurried, probably ran here.*
“All done, madam,” he called.
She turned. His face wore a satisfied grin.
In the bathroom, she scrutinised the work. Expecting a mess, she found none—just a gleaming new tap, nearly identical to the old. The water surged strong, the lever smooth.
“Works perfectly!” She beamed. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Emergency call. Here’s the receipt.”
She fetched her purse, counted out the sum, added twenty quid.
“I can’t accept this. You wasted time, shopped for me.” She handed it over.
He counted. “This is for your neighbour—the one with the sick wife and kids.”
“Ah. Thank you. I’ll pass it on.” He pocketed the money.
“Fancy a cuppa? If you’re free,” she offered.
“No more calls. Love one.” He smiled. “Just let me wash up.”
She put the kettle on. The kitchen filled with its cheerful hum. She set out tea, sugar, a plate of scones.
“Blimey! Ages since I’ve had homemade.” He bit into one.
“Good?”
“Brilliant!” He slurped his tea noisily.
She watched this stranger at her table. For twenty-two years, her husband had sat there, eaten her roasts and cakes—then left for a younger woman. *Traitor*, she reminded herself.
He noticed her shift in mood.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” She forced a smile. “Silly, isn’t it? Sounds absurd—” Her voice trembled. “What do you do?”
“Retired army. Pensioner. Just moved back—my parents’ old flat.”
“Family?” Why did she ask? None of her business.
“Was. Wife. Son. She tired of army life, left twenty years back, took the boy. Done the place up. Now… wondering what’s next.” He spoke plainly. “You?”
“Me?”
“You’re alone too. If you had a husband, he’d have handled the tap. He left? For someone younger?”
“Finished your tea?” she snapped. *Who does he think he is?* “Thank you, and—” She knew she was rude, but the mention of *him* was a red rag. *Though bulls charge movement, not colour*, she recalled.
“Sorry. Overstayed.” He stood abruptly, winced, clutched his back, and slumped back down.
“What?”
“Back… old injury… bent too much…” He gritted his teeth.
“Ambulance?”
“No. Painkillers?”
“Paracetamol?” She fetched the box, handed him tablets and water.
“Ta. Mind if I sit till they kick in?” He exhaled sharply.
“Course. Can you make the sofa?” She helped him there.
“You served?”
“Aye. Had to.”
She learned his name—Robert Hayes—honourably discharged, adrift in civilian life.
“Thanks, Margaret. Easing up. Call if you need me.” He fished out a modest business card. “Made these for job hunting.” He rose carefully. “Best leave the tools. The neighbour’ll fetch them tomorrow.”
“Take care—it’s slippy out. Shall I walk you?”
“No, I’ll manage.”
Next day, the real plumber came—unshaven, puffy-faced.
“Here for the tools. All working?”
“Yes. Your neighbour fixed it. How is he?”
“Good bloke. Laid up, though. Saw action overseas—back injury. My wife gives him injections. She’s used to it—she’s poorly. Right, I’m off.”
Margaret peered through the kitchen window. Snow fell, painting everything fresh and festive. For how long? She pulled scones from the oven to cool.
A key turned. Her daughter.
“Just baked these. Want one now, or to take?”
“Mum, I’m in a rush—here for the camera. Off to a wedding. No time for scones. Rain check?” Her daughter darted to her room, still coated.
“You alright?” She emerged, camera in hand.
“Fine. What’s this?” Margaret pointed to pliers on the sideboard.
“Plumber mustShe smiled as she watched the snow fall, knowing that sometimes, the best moments come when you least expect them.
