The earth was flat as a chessboard. William had shaped flowerbeds for Jane, straight and precise, petunias in rows where hairbrushes bloomed and daffodils glowed like golden coins on a spring morning in Kent. He built her a gazebo from old oak that smelled of rain and tea. Inside the house you could feel the sturdy craft of a mans handsdoors that closed properly, taps that never dripped. Jane was right to have chosen William, no question; it all made sense when you moved through the hallways and felt the warmth of a thousand cups of tea and the echo of laughter in every room.
William worked hard, bringing home pounds and surprise presents for Jane. Hed once said, “You never loved memarried me out of reason, not passion. If I fall ill, youll leave”
“I will not!” Jane had put her arms around him and combed his hair with her fingers. “Youre the finest man. I would never leave you.”
But William didnt quite believe it. He was heavy with weather, thinking, and the air in the sitting room felt like the inside of a grey wool sock.
Jane had been a wife for twenty-five years, and all that time, men glanced at herschoolboys outside the bakery, postmen by the hedges. Even as a girl, Jane had been sought-after, though never beautiful in the way of storybook heroinesher charm was more like a breeze through bluebells.
She didn’t leave her first husband. No, Jane cared for Harold until his time ended. Together, they raised their daughter Daisy and watched her wed a young chap called Michael, who whisked her away to the sun-drenched coast of Italy. Now Daisy’s postcards arrived, full of tomato reds and lemon yellows, inviting Jane for pints of gelato, but Jane never found the time or inclination. Harold was already gone by then.
Harold died in a road accident. A most ridiculous affairthe constable said it was likely his heart that gave way, or perhaps the colour of the sky was odd that morning and he lost control. Jane remembered asking, “Did he lose consciousness?”
“We can’t know these things,” sighed her friend Helen, who was a doctor. “Too much damage. Cause: multiple injuries, incompatible with life.” Helens lips, pale as chalk cliffs, sealed the story tight.
In shock, Jane wandered her house, Helen helping with the paperwork, arranging flowers, muttering about sandwiches and schedules. They buried Harold. Jane, left alone in the half-finished house theyd built from bricks, memory, and weather, looked at the stretch of rooms and felt the size: expansive when empty, snug when filled with guests. Now a burden, too big for one.
Daisy returned for her fathers farewell, starting talk of selling the house, moving Jane to a flat, perhaps even joining them in Italy.
“Absolutely not!” Janes word fell like teacups on slate. “I didnt build this house to flog it like old toast-racks, and I want nothing to do with your Italy. I’ve seen it.”
“Mum!”
“Oh, Daisy, you’re hopeless!” sniffled Jane, half-laugh, half-stifled tear. “Just my silly way.”
“So youre joking, then? Perhaps its not so grim after all.”
Nothing was ever simple, Jane reflected. Harold was hard to pin down: devoted and moody, a man who could unspool her nerves one day and be contrite the next. Jane, easy-going, never dwelled on sharp words, letting things settle like autumn leaves. So they muddled throughtwenty-five aprils and twenty-five Decembers.
Soon Daisy was gone, back to her Italian routine of espresso and linen. Jane was left alone, but really, she knew herselfsolitude was only for a season.
Six monthsa blink, a shiver in the drapes. Then Jane blew her nose, looked up, and found a semi-circle of suitors orbiting her rose beds.
Even Janes mother had marveled. “Whats in you, Janey? They tumble in heaps at your feet! Youre not even a raving beauty, are you? Or do I miss something?”
“Its not looks, Mum. Charisma. Spice. A shiny apple you want to bite.” Jane pursed her lips with lipstick and winked.
“Off with you,” her mother would cackle, “before they all run off bored to death.”
“Others always come along,” Jane shrugged.
Thirty years since that talk and nothing much had changed. Friends would moan about the lack of eligible men after forty, all dried up like roast puddings, but Jane couldnt grasp the problem. At forty-six, she had two suitorseach as different as Sunday and Tuesday.
Her heart leaned towards Richardwitty, clever with words, charming enough for book clubs and parish events. He could talk for England, and Jane found herself listening, falling in love with the cadence of his sentences, but she knew better: this man was for talk, not for the heft of a big house and dripping taps.
The second, William, was sturdy, quietly strong, a man who could polish off a gallon of ale at a fête and still put up shelves at dawn. Not much for poetry, but his hands built things that would outlive them both. Less thrilling, perhaps, but reliable as sheep on a hill.
Lucky Williamhandsome in an ordinary way, silent unless lubricated by drink, and even then, ready to share a joke or hold a secret glance. He had his demon for drink, but by noon he was back at it, cold shower and ready hands.
Jane chose William. Richard sulked, packed away his clever speeches, and slipped away.
Jane married Williamhe was all smiles and broad blushes, tipsy at the wedding, dancing like a bear in the village hall. Helen watched, glass of punch in hand, shaking her head with awe. “Barely a year since Harold, and youre tied the knot again. Some women can’t find a man for love nor money, but you could have your pick falling out of a tree.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Dont startYoure not even a beauty!” she mimicked.
“No, I wont say it,” Helen grinned, “but its trueyouve always been in demand, somehow.”
Jane just winked. Later, her husband invited her for a dance, spinning her doubts away. She thought, so what if William was simple? He was sturdy, kind, and sometimes silence was a greater gift than words. With Richard, all youd have is talkbeautiful, but not much for roast dinner.
A few months, and William had turned Jane’s land into a fragrant wonderlandcarving away dead elms, planting lavender, building beds of rosemary and thyme. He crafted a new garden table, the sort of thing you never buy, only inherit.
Jane savoured lamb skewers beneath the gazebo, squinting against the twilight like a cat in warm milk. William smiled at her, quietly.
“What are you thinking, William?”
“Im just happy.”
Williams first wife had been a dreadful bore. Hed never imagined hed feel so lucky again.
They lived in a bubble of quiet joy four years. Then, Williams shadow darkened. Tired easily, lost weight. And when he drank, he grew ill, grey as rainclouds.
“You need to see a doctor!” Jane pressed. “What are you waiting for? Its obvious somethings wrong.”
“Oh, nonsense, Jane. Itll pass!”
“Thats not how things work now. Or are you like all men, scared of doctors?”
“No.”
William was afraid of only one thing: that if he was really ill, Jane would leave. She hadnt loved him in the way books describe. He knewbut he loved her.
Hed fallen for Jane in a bric-a-brac shop, watching her fumble for her purse. Something about her distracted clumsiness had broken his heart open. All he wanted was to gather her up, shield her from the wind.
His mother, Lady Catherine, had been bemused: “Shes not a beauty and not young, William. You could have anyone. Why her?”
William wanted only Jane. But now, with his shadow growing, would Jane want him?
She never managed to talk him into a doctors visit. Then, one Saturday evening with Helen and her husband Brian over for beer and barbecue, William collapsed in the garden, rib of lamb untouched.
Helen, slicing cucumbers, exchanged a long look with Jane. “Hes not himself. Id insist if I were you. He looks peakyhis skins the colour of old paper.”
“Please, Helen, youre the doctorcant you persuade him?”
Helen blinked at Jane. “Jane do you love him? I remember how unsure you were”
Jane bit her lip and kept silent.
Before anyone could say more, William fainted. An ambulance whisked him away; Jane sat by his side, clutching his hand, praying beneath the harsh lights. They operated immediately.
“Liver mass,” the consultant announced.
“Cancer?” gasped Jane.
“Theyre running tests.”
The tumour wasnt cancerous, but it was the size of a Bramley apple. The doctors forbade almost everything and warned recovery would be slowif it came at all. William grew sunken and sorrowful. His mother brought him soggy steamed fish and mashed carrots, shaking her head.
“You survived, son! Its not cancer. You should be pleased. Eat up!” Lady Catherine insisted.
“I cant.”
“You must! Is Jane visiting?”
“She still comes for now.”
“You think shell leave you? Dont be daft.”
“Im finished! Im fifty, cant work, cant do. Whod want a cripple?”
Jane arrivedhands washed, apron tidied, sitting beside his bed. “Whats all this, you great bear? Your arms work, your legs do, and your liver can mend. Did you know it grows back, like ivy?”
“Does it?”
“It does, with half left. Youre over the cut-off. Give it time.”
“Do I have time?”
“What?”
“Time, Jane. Do I have any?”
She frowned. “Did they not tell me something? Did you ask them to hide something from me?”
“Not that, love”
He was discharged, sinking into his lowest ebb. Every bit of work wore him outa cup of tea, and he was spent.
His birthday loomedno roast beef, no whisky. Miserable.
Jane, cheerfully, ate boiled vegetables with him. “Come on, Williambe brave!”
“Im trying! Swing a hammer twice and Im done.”
Jane embraced him from behind, resting her cheek on his battered hair.
“I love you, William. And Im not going anywhere. Heal in your own time.”
“You do? Honestly?”
“Honestly, and then some.”
She never left. Slowly, William grew stronger.
Jane threw him a birthday partyno alcohol, just lemonade, board games in the gazebo. Friends clapped him on the back.
“Youre a lucky man, William,” they said.
“Youll all go down to the Fox and Owl now, raise a glass for me, eh?”
They laughed and slipped off.
That evening, Jane and William sat on the porch, gazing at a dream-white sky of stars, both content. For the first time in months, William felt lighter.
He believed again he might recover. That Jane truly wasnt going to leave. He drew her close.
“What is it?” Jane asked.
“Everythings fine!” William said, grinning.
“At last,” Jane murmured, kissing his cheek.
They were, for a while, utterly happy.
