Everyone in the village knew and disliked Percival for his unbearable temper. He was married to Lucy, a quiet woman with her own struggles—she couldn’t give him children. Twelve years passed, and still no child came.
Then, out of the blue, Lucy died. Her mother had noticed her looking unwell but never heard her complain.
“Love, you’ve not been yourself lately,” her mum would say when Lucy visited.
“It’s nothing, really. Just a bit tired. I’ll rest and be fine. Don’t fuss, Mum,” Lucy would reassure her.
Lucy never complained, especially to Percival—he couldn’t stand it. “Don’t play the victim. Women always have some ache or pain. Lazy, that’s what you are. No one here’ll pity you,” he’d snap.
After the funeral, a year passed. Percival lived alone, but thoughts of remarrying nagged him. Loneliness gnawed, though he’d always been a solitary man. He eyed the women in the village.
“Needs to be someone without kids,” he muttered. “Don’t want another man’s leftovers. Women my age all come with baggage. Needs to be younger—but who’d take me?”
He knew his reputation. No friends, no charm. His choice fell on Emma—a quiet, mousy thing, hardworking and meek.
One day, he “accidentally” ran into her. “Emma, come here,” he called as she passed his cottage.
She glanced up and obliged. “Good morning, Mr. Whitlock.”
“Listen,” he cut in gruffly. “Fancy marrying me? I’ve a good home, decent income. We’ll have kids. Need an heir.”
Emma blushed. “Oh! I—I’d need to ask my mum.”
“Ask her. I’ll call round tonight.”
At home, Emma burst out, “Mum, I might be getting married!”
“What? To who? You’ve not even got a sweetheart!”
“Mr. Whitlock’s coming to propose.”
Her mother gasped. “Emma, he’s years older! Think hard—he’s foul-tempered. Folks whisper he drove his first wife to the grave with work. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?”
“But Mum, it’s not like I’ve suitors lining up. Maybe the tales aren’t true…”
Emma married him. The village buzzed. Some pitied her: “Poor lamb, why’d she tie herself to him?” Others reckoned, “Lucky chap—got himself a meek wife who’ll obey.”
And so it was. Percival snarled at neighbours, loathed his mother-in-law, and barely let Emma visit home.
“He’s a tyrant,” her mum fretted when Emma sneaked over. “Mum, it’s fine. I’ll manage. Let him grumble—I’ll pray for patience.”
“Lord help you, girl. You’ll spend your life on your knees.”
Yet Emma bore two sons in five years. Percival didn’t hate them—he just grumbled and swore. Emma taught the boys, “Steer clear of your dad. Stay out of his way.”
They learned fast, vanishing outdoors. Percival ranted, “Where are those layabouts? Lazy as their mother!” Emma tuned him out. The farm thrived by her hand. Meanwhile, Percival drank more, screaming at the sky.
Villagers winced. “How does she bear it?”
Time passed. The boys left for trade school, then factory jobs in Manchester. Rare visits home. “Mum, we’d come more if not for him,” the eldest said. “Once I’ve a place, you’ll live with us.”
“My lot’s here, love. I’ll stay.”
They lodged with Granny, popping home like guests. Percival’s rages worsened.
“Can’t you rest?” Emma once sighed. “You’ve what you wanted—no one bothering you.”
“Even you glare at me!”
“You’re tired, Percy. Lie down. Just stop yelling.”
One dawn, Emma returned from milking. Silence. Upstairs, Percival sprawled on the floor, wheezing. The ambulance came. “Stroke,” said the doctor.
The once-bellowing brute was now a mute husk. Nurses warned, “He’ll need full care.”
Emma settled him in bed. “There, Percy. Wanted to rest? Now you can. All day, every day.”
His blank face twitched.
Her mother visited, refusing to see him. “Careful what you wish for,” she murmured, crossing herself. “Oh, Em. I’d have left him years ago.”
“He’s my husband, Mum. I’ll manage.”
“God forbid we end up like him,” Emma muttered.
“Don’t tempt fate, love. His time’s in God’s hands.”
The house fell still. Emma tended him faithfully. Eighteen months later, Percival slipped away quietly.
In time, her youngest son returned with his family. They adored her—she’d not die alone. But age took its toll, and Emma moved in with her mum.
Rarely did anyone speak of Percival. Emma thanked God his temper hadn’t passed to her boys. Grandchildren brought her joy. At last, peace settled over her life.
