Love
It was one evening, years ago now, when I was tidying up in the village surgery. I heard the door groan open, heavily, as if someone had leaned their shoulder into it. I turned aroundmercy me! Was that really Michael, the proud and respected fellow from Riverside, jack-of-all-trades? Normally, his beard was thick and silver, scented of sawdust and his pipe, but this mans cheeks were clean and pale, plaster bands on his neck from shaving cuts. The sharp smell of Brut cologne struck me so strongly I winced. Could Michael have shaved off his beard entirely?
Michael Johnson, I said, setting down the doormat, is that you, or have you sent your younger brother?
He hesitated, fiddling with his cap, avoiding my eyes. Its me, Mrs Simmons Could youwellgive me something. For my heart. And my nerves.
I adopted my nurses professional stance and insisted he sit on the couch. I brought out the blood pressure monitor.
Whats happened? Wheres the pain?
Everywhere, he muttered. My chest rattles inside, like someones hammering tin. Can’t sleep. And my hands shake.
His blood pressure read 160 over 100, high for Michaelthe man who never saw a doctor and could bend nails with his fingers.
Right, lets not beat about the bush, I said, sternly. Overdone it, or argued with Mary?
He winced at his wifes name, red splotches rising on his face, jaw tense. Mary Johnson was gentle and reserved, the sort who never spoke crossly, always Mikey this and Mikey that. But Michaels temperament was gnarled as an old elm stump: not easily approached.
Just give me drops and dont ask. Your job is doctoring.
I gave him a dose of Corvalol, and slipped a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. He sat a moment, caught his breath, grunted thanks, and left. Peering after him, I noticed his step was brisk, almost youthful.
Oh dear, I thought. Has the old devil fallen in love in his twilight years?
A village is like a beehivea sneeze at one end, and gossip flies at the other about someones demise.
The following evening, Linda the postwoman rushed in: Mrs Simmons, have you heard the news about Michael? Gone off his head! Shaved off his beard; today rode the bus to town, came back with bundles and hid them under his jacket. Nora from the city drapers calledsaid he bought fabric himself, then popped into the jeweller’s!
My heart skipped. He must be courting someone. But whom? Everyone in our village is accounted for.
And what about Mary? I asked quietly.
Linda pulled a face, full of pity. Oh, poor Mary Shes been gloomy as a rain cloud, eyes red. Neighbours say he made her sleep in the summer kitchensaid, Dont bother me, Ive got a project. What kind of project does a carpenter have at night? Everyone thinks they know
A few days later, Mary Johnson came to me. She was tiny and delicate, wrapped in an old knitted shawl. Mrs Simmons, may I?
I settled her by the fire, poured hot tea with raspberries. She cradled the cup, staring at one spot.
Hes leaving me, Mrs Simmons. Forty years we lived, heart to heart, raised children, saw grandchildren And now its over.
Why do you think so, Mary? I tried to reassure her, though my own heart ached.
Hes changed. Shaves every day. That cologne She grimaced. Yesterday, in his jacket pocket, found a receipt from Golden Thread. Lies to me, wont look me in the eye, silent, elderly tears stained her face, deepening her wrinkles. He opened the chest with my dowry and old dresses in the attic. I went up; he snapped, Why are you snooping? and slammed the door. Im old now, uglybut hes no Prince Charming either
I stroked her thin shoulder and thought, Oh menwhat fools you are.
Hold on, Mary, I said. Maybe its not what it seems.
How so? she bitterly chuckled. He sings in the shed now, hammering and singing Oh, the Rowan Blooms. Hes never sung before. Hes in love, Mrs Simmonsdefinitely in love.
She left, and I spent the night tossing and turning. I couldnt believe that Michaelsteady as an oakwould destroy his family. Gruff? Yes. Silent? Yes. But not cruel.
A week passed. Tension in the village rose like yeast. Rumours grew wildmaybe the young librarian from town, or some city lady whod bought a cottage nearby.
Michael wandered, eyes aglow, thinner, but somehow buoyant. He noticed no one.
On Saturday evening, neighbours boy burst in: Aunt Sally! Grandpa Michael has fallen in the yard! Grandma Mary needs you!
I grabbed my medical bag with a red cross and hurried. My galoshes slipped, thoughts racing: Please, not a heart attack, Lord, dont let it be a heart attack.
I burst into the yardMichael lay on the grass, face pale, lips blue. Mary knelt beside him, crying, clutching his head to her chest. The whole yard was littered with boards, carved rails, paint cans. Amid the chaos, a half-built, lacy, airy gazebo stood.
I rushed to Michael, felt his pulseit was racing. Blood pressure, again, high.
What happened? I asked.
Lifted heavy board, he whispered. Vision blurred Back twinged and then, he gestured to his chest.
Too much strain. I gave a couple injections, eased his pain, lowered his pressure. He lay quietly, breath steadied.
Mary, fetch the neighbour, I ordered. Lets get him inside. No good lying in the damp grass.
We laid Michael on the bed.
Michael, Mary asked softly, why do you need that gazebo? Its autumn, winters coming.
Michael looked at her, took a deep breath, rummaged beneath his pillow and withdrew a velvet box and an old, battered notebook with yellowed pages.
I pictured this differently, Mary, he said, voice trembling like a boys. Do you remember tomorrows date?
Mary paused, furrowed her brow. Twentieth of October Sunday
And forty years ago?
She gasped, covering her mouth. Goodness, Michael, I almost forgot. With all these worriesall these silly thoughts. Our ruby anniversary!
Michael handed her the notebook. Its your old diary, MaryI found it in the attic.
You read it? she blushes.
I did, he nodded. Forgive me, old fool. I read itand my soul wept.
I stood motionless, hardly breathing. Silence hung in the room, only the clock ticking: tick-tock, tick-tock.
You dreamed wed have a home, a garden, and always a white gazebo by the stream where wed drink tea, play records. Youd wear a blue lace dress But I was always workingon building sites, in the sawmill. Built the house, but the gazebo was always later and later. No money, no time, no strength. You said nothingalways patient, suffered my bear-like ways.
He turned his head to her: So nearly a lifetimes gone by; I never gave you a fairy tale, never bought you that blue dress. So I decided to manage in time for our date. Went to town for fabric and a ring. Olive the seamstress made the dress from your old measurements. The gazebo well, misjudged my strength, daft old stump I am. Wanted a surprise ended up making gossip and exhausting you instead.
Mary gently moved to the bedside, knelt, pressing her face to his rough, callused carpenters hand.
You silly man, Michael, she whispered through tearsbut her voice brimmed with joy enough to scoop by the spoonful. How silly you are I thought youd found someone else, someone young, left me out of love. But you it was the gazebo
Whats this, Mary? Michael started. Someone else? Look, open the wardrobetheres your dress in a bag. Try it. Will it fit?
Itll fit, she nodded, head still bowed. Even if its tightIll wear it anyway.
I sniffled, feeling tears begin to prick my eyes. Quietly, I packed my blood pressure gauge.
Right, I said, deliberately gruff. Patient, youre on strict bed rest. No boards, no hammers. Tomorrow, Ill come and check.
Michael glanced at me gratefully. Mrs Simmons, dont let on in the village. Theyll laughsay the old chaps lost his senses.
They dont know a thing, I shrugged. Rest now. Cheers!
I stepped out onto the porch. The clouds had parted, and a vast golden moon hung above. The air was crisp, fragrant with damp leaves, smoke andoddlyeven apples, though the crop was gone.
Nothing stays hidden in an English village. Someone had let slip that Michael was preparing a surprise for his wife and got carried away.
Next morning, folk streamed to Michael and Marys cottagemen with tools; the blacksmith brought fancy hinges; the joiner, paint. Work buzzed and hummed!
By evening, the gazebo stooda dainty, white beauty, almost bridal. They placed a table inside, draped with an embroidered cloth, set out the samovar and cups and saucers. What a sight! People sat in and round the gazebo.
Then Mary Johnson emerged from the house, blue lace dress, ring gleaming, hair done, lips red, eyes bright as lanternsand beside her, a still pale Michael in his best jacket, medals pinned proudly, tie knotted.
Michael unveiled an old gramophone hed bartered from a junk dealerput on a record. It crackled to life, Sinatras My Heart Wouldnt Let Go. Michael invited his wife, and together, slow and steady, they danced. Their steps were rusty, but the way he looked at heras though forty minutes, not forty years, had passed since their first meeting!
Everyone watched. Women dabbed tears with hankies. The men, frowning, smoked and stared at their shoeseach perhaps wondering, when did they last bring their wife flowers, or simply say thank you.
I thought then, how much energy we waste on hurt, suspicion, idle chatterwhen life, after all, is shorter than we think. And all thats precious is the warmth of a loved hand, when you look into their eyes and see a light shining therefor you alone.
