That Memorable March

THAT MARCH
March was never just a month; it was an annual test of ones sanity.
Especially when your love was as peculiar as the weather outsideneither quite spring nor apocalypsejust as if someone had poured a bucket of grey over the entire town.
Ellen and Toms romance began in March, which explained everything.
Other couples met beneath showers of cherry blossom petals, but these two collided the day Tom splashed Ellen from a puddle.
Instead of bursting into tears, she launched a melting snowball at his windscreenit felt to Tom as if a brick were hidden inside.
It was love at first ricochet.
March in their town was the season when romance ventured out in wellies.
Shall we go for a walk? Tom whispered softly down the phone.
I dont own a boat, Ellen retorted sensibly.
Ill carry you on my back.
In the end, their dates resembled SAS training sessions across marshland.
Tom valiantly transported Ellen through lakes of grubby meltwater, while she held an umbrella above him that tried desperately to escape towards Portsmouth along with their hopes for dry feet.
Do you know, mused Tom, squelching his right boot, this is the real depth of feeling.
Were like a pair of ducks in the park right now.
Ducks flew off to warmer parts ages ago, love.
Were more like two careless penguins who missed the turn for Antarctica, Ellen replied.
Their particular sort of love showed itself through small gestures.
Deep affection in March wasnt a ring in a glass of sparkling wine (there would surely be an ice cube floating in it) but the last packet of Lemsip, torn in half to share.
This is for you, Tom declared, handing over half the yellow sachet with solemn ceremony.
Tearing it straight from my heart.
Whys it covered in cat fur?
Thats a special garnish.
For immunity.
Ellen gazed at himwearing a ridiculous bobble hat, his nose reddened, eyes glinting wildlyand realised: this must be it.
The universes code had malfunctioned, connecting two souls able to laugh even when both had a fever (which, as every Englishman knows, is essentially a near-death condition).
The months most romantic moment arrived at its end.
The sun finally appeared, revealing everything winter had been hiding under snow.
The city looked like a set from a film about council workers staging a revolution.
They stood on a bridge.
The wind was howling, threatening to rip the coat off Toms back.
Ellen, he started, trying to outshout March itself, I wanted to say Youre to me like like the first snowdrop!
As pale as can be and straining up through rubbish? Ellen clarified, re-wrapping her scarf; it had encircled her head three times already.
Tom hesitated.
No.
As enduring.
Despite this blasted March, youre still with me.
Even after I dropped your phone in a snowdrift masquerading as a puddle.
Ellen looked at him, sneezed (in perfect harmony with the passing tram), and laughed.
All right, snowdrop-hero.
Lets head home.
Ive bought a kilo of lemons and found a mulled wine recipe.
If we survive this Sunday, Ill declare our love a historical monument.
They strolled along the pavement, dodging icebergs.
It was a profoundly deep loveprecisely knee-deep, as that was the depth of water in their stairwell.
But they didnt care.
For in that unforgettable March, what mattered wasnt the cleanliness of your boots, but whose hand you were holding, as you both slid together towards inevitable April
Another year passed.
The next that March arrived.
The town again resembled the Waterworld film set, shot on a budget of three pence.
Ellen and Tom stood before a gigantic puddle that had conquered their courtyard overnight.
Neighbours clung miserably to fences, tiptoeing along the icy edge, while an old pensioner squinted hopefully at the sky, waiting perhaps for a rescue helicopter or at least a pigeon with an olive branch.
Tom, Ellen glanced at her new white trainers, purchases made in an unjustified burst of optimism.
Were adults, you know.
With a mortgage, jobs, and a year-end report.
We cant just
We can, interrupted Tom.
From behind his back, as if he were a magician, he produced two bright yellow wellington boots with cheerful ducklings printed on them.
Bought them yesterday.
Your size.
Ellen sighed.
It was that same deep love, when your partner knows both your shoe size and your readiness for cheerful degradation.
Within five minutes, they stood in the centre of the puddle.
Water gurgled gleefully, sunlight reflected from dirty shards of ice, and passers-by eyed them as though escaped from a very pleasant but tightly locked institution.
You know, said Ellen, jumping and spraying a fountain of droplets on the neighbours mink hat, this is the best start to spring.
Its code Yellow Duckling, Tom replied seriously.
The universe tried to drown us in gloom, but weve got waterproof heels.
They stood in the middle of the spring mayhemawkward, soaked, but perfectly in tune.
It was a curious sort of love, understood only by those who discover the bottom where everyone else sees only mud.
Tom embraced her, just as the sun shone so fiercely their coats started steaming gently.
Were aflame, Ellen declared.
No, Tom smiled.
Weve finally warmed to just the right temperature.
In that March, they learned the most important lesson: if life throws puddles at you, buy the brightest wellies and learn to dance in them.