The old man was fading… His wife knew it, felt it in every fibre of her soul, fused to his after all these years.
She accepted it calmly—outwardly, at least. Inside, she was terrified, though she knew she wouldn’t last long without him. How could she? How could she live without her Alfie, so dear to her heart, so close yet slipping away? She longed for snow—do you?
Who said feelings fade with time? Was it in some scholar’s book? Don’t believe a word—nothing cools! The soul still flutters like a bird at the sound of a beloved voice. Sixty years together—no small thing!
They’d grown into one another, tangled roots, inseparable. How could she send him off alone? How could she stay? What for? Without Alfie, there was no life at all.
So she thought, sorting through the chest, tossing things into three piles: for the children, to remember by; for the neighbours; and the smallest heap—hers, for now, to look at until she followed, little keepsakes of Alf.
“Emmaline… Emmaline…” The old woman heard his weak call.
“I’m coming, Alfie, love,” she murmured, straightening her skirt before pulling back the curtain where he lay. “Awake, love? Fancy some pancakes?”
“Emmaline,” he rasped, his blind eyes searching the ceiling.
“Hush now, I’m here,” she took his once-broad hand—now thin as a twig—in hers, little better than a dried sparrow’s claw. “What is it, love?”
“Forgive me… Forgive me, Emma…”
“Oh, don’t be daft.”
“I never loved you,” he wheezed. “Stupid… If I could go back…”
“Now, now, Alfie. You did, in your way. Else why’d we last sixty years?”
“Emmaline… the children…”
“They’re coming, love. Sent telegrams—not me, Mabel at the post office did it. Peter, Lottie, little James, and Rose. They’ll be here by evening. Rest now. I’ll make you some broth.”
“No,” he whispered. “Stay. Forgive me, Emma.”
“I never held a grudge, Alfie. Forgive *me*—maybe if I hadn’t clung like a burr, your life’d been different.”
“No,” he shook his head. “Fate, Emma…”
A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek, vanishing into creases of sunken skin.
By evening, the children arrived, grey-haired themselves now.
The old woman studied them. Peter, the eldest, dignified as ever, hair white as chalk. She’d always been a bit in awe—Professor Peters, living in London.
“Peter, love, you’ve gone all grey!”
“Time takes us all, Mum. *I’m* a grandad now—or did you forget you’re a great-granny?”
“Course not! Look—photos under the glass. There’s little Lily, your girl. Over here, all of us when you were small. Your granddad, my brother Ned—never came back from the war, no word, nothing… Oh, and your dad’s side—his brother Bert, always playing that jig, feet tapping straight away!”
Lottie piped up, “Mum, can we go fishing, Tom and me?”
“Go on, then,” she smiled.
James—youngest, still spry in his jeans, tanned from sailing—grinned.
“Oi, Dad, enough lounging! Time to fix the shed roof. Lottie’ll help Mum with pasties, then after, a nip and a bite, eh?”
The old man smiled faintly. James had always been his favourite, just as lively as he’d once been.
“James, my boy… Peter, Lottie… Where’s Rose?”
“Here, Dad,” came a small voice—tiny Rose, all bones, the image of her mother young.
“Sweetheart… Forgive me, all of you.”
“Don’t talk daft, Dad!”
“You made us who we are. Our kids—your doing!”
“Come on, up you get!”
The old man’s smile warmed. A long life he’d had. And all of it spent blaming himself—living with a woman he never loved, too cowardly to approach that other girl, the one he pined for.
Ten pipes he smoked under the oak opposite her house, waiting… For what? Maybe for her to *know*, to step out, take his hand. They’d shared glances at village dances, sat close—his heart near stopped! Why hadn’t he spoken? *Idiot.*
Then someone else did—danced with her, walked her home, married her quick. Alfie went to that wedding. The bride sat glum, eyes never leaving him.
*Should’ve stolen her away,* he’d thought. But no—drank himself sick with his mate George, ended up brawling. Made up with George, lost his love.
Married Emmaline because she looked at him like he hung the moon. She *knew* he didn’t love her. Lived with a ghost of a man—until the kids left. Then he realised—he couldn’t breathe without her. Shame ate him, thinking of her wasted youth.
At films, concerts, village dos—he walked ahead, her trailing. She’d wanted to stroll arm in arm, like proper sweethearts. Never happened.
He loved her, in the end—not like the first, fiery love, but steady. If only he’d said so thirty years sooner! Pride, shyness—what stopped him? Loathed that the kids might’ve felt his lack. Tried to make up for it—helping, shielding.
“Emmaline…” he called again, faint.
“Here, love. Broth?”
“No… Soon now.”
“Don’t be silly—kids are here, James mended the roof, Lottie and Rose cooked—”
“It’s time… Forgive me, love. I… love you, Emmaline.” The words came easy, voice suddenly young. “Always did. Forgive this fool for never showing it.”
“ALFIIIIE!” The scream tore through the cottage, out into the lane, the fields, the river—a wounded animal’s cry. “Don’t go! ALFIIIIE!”
“Mum! Mum, easy—fetch the doctor!”
Like a dream, the old woman lived it—the wake, the burial… Then took to bed.
“Peter, Lottie, James, Rosie… Stay. No sense coming back twice. Won’t be long.”
“Come home with me, Mum,” Rose wept.
“No, love. Dad’s lost without me.”
On the ninth day, she was gone.
