We often speak of that mischievous local matchmaker, Old Mrs. Larkins, who seemed to have a hand in every love that blossomedor wiltedon the quiet lanes of Littleford. I remember, as if it were yesterday, how she would point a shaking finger at young Gwen Whitaker and declare, Youll be the cause of his doom, you hear? Yes, you! Its you, Gwen, and no one else! She laughed, as if it were no great matter, and then asked in the same breath, Who was that pretty lass perched on the garden bench yesterday, her bare knees glinting in the sun? She went on, Can a lad like Tom Barker, with his delicate sensibilities, bear such a sight? Hed only ever seen a girls bare knees on a school PE field long ago, and that was enough for him. What does it matter that a dozen girls now parade about in miniskirts? Hell compare them all, but his heart is a different beast entirely.
The voice that crackled through the telephone became stern, as if reciting a warning from beyond the grave. Im not making this up, Gwen. I can see him now, penning a deathwish He whispers that he cannot go on without her, that it pierces his soul. Do you understand? He writes it down, his eyes never meeting mine. He mutters something about a pint I mean, about dying! The word die stands out like a beacon. How can I not see it? With my grandfathers field binoculars I can spot any detail, no matter how far.
A brief silence fell, broken only by the anxious gasp of the girl on the other end. Oh dear, my poor heart! Were too late, Gwen. The knife is already sharp, the wound is fresh blood everywhere! Do you think you can still rescue the prince? she cried.
Mrs. Larkins, squinting her sharp eyes, watched with a grim smile as plump Gwen burst into Toms shabby flat, carrying with her a love unspent, a wish to feed him a hearty bowl of stew, and a dream of children crowding the hallway.
Tom had little chance. The gaunt, wistful youth lived alone; just six months earlier his mother had remarried and moved to a manor in Bath, leaving him the threebedroom cottage she had inherited. She had sternly ordered him to marry at once and produce an heirany heir, but quickly, without delay. Tom agreed; the idea of a cosy family warmed his heart. Yet he could not find a suitable girl. A whizz at radios and gadgets, Tom was taciturn, selfconscious, and shy. He could not take the initiative, and he fled from any bold maiden as fast as a fighter plane. Mrs. Larkins sympathised; she would not endure a noisy, brash neighbour.
Then there was Gwenwellfed, diligent, respectable. Not a striking beauty, but pleasant, with a round freckled face that suited her. All it required was a little time to get to know her, something the young men of today seem utterly incapable of.
Their gadgetswhat a wretched term!could only spill brief snippets of information, a photo or a short clip. Unlike the gaudy TikTok videos of the modern girls, Gwens life was simple, free from the flamboyance that Tom feared as if it were a blaze. Makeup and flamboyant dress seemed to him like witches at a coven. Modern lasses were, to Tom, as outlandish as a circus clown compared with a modest ticket seller. You remember the clowns odd visage, not the ticket sellers, even though you never exchanged a word with the former, but you did speak directly with the latter, trading at least a few sentences.
Tom would glance at Gwen now and then, yet the happiness he sought always slipped away. In Mrs. Larkinss eyes he would die a wandering soulstarved, chilled, denied a womans gentle touch.
At home Tom resembled a hedgehog lost in fog. He survived on instant noodles and frozen dumplings, only remembering to lift the pot off the stove in time. He was a sandwich connoisseur, and he brewed a decent cup of tea.
One afternoon, as Tom tried to slice a cucumber for a salad, he nicked his finger. He scrambled for a bandage and some green ointment, when a frantic rapping sounded at the front door. Ignoring the blood that dripped from his wound, he tore it open. In the doorway stood Gwen, eyes wide with alarm, her gaze fixed on him. What she said, what she tried to persuade him of, I never learned; Mrs. Larkins, ever the silent observer, never heard it.
The matchmakers keen eyes later caught Gwen, later that day, in her own kitchen, ladling steaming borscht into Toms bowl, serving him potatoes with meatballs, a beetroot salad with tangy cabbage, and a pot of sweet compote. He smiled, his loneliness fading, his doubts dissolving like mist at sunrise.
A month later the two were wed. Mrs. Larkins was invited and given a generous slice of the wedding cake, the largest piece, as a token of gratitude. As the celebration waned, Gwenstill gigglingleaned toward the old crone and asked, Did you think he was going to die? You said hed stab himselfright in the finger, wasnt it? Oh, Mrs. Larkins, I felt such shame when I promised to save him, only for him to hand me his wounded finger! How could I ever forget that?
