The Village Intelligentsia
«Tess, have you heard? A new maths teachers come to our village from the city. Miss Whitmore finally retiredshed been pensioned off years ago, bless her, but there was no one else to teach the children. So now hes arrived,» chattered old Mrs. Wilkins, the neighbour who always had the latest gossip.
«No, I hadnt heard. A man, is he?»
«Aye. And not some young lad, eitherthey say hes forty-six and unmarried.»
«Really? That age and still single?» Tess raised an eyebrow. «Perhaps his wifell follow later. Or perhaps not City women dont fancy village life.»
«Well, no matter. Theres plenty of our own women without husbandswhat about our nurse, Margaret? Widowed these three years, and a fine-looking woman too. A teacher and a nursewhy, its a perfect match!»
The village hummed with talk before Mr. Gregory Evans had even met Margaret. By weeks end, theyd all but married the pair off in their minds.
Time passed, yet no wedding bells rang. No one saw the teacher and nurse speaking much, let alone courting. True, theyd exchanged nodshard not to, in a place so smallbut nothing more.
Mr. Evans had settled into the old schoolhouse, a building once meant for teachers and medics when the village had more of both. He cut a decent figuretall, pleasant-faced, and the children took to him at once. Lessons grew livelier, full of jokes and clear explanations.
The ones who couldnt rest easy were the old women, perched on benches outside their cottages, weaving tales from thin air. Two theories about Gregory flourished.
Mrs. Wilkins championed the first: «Mark my words, ladies,» she said, adjusting her shawl, «this Gregorys a recent widower. Buried his wife in the cityillness, most like. Came here to mend his heart and start anew. Grief makes folk do strange things.»
The second came from old Mrs. Archer, who knew everyones businessor claimed to. «Ill tell you whats what,» she declared. «That teachers mixed up in some city scandal. Debts, maybe, or a young mistress. His wife found out, so hes lying low here till the storm blows over.»
Neither tale held water, but that didnt stop their spread. Margaret, of course, took no part in such talkthough as the village nurse, she heard every whisper. Patients couldnt resist hinting as they complained of ailments.
Margaret was forty-one, her daughter off at university in London. Shed buried her husband three years priorheart trouble. Gregory Evans didnt interest her. Not that she disliked him; their paths simply seldom crossed. The school stood at one end of the village, the surgery at the other. Her children werent pupils, and Gregory never fell ill.
«Margaret, have you heard what theyre saying about you and the teacher?» asked old Nurse Lucy, whod served the village for decades. «Half the place expects a wedding by years end.»
«Oh, Ive heard,» Margaret sighed, scribbling notes. «What romance? Weve barely spoken beyond good day. He seems decent enough, but far too city-bred. Always smartly dressed, those fine spectacles, hands too soft for work. When I trained in London, I met plenty of his sortall charm, no substance.»
«But hes no boy,» Lucy protested.
«Ah, you know the saying: Life begins at forty. Well, for some men, it begins at twenty and never ends. Even when theyre leaning on sticks, their minds run the same old track.»
Lucy fell silent, then nodded. «Aye, theres truth in that. A man unwed at his age likely prefers his own company.»
«Exactly,» Margaret said briskly. «Let them chatter. Ive no time for dalliances. If I wed again, itll be for family.»
In time, the gossip faded. The village grew used to its two educated souls, noting their polite greetings at the shop before parting ways.
Winter came, then the New Year. The children returned from holidays, and Gregory became just another villageruntil fresh scandal erupted. The parish council chairmans daughter came home from London, pregnant and unmarried, her studies abandoned. Now that was meat for the gossips!
Village life rolled onnow quiet, now buzzingthrough snowy January. Paths grew treacherous with drifts, especially at dawn.
Then one evening, the village stirred anew. Margaret was summoned to Mrs. Archers cottage at the far end of the lane. The old woman lay ill, her grandson Stephenone of Gregorys pupilswaiting anxiously.
Margaret trudged through deep snow, medical bag in hand, and pushed open the doorto find Gregory already there, watching for her.
«Good evening,» she said, surprised. «What brings you here?»
«Stephen had a fever,» he explained. «I walked him home. His mothers at work, and Mrs. Archer took poorly. Ive rung for an ambulance, but»
Margaret saw at once: the slurred speech, the twisted smile. A stroke. «You did right,» she said grimly. «But how will the ambulance reach this lane?»
Gregory stepped outside, eyeing a wooden ladder propped by the shed. «Stephen, fetch me strapsany youve got.»
When the boy returned with three belts, Gregory nodded. «Thesell do. Well wrap her in blankets, lash her to the ladder, and drag her to the surgery. The ambulance can meet us there.»
Margaret blinked. «Thats actually brilliant.»
Bent under the weight, they inched through the snow, Gregory hauling while Margaret steadied their makeshift stretcher. As they went, she asked, «Why are you unwed, truly?»
He didnt flinch. «My wife left me seven years back. Ran off with some businessmanmore money in his pockets than a teachers. I volunteered for this post when the young chap meant to take it got cold feet. His wife was expecting; Id no ties. Dont regret itIve grown fond of this place.»
Margaret said nothing, but as they handed Mrs. Archer to the paramedics, she studied Gregory anew. Here was a man who didnt dither in crisiswho acted while others dithered. No pampered city softness, but steady strength.
That evening, villagers spotted Gregory walking Margaret homethough his own cottage lay in the opposite direction. And the next day. And the next.
«So,» teased Lucy when patients next gathered at the surgery, «whens the wedding?»
Margaret laughedthen confessed: «This summer. Gregorys free then, and my work eases.»
After all, the old saying holds true: «Where theres smoke, theres fire. The village bells rang in June, not for a rumour, but for a quiet wedding beneath a canopy of hawthorn blossoms. Margaret wore a dress the colour of summer hay, and Gregory, in a well-pressed suit with spectacles gleaming, looked not like a man who had escaped the city, but one who had finally come home. They walked afterward to the schoolhouse, where children scattered petals and old Mrs. Wilkins wiped her eyes, whispering, Took them long enough. And in the evenings that followed, villagers saw the two of them sitting on the garden bench, hands clasped, talking softly as the sun dipped behind the hillstwo lives long apart, now gently woven together.
