**Rural Sophisticates**
*Diary Entry*
I never thought much about village gossip until old Mrs. Whitmore started chattering about the new maths teacher whod moved here from London. Miss Cartwrightour previous teacherhad finally retired, bless her. Shed been clinging on for years, bless her heart, but there was no one else to teach the children. Now, at last, we had a replacement.
«Emily, love, have you heard?» Mrs. Whitmore rattled on. «A new teachers come to the village. A man, mind you!»
«Really?» I raised an eyebrow. «And whats he like?»
«Forty-six, they say. And single.»
«At his age? Thats odd,» I mused. «Perhaps his wifell follow later. Or perhaps not. City women dont fancy village life.»
«Well, never mind that,» Mrs. Whitmore sniffed. «Weve plenty of single women here. What about our nurse, Sarah? Widowed three years now, and lovely with it. A teacher and a nurseperfect match, if you ask me.»
And just like that, the village had decided. Before Gregory Evans had even met Sarah, the rumour mill had them wed.
Time passed, yet no wedding bells rang. No one saw them togetherno stolen glances, no whispered conversations. Oh, theyd met, of courseyou cant live in the same village and not cross paths. Gregory had settled into the old schoolhouse, once meant for teachers and medics back when the village had more of them. He was tall, pleasant-looking, and the children adored him. His lessons were lively, full of jokes and clear explanations.
But the old biddies on their benches by the pub? They werent satisfied. Two theories took root. Mrs. Whitmores was the first:
«I reckon,» she said, adjusting her shawl, «hes a widower. Lost his wife in the cityillness, most likely. Came here to start afresh. Grief does strange things to a man.»
The second theory came from Mrs. Armitage, the villages self-appointed know-it-all. If a sparrow so much as sneezed, shed claim to have diagnosed it.
«Mark my words,» she said, «that mans running from something. Debts, maybe. Or a scandalsome young floozy, perhaps. His wife found out, and now hes lying low.»
No one settled on the truth, but the rumours spread like wildfire. Sarah, of course, stayed out of itthough as the village nurse, she heard them all. Patients couldnt resist hinting.
At forty-one, Sarah wasnt interested. Her daughter was at university in Manchester, and shed buried her husband three years agoheart trouble. Gregory wasnt her type. Too polished. His smart clothes, those wire-rimmed glasses, his soft handsprobably couldnt even chop firewood.
«Sarah,» the practices elderly receptionist, Betty, teased one day, «the whole villages talking about you and the teacher. Reckon therell be wedding bells?»
«Oh, Betty, dont start,» Sarah sighed, scribbling notes. «Weve barely spoken. He seems decent enough, but not my sort. Too cityfied.»
«But hes no lad,» Betty protested.
Sarah laughed. «You know what they saya mans a man till hes in the ground. Doesnt matter if hes forty-six or sixty.»
Betty hummed. «Fair point. If a mans single at that age, theres usually a reason.»
«Exactly,» Sarah said. «Let the old hens cluck. Ive no interest in romance. If I remarry, itll be for companionship, not gossip.»
Eventually, the chatter died down. Gregory earned the villages respect, and Sarah hers. Theyd nod in the shop, exchange polite hellos, then go their separate ways. Winter came, then the New Year, and the children returned to school. Gregory was no longer the new oddityjust another villager.
Then fresh gossip erupted. The parish council chairmans daughter had come home from uni, pregnant and unmarried. The old biddies had a field day.
January was bitter. Snowdrifts swallowed the footpaths, making every step a struggle. Then, one evening, the village buzzed againSarah had been called to Mrs. Armitages. On the far side of the village, Sarah trudged through the snow, exhausted, her medical bag weighing heavy.
She stepped insideand froze. Gregory was there, waiting.
«Hello,» she said, surprised. «What are you doing here?»
«Hello,» he replied. «Brought young Tommy home from schoolhes poorly. His mums at work. And Mrs. Armitage well, I think its serious. Ive called an ambulance.»
Sarah frowned. The old womans face was slack, her speech slurred. A stroke, no doubt.
«You did right,» Sarah said. «But howll the ambulance get here? The lanes buried.»
Gregory frowned, then spotted an old wooden ladder in the yard. «Tommyfetch me some belts.»
Sarah blinked. «Whatre you planning?»
«Well wrap her in a blanket, strap her to the ladder, and drag her to the clinic. Makeshift stretcher.»
Sarahs eyes widened. «Brilliant.»
They set off, Gregory hauling the ladder while Sarah steadied Mrs. Armitage. As they struggled through the snow, Sarah asked, «Whyve you no wife?»
Gregorys jaw tightened. «She left me. Seven years ago. Ran off with some businessmanmore money in that than teaching. I volunteered to come here. The original chap had a pregnant wifecouldnt do that to them. Dont regret it. I like it here.»
Sarah nodded, thoughtful.
When the ambulance finally arrived, they parted waysbut Sarah couldnt stop thinking. Gregory hadnt panicked. Hed acted. No fuss, no complaints. A proper man.
That evening, villagers spotted Gregory walking Sarah homethough his own cottage was in the opposite direction. The next day, they saw them laughing together. Soon, the questions started.
«Sarah,» Betty grinned, «whens the wedding?»
Sarah laughed. «This summer. Gregorys on holiday then, and my workloads lighter.»
So the rumours hadnt been wrong after all. They say *where theres smoke, theres fire*and in the end, the village got its happy ending.
**Lesson learned:** Never underestimate the power of gossipor the unexpected turns life takes. Sometimes, the last place youd look is where youll find what you need.
