Alright, so theres this little village gossip buzzing aboutyou know how it is. Tamsin, love, have you heard? Weve got a new maths teacher in the village, come all the way from London. Miss Waverley finally retiredbless her, shed been pensioned off for ages, but there was no one else to teach the kids, so here he is, chirped old Mrs. Whitby, the villages resident newsmonger.
Tamsin blinked. No, hadnt heard a thing. A bloke, then?
Thats right. And not some young lad eitherforty-six, they say, and single.
No! At that age and still on his own? Tamsin couldnt help but scoff. Maybe the wifes coming later. Or maybe not. City women dont fancy village life, do they?
Mrs. Whitby waved a hand. Oh, never mind that. Plenty of single women hereabouts. Take our district nurse, Mariannewidowed three years now, lovely woman. Perfect match, really, teacher and nurse
The village hummed with theories before Gregory Evans had even met Marianne. By teatime, they were practically married in everyones eyes.
Weeks passed. No wedding bells. No sightings of cozy chats between the teacher and the nurse. Oh, theyd methard not to in a village this sizebut nothing more.
Gregory settled into the old cottage built for teachers and medics back when the village had more of both. Tall, decent-looking, the kids adored himlessons were livelier now, full of jokes and clear explanations.
The only ones restless were the old dears perched on their garden benches, dissecting the latest rumours. Gregorys backstory was prime gossip fodder.
Two theories dominated. Mrs. Whitbys was first:
I reckon, girls, she said, adjusting her headscarf, Gregorys a recent widower. Lost his wife in Londonillness, most like. Came here to start fresh, away from the grief. People do that, you know.
Then there was old Mrs. Archer, who knew everything about everyoneor claimed to. If she didnt know, shed guess and state it as fact.
My bet? Hes tangled up in some city scandal. Dodging debts, maybe. Or got caught with some young thing, and the wife kicked him out. Lying low till the storm passes.
No consensus was reached, but the theories spread like wildfire. Marianne never joined in, but the whispers reached her anywaypatients couldnt resist hinting during appointments.
Forty-one, with a daughter at uni up in Manchester, Marianne had buried her husband three years backheart gave out. Gregory didnt interest her. Not that she disliked himthey just never crossed paths. School one end of the village, clinic the other. No kids of hers in his class, and he never fell ill.
Marianne, the village is going on about you and the teacher, you know that, right? Her assistant, elderly Betty, smirked. Theyre all waiting for the wedding bells.
Oh, Ive heard, Marianne sighed, scribbling notes. What romance? Weve barely exchanged hellos. Seems decent enough, butcity bloke. Fancy clothes, those sleek glasses, soft hands. Doubt hes ever done a hard days work. Back when I trained in London, I met plenty like thatall talk, no staying power.
Betty chuckled. Hes hardly a lad anymore.
Marianne rolled her eyes. Oh, come off it, Betty. You know the sayinglife begins at forty-five? Well, for men, it never really ends. Even when theyre leaning on walking sticks, their minds are still stuck in the gutter.
Betty paused, then nodded. Fair point. If a mans alone at that age, theres usually a reason.
Exactly. Let them gossip. Ive no interest in flings. If anything, Id want a proper family. Theyll tire of it soon.
And they did. Gregory earned the villages respect, Marianne too. The two intellectuals became background noisejust part of the scenery. Occasionally spotted exchanging polite nods at the shop before heading separate ways.
Winter came. New Year. Kids back at school. The teacher theories fadedhe was one of them now.
Then fresh gossip erupted. The parish council chairmans daughter dropped out of uni, returned home pregnant and ringless. The benches buzzed anewthough now it was in the shop or clinic, too cold for garden chatter.
January buried the village in snow. Paths were narrow, trudging exhausting.
Thendrama. Old Mrs. Archer took ill. Marianne was summoned, trudging through drifts to the far end of the village. Inside, she frozeGregory was there, waiting.
Hello. What are you doing here? she asked, heading to Mrs. Archers room.
Hello, he replied. Walked young Stevie home from schoolhes feverish. Mums at work.
Aye, Nurse, Stevie croaked. Mr. Evans brought me back. Throats killing me. Then Gran started acting funny
Marianne, Im no doctor, but Mrs. Archers in a bad way, Gregory said. Slurred speech, face drooping. Ive called an ambulance.
Mariannes stomach dropped. Stroke. They needed that ambulancebut how would it reach them?
You did right, she told Gregory. But the roadsitll only make it to the clinic.
Then well get her there, he said firmly. Stevie, stay put. Marianne scribbled instructions for his medicine.
Outside, Gregory spotted an old wooden ladder. Stevie, fetch me some belts. The boy scrambled, producing threeone cloth.
Good enough, Gregory said.
Whats the plan? Marianne asked.
Well wrap her in blankets, strap her to the ladder, and drag her to the clinic. Makeshift stretcher.
Brilliant, Marianne breathed.
Gregory heaved, Marianne steadied Mrs. Archer. Slow going, but they made itjust as the ambulance arrived.
En route, Marianne finally asked, Why no wife?
Gregory sighed. She left me seven years back. Ran off with some businessman. Money, see? Whats a teacher got to offer? I volunteered for this postthe lad originally assigned had a pregnant wife. Couldnt do that to them. No regrets. Love it here.
Ah, Marianne said.
After the ambulance left, they chatted a while longer before parting. Marianne lingered, thoughtful.
Gregory Evans was a proper man. Cool-headed in a crisis, quick-thinking. No whinging, just action. Not some pampered city boy after all.
That evening, villagers spotted Gregory walking Marianne homeeven though his place was in the opposite direction. Then again the next day. And the next.
So, Marianne, whens the wedding? Betty teased during clinic hours.
Marianne laughed. Summer, she said. Gregorys off then, and works quieter for me.
Turns out the rumours werent so far-fetched after all. Goes to showwhere theres smoke, theres fire.
