Fate favours those who give thanks
By the time he turned thirty, Stanley Hart had already spent a decade in the firestorms of distant conflicts, twice wounded, yet somehow kept from harm. After the second serious injury he lingered in a military hospital, then was sent back to his birthplace, a tiny village in the Yorkshire dales.
The hamlet had reshaped itself while he was away, and its people had grown older. All his schoolmates had taken to marriage, but one afternoon he caught sight of Elspeth, barely a whisper in his memory. When he left for the army she had been a shy girl of thirteen; now she was twentyfive, a striking beauty, still unattached. No suitor had ever seemed worthy enough for her, and she had never felt the urge to settle down.
Stanley was broadshouldered, sturdy, possessed a sharp sense of right and wrong, and his confidence would not let him walk past Elspeth.
Are you still waiting for me, and still not married? he asked, smiling at the lovely lady.
Perhaps, she replied, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, her heart fluttering like a startled bird.
From that moment they began to meet. It was a late autumn; they walked along a narrow lane, leaves rustling underfoot like old paper.
Stanley, my father will never allow us to wed, Elspeth said sadly, despite his two proposals. You know my father.
What can he do to me? Im not afraid of your father, Stanley declared boldly. If he tries to maim me, the law will catch him, and hell be of no use to anyone.
Oh, Stanley, you know nothing of my father, she whispered. He is cruel and his grip is iron.
George Whitcombe was the most powerful man in the village. Once a modest trader, rumours now swirled that he tangled with the underworld. He was stout, bellyprominent, eyes cold as frost, and notoriously harsh. In his youth he built two farms, raising cattle and pigs; half the village worked for him, bowing low, while he fancied himself a god.
My father will not consent to our marriage, Elspouse continued, and he wants me to marry the son of his old friend from the city, a rotund drunk named Victor. I cant stand that brute, who knows only how to raise a pint. Ive warned my father a hundred times.
Elspeth, we live as if in the stone age, Stanley mused. Who in these modern times forces a girl to marry someone she does not love?
His love for her was deeper than the River Ouse, from her gentle gaze to her fiery temper, and she could not picture a life without him.
Come, he said, taking her hand and quickening his pace.
Where to? she began to guess, but could not stop him.
In the courtyard of the grand Whitcombe house, George was speaking with his younger brother Simon, who lived in the outbuilding and was always ready to lend a hand.
George Whitcombe, I wish to marry your daughter, Stanley announced. May I have her hand?
Elspeths mother perched on the porch, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fear at the tyrant husband who had long bruised her spirit.
Georges stare hardened, his voice thundered, Get out of here, you lunatic. My daughter will never be yours. Forget this road, soldier.
We will marry regardless, Stanley replied unwaveringly.
The villagers respected Stanley; George cared only for money, seeing life as a ledger. Feeling insulted, Stanley clenched his fists, and Simon stepped between them, understanding the stalemate would not break easily.
While Simon ushered Stanley out, George herded his daughter back inside as though she were a child ten years old. Whitcombe never tolerated insolence towards himself or anyone who ignored his commands.
That night, a blaze licked the villages humid air, engulfing the garage Stanley had just opened.
Scoundrel, he muttered, certain whose hand had lit the fire.
Ten minutes later they were barreling down the motorway.
The following night Stanley pulled up quietly to Elspeths cottage. Earlier he had texted her, asking her to pack a bag and flee far away. She agreed. From her bedroom window she handed him a suitcase, then slipped out, landing gently in his arms.
By morning well be far from here, he whispered. You have no idea how I love you, Elspeth pressed against him.
I feel uneasy, scared, she confessed.
Within ten minutes their car roared onto the highway. Elspeths breath quickened, a chill racing through her as she sensed a new life ahead. Headlights flashed behind them, startling her, but soon a silver Mercedes, belonging to George, surged ahead, cutting them off.
No, not this, Elspeth gasped, curling into herself.
George, flanked by two burly men, lunged for his daughter. Stanley tried to intervene, but a hard punch sent him sprawling. He was beaten in silence, brutal and wordless, then the men climbed into the Mercedes and drove off, leaving Stanley crumpled on the roadside.
He staggered home, lay low for a week, and the arson case was closed as a faulty wiring incident. Stanley understood everything, but the fate of Elspeth haunted him. She stopped answering his messages; the line was dead.
George shipped Elspeth to London, to his sister Veras flat, leaving her a modest sum and ordering, Dont let her leave the house. No phone. If she returns, Ill bury her in the woods, and it will cost me nothing.
Ah, George, Vera scoffed, why do you ruin your own daughters life?
She took Elspeth to a spare room, knowing she needed to lie low until Georges fury faded.
George spread gossip that Elspeth was to wed Victor in the city, that she would never come back to the village.
Take your time, Elspeth, Vera said later, your father will calm, youll find work and build a life.
Without Stanley?
Without him, Vera answered.
Weeks later Elspeth discovered she was pregnant. Vera comforted her, pitying her niece.
Your father must never know, Vera whispered.
Elspeth wept, her thoughts centered on Stanley, not on the tyrant who had taken her phone. She could not recall his number; even if Vera let her use the landline, where could the call go?
I hate my father, she shrieked in a breakdown. He is not a man. Vera remained silent, knowing there were reasons to despise him.
Time slipped by. Stanley could not forget Elspeth. He drifted, workbound, avoided other women, tried drinking, quit, and lingered in a grey haze. Meanwhile Elspeth gave birth to a healthy boy, Matty, a spittingimage of his father. She visited occasionally, spoiling her grandson. The Whitcombes never learned of the child; George never returned, oblivious to the small life thriving elsewhere.
Four years passed; Matty grew bright and cheeky. One spring, when blossoms scented the air, Elspeths mother arrived at Veras, trudging into the kitchen and collapsing onto a chair.
Oh, misery, she sobbed.
Mother, whats wrong? Elspeth asked.
George is dying. The doctors found cancer; they said it was too late. Hed always prided himself on strength, never once sought help.
The old woman wept, her bruises from Georges hand a silent testament to years of abuse.
How will I survive alone? she whispered.
No one offered compassion; Georges passing drew a small crowd of his cronies, who muttered, He treated people like rubbish; the heavens have dealt his due.
He was buried in June. Elspeth skipped the funeral, unable to face the man who had scarred her life. Few mourned; only his old mates lingered, whispering cruel jokes.
Meanwhile Stanley, stationed on a remote outpost, came and went, living with his mother in the village. When Elspeth finally returned after five years, her mother had recovered enough to put away the portrait of George, hiding it from her daughters eyes.
Two weeks after Elspeths arrival, she learned Stanley was away on duty, her mother confirming. A few days later she walked with Matty along a hedgerow. The boy chased butterflies, rolling in tall grass, while she settled on a fallen branch, a gentle breeze ruffling her hair.
She recalled childhood memories, her heart suddenly sensing his presence nearby.
Elspouse, a faint voice called, and she sprang up, both of them lunging toward each other.
Stanley had changed, a deeper sorrow shadowing his eyes, yet his love for her burned unchanged. Elspeth, still radiant, seemed a touch softer. They stared, silent, the years of longing humming between them.
Stanley, forgive mefor my father, for everything, for never telling you about our son. It could have been different. I never married Victor; that was my fathers rumor. I lived with Vera in the city, she confessed.
Stanleys breath halted, his grip tightening as Matty emerged from the grass, sprinting toward them. Without words, he recognized his own son, a mirror of his younger self, the boy from old photographs.
My son, he lifted the child high, laughing. I will never let you go.
Dad, Matty asked, will you buy me a football?
Of course, lad. Well go to the shop now, get you a ball and anything else you want, Stanley replied, gazing lovingly at Elspeth, who nodded through tears.
Elspeth thanked destiny for the reunion. Fate, she believed, favours the grateful, rewarding them with a happiness that finally felt like home.
