It was the day of Lydia the postwomans wedding. Oh, what a wedding it wasor rather, what a miserable affair. The whole village gathered outside the parish hall, not to celebrate, but to judge. There stood our Lydia, slender as a reed in her simple white dress, sewn by her own hands. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened, but stubborn. Beside her stood her groom, Stephen. Stephen was known behind his back as «the Convict.» Hed returned the year before from a place nobody mentioned.
No one knew exactly what hed done time for, but the rumours grew wilder by the day. Tall, grim, and quiet, with a scar across his cheek, he unnerved the men, sent mothers hurrying their children indoors, and made even the stray dogs tuck their tails between their legs. He lived in his grandfathers tumbledown cottage on the outskirts of the village, took the hardest jobs no one else would touch, and kept to himself.
And now our sweet, quiet Lydiaraised by her aunt after her parents diedwas marrying this man.
When the registrar pronounced them husband and wife and gave the customary «You may kiss the bride,» not a soul in the crowd moved. The silence was so thick you could hear a crow cawing in the oak tree.
Then, from the crowd, stepped Lydias cousin, Paul. Hed treated her like a little sister since her parents passed. He walked right up to her, fixed her with an icy stare, and hissed loud enough for all to hear:
«Youre no sister of mine. From this day on, I have none. Youve disgraced the family, tying yourself to God-knows-what. Dont you dare set foot in my house again.»
With that, he spat at Stephens feet and stormed off, parting the crowd like an icebreaker. Then her aunt, lips pressed tight, followed.
Lydia stood frozen, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She didnt even wipe it away. Stephen glared at Paul like a wolf, jaw clenched, fists tightI thought he might lunge. But instead, he looked at Lydia, took her hand as gently as if she might break, and murmured,
«Lets go home, love.»
And off they went. Just the two of them, against the whole village. Himtall and brooding. Hersmall and fragile in her little white dress. Poisoned whispers and scornful stares followed them. My heart ached watching them. How much strength would it take to stand against the world?
It had all started small, as these things do. Lydia delivered the postquiet, unassuming, always in her own world. Then one autumn, in the thick of the mud season, a pack of strays cornered her at the edge of the village. She screamed, dropped her heavy bag, letters scattering in the muck.
Out of nowhere came Stephen. No shouting, no stick-waving. He just stepped up to the lead doga huge, shaggy bruteand muttered something low and rough. And would you believe it? The dog tucked tail, backed off, and the rest slunk away.
Silently, Stephen gathered the soggy letters, shook off what mud he could, and handed them back. Lydia looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and whispered, «Thank you.» He just grunted, turned, and walked off.
After that, she watched him differently. Not with fear, like the others, but curiosity. She noticed things no one else cared to see. How he fixed old Mrs. Hargreavess fence when her son vanished to the city. No asking, no thanksjust did it. How he pulled a neighbours calf from the river after it stumbled in. How he tucked a shivering kitten inside his coat and carried it home.
He did it all furtively, as if ashamed of his own kindness. But Lydia saw. And her quiet, lonely heart reached for his battered, lonely soul.
They met by the far well at dusk. He listened while she talked, his rough face softening. One day, he brought her a wild orchidplucked from the marshes where no sane person would tread. Thats when she knew she was lost.
When she told her family shed marry him, the uproar was deafening. Aunt wept, Paul swore to break Stephens legs. But Lydia stood firm. «Hes good,» she kept saying. «You just dont know him.»
Life was hard. No one would hire Stephen steady. They scraped by odd jobs and Lydias post-office pennies. But their cottage, for all its cracks, was always tidy and oddly cosy. He built her bookshelves, fixed the porch, planted a little garden under the window. And every evening, when he came home filthy and exhausted, shed set a bowl of hot stew before him without a word. That silence held more love than any grand speech.
The village never accepted them. The shopkeeper «accidentally» shorted Lydias flour. Kids threw stones at their windows. Paul crossed the street to avoid them.
Then came the fire.
A windy, pitch-black night. Pauls barn went up first, the flames leaping to the house. The village turned out with buckets, shouting, useless against the roaring blaze. Then Pauls wife, clutching their baby, screamed, «Marys still inside! Shes asleep upstairs!»
Paul lunged for the door, but the flames drove him back. The men held him»Youll die, you fool!»while he howled in agony.
Then, through the crowd, came Stephen. Hed arrived late. Without a word, he doused himself with water from a barrel and walked into the inferno.
The crowd held its breath. Beams cracked, the roof collapsed. No one expected him to return. Pauls wife sank to her knees in the dirt.
Thensmoke parted. Out staggered Stephen, clothes smouldering, hair singed. In his arms was the girl, wrapped in a wet blanket. He took three steps, collapsed, and handed her to the women.
Mary coughed but lived. Stephen? A horror of burns. I bandaged him while he muttered, «Lydia Lydia»
When he woke in my surgery, the first thing he saw was Paulon his knees. No joke. Paul gripped Stephens hand, pressed his forehead to it, shoulders shaking. No words. None were needed.
After that, the dam broke. Slowly, then all at once, the village warmed to them. Stephen healed, scars remainingbut now they were badges of honour, not shame.
The men repaired their cottage. Paul became Stephens shadowfixing the porch, bringing hay for their nanny goat. His wife, Helen, brought Lydia pies and cream, watching them with guilty tenderness.
A year later came little Mary, Lydias blue-eyed double. Then a son, JohnnyStephens miniature, minus the scar. Serious little lad, always frowning.
That patched-up cottage rang with laughter. Who knew gruff Stephen would be the gentlest father? Home from work, black-handed and tired, the kids would clamber over him. Hed toss them, the house shaking with giggles. At night, while Lydia put Johnny down, hed sit with Mary, carving wooden toyshorses, birds, funny little men. Rough hands, but the toys were perfect.
Once, I dropped by to check Lydias blood pressure. The scene? Stephen, huge and sooty, crouched fixing Johnnys tiny bike while Paul held the wheel. The boysJohnny and Pauls laddug in the sandbox together. Peaceful as anything, just hammer taps and bees in Lydias flowers.
My eyes stung. There was Paul, whod cursed his sister, shoulder-to-shoulder with the «convict.» No grudges. Just quiet work and playing children. As if the wall of fear and scorn had never existedmelted like spring snow.
Lydia stepped out with cold cider for them both. She caught my eye, smiled her soft, bright smile. In that lookat her husband, her brother, the childrenwas all the hard-won joy in the world. She hadnt been wrong. Shed followed her heart against everyone and found everything.
Now? Their cottage spills over with geraniums. Stephen, grey but sturdy, teaches Johnny to chop wood. Mary, nearly grown, helps Lydia hang washing that smells of sun and wind. They laugh over some girlish secret.
And I thinkwhat a life. What a love.
