The Village Intelligentsia
«Tassy, have you heard? Theres a new maths teacher come to the village from the city. Mrs. Barbaras finally retiredshe was well past it, bless her, but there was no one else to teach the children. Now this chaps arrived,» chattered old Mrs. Wilkins, the neighbour who always had the freshest gossip.
«No, I hadnt heard. A man, is it?»
«Aye. And not some young lad eitherforty-six, they say, and single.»
«Goodness! That age and still unattached?» Tassy raised her eyebrows. «Perhaps his wifes joining him lateror perhaps not. City women dont fancy village life.»
«Well, never mind that. Plenty of our own women here are on their ownwhat about our nurse, Martha? Widowed three years, and a fine-looking woman too. A teacher and a nurseperfect match, dont you think?»
The village hummed with rumours before Gregory Evans had even met Martha. The matchmakers had them wed in their minds before theyd exchanged a word.
Time passed, yet no talk of a wedding arose. No one saw the teacher and the nurse spending time together, though naturally, theyd met. How could they not, in a village so small?
Gregory had settled in the old schoolhouse, a cottage once meant for teachers and medics when the village had more of them. He was tall, pleasant-looking, and the children took to him at once. Lessons grew livelyjokes, clear explanations, none of the dullness of before.
The ones who couldnt rest easy were the old women, perched on benches outside their cottages, trading theories like playing cards. Gregory was their newest mystery.
Two theories held sway. The first came from Mrs. Wilkins herself:
«I reckon, ladies,» she said, adjusting her shawl, «hes a fresh-made widower. Lost his wife in the cityillness, most like. Came here to mend his heart and start anew. Grief makes folk do strange things.»
The second theory belonged to Mrs. Archer, who knew everything about everyoneor claimed to. If she didnt know, she guessed with such conviction it might as well have been gospel.
«Mark my words,» she declared, «that teachers tangled in some trouble back in the city. Debts, most likelyor a fling gone sour. Wife found out, so hes hiding here till the storm blows over.»
No conclusion was reached, but the rumours spread door to door. Martha, of course, took no part in such talkyet the whispers found her anyway. Patients came to the clinic with ailments and gossip in equal measure.
Martha was forty-one, her daughter away at university in London. Shed buried her husband three years priorhis heart had given out. Gregory didnt interest her. Their paths seldom crossedthe school at one end of the village, the clinic at the other. Her own children were grown, and Gregory never fell ill.
«Martha, the village is pairing you off with that teacherhave you heard?» asked Lydia, the elderly nurse who assisted her. «Theyre all waiting for a wedding.»
«Oh, Ive heard,» Martha sighed, scribbling notes. «What romance? Weve barely spoken. He seems decent enough, but far too city-bredpolished shoes, those fancy wire-rimmed glasses, hands too soft for real work. When I trained in London, I met plenty like himall charm, no substance.»
«But hes no lad,» Lydia countered.
«Lydia, you know the saying: Life begins at forty. And for men, it never endseven when theyre leaning on a walking stick, their minds stay stuck in the gutter.»
Lydia fell silent, then nodded. «Fair point. If a mans alone at that age, he likely prefers it that way.»
«Exactly,» Martha said. «Let them gossip. Ive no time for dalliances. If I wanted anything, itd be a proper family.»
In time, the chatter faded. The village grew used to its two educated souls, their paths barely crossing beyond polite nods at the shop.
Winter came, then the New Year. The children returned from holiday, and Gregory was no longer an outsiderjust another villager.
Then fresh scandal struck. The parish council chairmans daughter had returned from university, pregnant and unwed. The gossips feasted anew, trading whispers in the shop, the clinic, on snowy footpaths.
Life in the village rolled onnow quiet, now buzzing. January buried the lanes in snow, making every walk a struggle.
Then, one evening, the village stirred again. Martha was called to Mrs. Archers cottage on the far side of the hamlet. The old woman lived with her daughter and grandson, Tommy, who attended Gregorys school. Trudging through knee-deep snow, medical bag in hand, Martha arrived weary.
Inside, she found Gregory waiting, his gaze sharp with purpose.
«Hello,» she said, surprised. «What are you doing here?»
«Tommy was feverish,» he explained. «I walked him home. His mothers at work. Then Mrs. Archer took illIve called an ambulance.»
Martha checked the old woman and paled. «You did right. But how will the ambulance reach us? The roads are blocked.»
Gregory frowned, then spotted a wooden ladder in the yard. «Tommy, fetch me some belts.» The boy returned with three, one of cloth.
«Whats your plan?» Martha asked.
«Well wrap her in a blanket, strap her to the ladder, and drag her to the clinic. Makeshift stretcher.»
Marthas eyes lit with admiration. «Brilliant.»
Gregory took the lead, hauling the ladder through the snow while Martha steadied Mrs. Archer. As they laboured, she asked, «Why *are* you single?»
He exhaled sharply. «My wife left me seven years ago. Ran off with some businessmanmore money in his pockets than a teachers. I volunteered to come here instead of a younger chap whose wife was expecting. No regretsI like it here.»
Martha said nothing, but her thoughts churned.
By the time they reached the clinic, the ambulance was waiting. After Mrs. Archer was loaded in, Gregory lingered briefly before heading home. Martha watched him go, realisation dawning.
*Hes a real man. Steady in a crisis, quick-thinking, no fuss. Not some pampered city boysomeone wholl carry the weight when it counts.*
That evening, villagers spotted Gregory walking Martha home, though his own cottage lay in the opposite direction. The next day, and the next, they were seen chatting and laughing like old friends.
«Martha,» Lydia teased during clinic hours, «whens the wedding?»
Martha only laughed. «This summer. Gregorys on holiday then, and works quieter for me.»
Perhaps the rumours hadnt been so foolish after all. As the saying goes: *Where theres smoke, theres fire.*
