My belated husband I first walked down the aisle at fiftyfive. Five years have slipped by since that day when we said our vows. Now I am sixty, and he is sixtyfive. Nothing about that is astonishing; the world has grown stranger with each passing year. Yet the most astonishing thing is that it was my first marriage, and his as well.
Imagine, I never intended to marry. Never! Before I even turned twenty, the boy I loved with all my heartArthurabandoned me. He left when I was five months pregnant. At first, I begged the Almighty for release, longing to step out of life altogether. But I gathered what little courage I had and swore: I would never set foot in a wedding dress again. I could not bear the thought of another scoundrel disappearing the moment the first trouble arose.
And I kept my word. My daughter grew up, married, bore grandchildren, while I, stubborn as a mule, trudged alone through the years. Men did approach, in fact a parade of them, but my resolve was iron: once I decide, I do not waver. Loneliness hardened me; I was no longer the sort of woman one might call gentle.
Fate, however, loves its tricks. I will tell you how, at last, one man managed to lead me to the altar
When I retired, like most pensioners, I turned to tending a small garden. I inherited a modest cottage with a plot of land from my parents, tucked away in the Kent countryside. I would catch the commuter train from London Victoria; the journey took just over an hour, so I always brought a crosswordfilled magazinetime slipped by quickly.
One rainy afternoon, at the platform, a couple squeezed into the carriage, clearly husband and wife, followed by a short, stooped elderly man. Silence settled like a blanket. Then the woman whispered shyly:
Arthur, perhaps we should drop by the kids, give them a hand? After all, youre a father
Her voice was drowned by a thunderous bark from the man beside her:
Whats wrong with you, you fool? Do you expect me to crawl before those idiots?!
He launched into a tirade at his wife and children. My eyes involuntarily widened, and I froze. It was Arthurthe very same who had left me pregnant years ago. He had changed little; his face was more lined, his eyes sharper, his bulk still formidable. He didnt recognize me, but he saw my stare and shouted:
What are you looking at? Turn away, or Ill stare you into the ground!
My body went numb, as if seized by a sudden paralysis. Then, without warning, the diminutive man opposite me rose, planting himself between me and Arthur:
If you keep denigrating women, youll have me to answer to. A man who speaks like that isnt a man at all, but a wretch. Ill twist you into a lambs horn!
Fear clutched me; Arthur could have crushed him in an instant. Yet the newcomer shrank back, hunched his shoulders, muttered something indecipherable. In that moment a clarity struck: before me stood not a hero, but a trembling coward whose only weapon was a raised voice against women. And through him had I spent my whole life breaking myself? Tears welled, a film flickering in fastforwardthirty years compressed into a handful of seconds.
Two stops later, Arthur and his wife alighted, and I burst into tears. An emptiness, bitter as old ale, settled in my chest.
Even your tears cant mar a beautiful face, the protector said with a grin. No longer did he seem small. He stood tall, a genuine man. His name was George Whitaker, a former serviceman.
That was how we met. Suddenly, for the first time in many years, I felt the longing to be married again, to be loved as a woman.
And so it happened.
George and I are exceedingly happy. Life, it seems, arranges its pieces with quiet wisdom. Age matters little; even in the autumn of our lives love can arrive, bringing true happiness.
