Anne married rather late, at five-and-twenty. Her betrothed was neither a poor match nor one to stir envy among her friends. Did she love him? Even she couldnt say. Shed grown used to him. A son was bornTimmy, a clever, thoughtful lad. What more could she want? And so she stopped wanting. She resigned herself to Henrys dullness, his tedious ways, his pinching of pennies till they fairly squeaked. In time, she hardly noticed. She worked at the school, minding the after-hours children, cared for her boythat was her life. And yet, shed been a beauty once, admired by many! Golden-haired, her waves framing a delicate face, her figure the envy of all. A proper English rose, if ever there was one. She mightve wed an eagle.
Her family never took to Henry, laughing at him behind his back. Truth be told, he never fit among themsilent in conversation, missing every jest, forever tugging at Annes sleeve: “Its late, lets go home. Early start tomorrow.” Soon, they stopped inviting her altogether. The couple lived as though on the outskirts of life itself.
Old age crept in, grey and joyless. What had Anne ever seen in her days? Nothing worth recalling. They only ever holidayed at the factorys dreary lodge where Henry toiled as an engineerthree meals a day, evening dances they never attended. “Whats the point?” Henry would say. “Thats for folk looking to pair off. Not for us, eh, Anne?” And Anne would nod.
Fashionable clothes were out of the question. “Too dear!” Henry insisted. “The market stalls have decent Turkish goodshalf the price.” Anne sighed but never argued.
Then misfortune struck. Henrys memory began slipping. Not yet old, even handsomer with age, and suddenlythis. The doctors verdict was grim: early dementia, small strokes peppering his brain. Soon, Henry barely knew their son or grandchildren. “Who are these children?” hed ask.
“Sweetheart,” Anne would murmur, as to a child, “thats Danny and Alfie, our grandsons. The tall ones Timmy, our boy.”
“Why am I only hearing of this now? Have they just arrived?” Henry would marvel. Five minutes later, hed ask again.
Yet he always knew her. How could he not, when she tended to him like an infant? Without her, hed wander out in his underclothes. Now the household money was hers alone, yet she found no desire for finery. Not from thriftshed simply lost the habit. She passed boutiques without a glance, but bought Henry costly treats, just to see him smile. He trailed after her like a calf, begging her not to linger at the shops. “Dont leave me,” hed whisper. Once, he said, “I love you so. Youre everything to me. Id be lost without you.”
Never had words like those passed his lips before. The old saying proved true: “Fortune comes disguised as misfortune.” Yet what use was such fortune now? Anne would lock herself in the bedroom, weeping silently, then wipe her eyes and return to her duty.
This tale was told to me by a neighbour, a comely woman still, slim despite the years. Not a trace of bitterness touched her face. Shyly, she added, “I wrote verses for my Henry. Would you like to hear? My faithful friend, still by my side, / Though time has turned the seasons tide. / The years slip looseI know it well / You think it snows when roses swell… / Yet still I pray, with all my might, / That youll recall me in the night.”
I embraced her, and in my heart, wished her strength and patience.
