**A Bride by Letters**
The bed creaked as the woman snored loudly. Grimacing at the stale air, the man gave her a firm swat on the thigh. She yelped and jolted upright. Despite the stifling heat, she wore thick woolly socks and a knitted jumper, her grubby headscarf askew, greasy hair poking out beneath it.
“Who are you?” she stammered, blinking in confusion.
Instead of answering, he pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and held it close to her face. “Ring any bells?”
She flushed, fidgeting with the scarf. “That’s me. Twenty years ago.”
He sank onto a rickety chair. “So what was all that, then? Heartfelt letters? An invite to visit? Bloody hell, your place smells like a kennel. And here I was, daft enough to think I’d finally found a kindred spirit. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who you were writing to. It’s me—John. Came just like I promised.”
Mabel scrambled to her feet. “Sorry for the mess. Could’ve sent a telegram. I’d have tidied up. Kitchen’s this way—got some soup left if you’re peckish.”
John snorted. “Starving. But do us a favour—change first. You don’t exactly smell of roses.”
She bolted into the next room. “I work at the farm, don’t I? Manure ain’t lavender!”
She returned in a faded dress, scarf neatly tied. “You wrote you were forty. That scarf makes you look eighty,” John chuckled.
“Habit,” Mabel muttered, motioning to the table.
John sat, recoiling as his hands stuck to the grimy oilcloth. Meanwhile, Mabel lifted the lid off a dented pot. A sour stench flooded the kitchen.
“Christ, you’re no homemaker. Dishes filthy, table mucky—do you even wash up?”
“Course I do!” she snapped. “Boil some water and scrub.”
He raised a brow. “Put anything in it? Soda? Washing-up liquid?”
She faltered. “No. My nan and mum did it this way. Just scalding water. Burns my hands, though.”
“Right, we’re off to the shops. Made a list. Here’s some quid—keep yours. I’m a guest, ain’t I? Oh, and grab a bottle of red. Celebrate our meeting.”
Trudging to the shops, Mabel wondered how she’d landed in this mess. It started at work, flipping through a paper. The back page had lonely-hearts ads. The girls egged her on—”Mabs, it’s fate! How long’ll you live alone? Pick one and write!”
Blast her for agreeing. And of all men, John. After his first letter, she learned he was inside, three years left. They wrote—he about his life, she about hers. Even sent a photo from her twenties. She never thought he’d actually come. Figured he’d shack up with some tart after release. Yet here he was, nose wrinkled.
So the place wasn’t spotless. Who cared? She worked, slept, cooked enough for days, then telly till bedtime—soap operas full of love she’d never had. Well, once. Charlie Redwood. Used her, then married another. After that, she gave up. And once Nan and Mum passed, nothing mattered.
But John… he was handsome. Broad shoulders, crisp white shirt, trousers creased sharp. Nice cologne, too. What if he tried something? Lord, the thought terrified her. She could bolt to a mate’s, but he’d traveled all this way…
Returning, she found John had tidied—dirty laundry piled, floors swept, a basin of hot suds ready.
“Get everything?” He peeked into the bags. “Right, fire up the boiler. Need a wash after traveling. And dump that laundry—you’ll sort it later.”
While she fussed in the bathroom, he scrubbed every dish. Mabel gaped—the pot was blue, not grubby grey.
“Let’s talk straight,” he said after. “I came to stay. Took a liking to you. Got no place of my own—ex-wife got it all. If you’re not keen, say so. I’ll go, no fuss. But if you’ll have me…?”
Mabel picked at the oilcloth. “Dunno, honest. Never had a husband. Got hurt young. Scared stiff, really. But… I like you. Just don’t know what to do.”
John grinned. “That’s why I like you more. No games, no pretence. Tell you what—we’ll live like flatmates. If it goes pear-shaped, I’m gone. If not… I’ll treat you like a queen.”
Flustered, Mabel jumped up. “I’ll make supper—”
“Plenty of time while I wash up. Take me ages.”
By the time he finished, the table was set, floors gleaming. Mabel, in a fresh dress with her waist-length chestnut hair combed out, slipped past him toward the bathroom.
Clean and changed, she looked years younger. John ached to sweep her up—but he’d promised.
They slept apart—her in bed, him on the sofa. Neither slept a wink. Come morning, Mabel fled to work. Returning, she found breakfast waiting—scrambled eggs, toast, tea. Her heart warmed.
Outside, John surveyed her overgrown yard, mentally listing repairs.
Three nights in, Mabel crept to his sofa.
Four years on, they’re raising little Matilda, doting on her.
People stumble. Doesn’t mean they’re doomed. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness. Don’t you think?