In the lean years of post-war England, I wed a woman with three children, all struggling to keep their heads above water without a soul to lean on.
“Blimey, Edward, youre really going to marry a shop assistant with three kids? Have you gone barmy?” Thomas, my flatmate in our cramped boarding house, clapped me on the back with a smirk.
“Whats wrong with that?” I barely glanced up from the alarm clock I was fixing, a screwdriver in hand, though I caught his eye sidelong.
Back thenthe late 50sour quiet Yorkshire town moved at its own unhurried pace. For me, a man of thirty with no kin, life was a dreary cycle between the factory and my narrow bed in the shared lodgings. After my schooling ended, Id settled into it: work, the odd game of draughts, the wireless, and the occasional pint with mates.
Sometimes Id gaze out the window at children playing in the courtyard, and it would strike methat old longing for a family. But Id push it aside just as quick. What sort of family could a man have in a dingy boarding house?
Everything shifted one damp November evening. I ducked into the corner shop for a loaf. Same as always. Only this time, behind the counter stood *her*Margaret. Id never noticed her before, but now my eyes lingered. Weary yet kind, with a quiet glow beneath the fatigue.
“White or brown?” she asked, the ghost of a smile at her lips.
“White,” I muttered, like a lad caught staring.
“Fresh from the bakers,” she said, wrapping it neatly before handing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something stirred. I fumbled for coins while stealing glances. Ordinary, in her shop apron, perhaps in her early thirties. Worn down, but with a light inside.
A few days later, I spotted her at the bus stop, wrestling with bags while three children buzzed about her. The eldest, a boy of fourteen, clutched a heavy satchel stubbornly; a girl held the hand of the youngest.
“Let me help,” I said, taking a bag.
“No, its quite all right” she began, but I was already loading them onto the bus.
“Mum, whos this?” the little one piped up.
“Hush, Charlie,” his sister scolded.
On the ride, I learned they lived near the factory, in a crumbling flat from the war years. The boy was William, the girl Alice, the little one Charlie. Margarets husband had passed years ago, and shed been carrying the family alone ever since.
“We get by,” she said with a tired smile.
That night, sleep eluded me. Her eyes, Charlies voicesomething long buried stirred in me, like a promise waiting just beyond reach.
From then on, I became a regular at the shop. Milk one day, biscuits the next, sometimes just loitering. The lads at work took notice.
“Edward, three trips a day? Thats not shopping, thats courting,” my foreman, Mr. Higgins, chuckled.
“Fancied something fresh,” I mumbled, flushing.
“Or the shopgirl, eh?” he winked.
One evening, I waited for her after closing.
“Let me carry those,” I said, aiming for casual.
“You neednt”
“Sleeping on the ceilings the tricky part,” I joked, taking the bags.
As we walked, she spoke of the childrenWilliam took odd jobs after school, Alice was top of her class, and Charlie had just learned to tie his shoes.
“Youre kind. But dont pity us,” she said suddenly.
“I dont. I want to be here.”
Later, I mended their leaky tap. Charlie hovered, wide-eyed.
“Could you fix my toy lorry too?”
“Fetch it, lets have a look,” I smiled.
Alice asked for help with sums. We worked through them together. Over tea, we talked. Only William kept his distance. Then I overheard:
“Mum, dyou need him? What if he leaves?”
“Hes not like that.”
“Theyre *all* like that!”
I stood in the hallway, fists clenched. I nearly walked out. But then I remembered Alices grin when she solved a tough problem, Charlies laughter as we fixed his toy, and I knewI couldnt turn my back.
Gossip swirled at work, but I paid it no mind. I knew what I was living for.
“Listen, Edward,” Thomas said one night, “think it through. Why take that on? Find a nice girl without baggage.”
“Youre off your rocker, mate! Marry a shop assistant with three kids?”
“Sod off,” I grunted, still fiddling with the clock.
“Its not thatthree kids, its”
“Shut it, Thomas.”
One evening, I helped Charlie with a school project, cutting out shapes as he stuck out his tongue in concentration.
“Uncle Edward, are you gonna stay with us forever?” he asked suddenly.
“What dyou mean?”
“Yknow like a dad.”
I froze, scissors in hand. A floorboard creakedMargaret stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth. Then she hurried to the kitchen.
She was crying into a tea towel.
“Margaret, love, whats wrong?” I touched her shoulder gently.
“Sorry Charlie doesnt understand what hes saying”
“What if hes right?” I turned her to face me.
Her tear-filled eyes widened.
“You mean it?”
“Dead serious.”
Then William burst in.
“Mum, you alright? He upset you?” He glared at me.
“No, William, its fine,” Margaret managed through tears.
“Liar! Whats he even doing here? Clear off!”
“Let him speak,” I met Williams stare. “Say your piece.”
“Why dyou keep coming? Weve no money, the flats tinywhat dyou want?”
“You. And Alice. And Charlie. And your mum. I need *all* of you. Im not going anywhere, so dont hold your breath.”
William stared, then turned and slammed his bedroom door. Muffled sobs followed.
“Go to him,” Margaret whispered. “You must.”
I found William on the fire escape, hugging his knees, staring into the dark.
“Mind if I join you?” I sat beside him.
“What dyou want?”
“I grew up without a father too. Mum did her best, but it was hard.”
“So?”
“Just know what its likeno one to show you how to mend a bike or stand your ground.”
“I can fight,” he muttered.
“Ive no doubt. Youre a good lad, William. But being a man isnt just fists. Its knowing when to let someone help. For your family.”
He was quiet. Then, barely audible:
“You really wont leave?”
“Never.”
“Swear it.”
“On my life.”
“Dont lie,” he almost smiled.
“Aunt Edith, dyou have anything plainer?” I squinted at rings in Woolworths.
“Edward Whitaker, youre really marrying Margaret? With *three* children?”
“Dead serious,” I said, eyeing a simple band with a tiny chip of a stone.
I proposed without fussjust a handful of daisies (shed once said she liked them better than roses). Charlie barrelled into me at the door.
“Whore the flowers for?”
“Your mum. And theres something else.”
Margaret froze when she saw them.
“Edward” My voice trembled. “Perhaps we ought to make it official? Feels odd, just calling round.”
Alice gasped. William looked up from his book. Margaret burst into tears.
“Mum, is it a bad present?” Charlie panicked.
“The *best*, love,” she smiled through tears.
We married quietly in the factory canteen. Margaret wore a homemade white dress; I had a new suit. William shadowed her all day, solemn. Alice decorated with friends. Charlie raced about announcing, “This is my new dad! For keeps now!”
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bedroom in a new estate. Mr. Higgins even helped us move.
“Alright, newlywed,” he clapped my back. “Dont expect us to paint it for you.”
“Wouldnt dream of it,” I grinned.
And we did it ourselvesWilliam plastering, Alice choosing wallpaper, Charlie handing up tools. Margaret cooked, and we ate on the floor. It was the happiest Id ever been.
Margaret left the shopI insisted she rest. William started technical college, helping me with odd jobs. Alice took up ballet. Charlie simply *shone*.
Not that it was all smooth sailing. We had our rows. Once, William came home tipsyfirst time with his mates. I didnt shout, just sat opposite him.
“How is it?”
“Rotten,” he admitted. “Heads pounding.”
“Good. Means youll think twice next time.”
The years rolled on like chapters in a well-thumbed novel, and one damp autumn evening, as I watched Charlienow taller than meshow his own boy how to mend a toy lorry, I realised the circle had closed, and the love wed built had taken root deep enough to outlast us all.
