I watched Emily Clarke pack in a hurry, her hands trembling, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. After twenty years of marriage her husband, Mark, announced he was leaving her for a younger, more vivacious womannothing like Emily, who was exhausted from work, constantly juggling household chores and raising the children.
The kids had already grown up. Their son was studying in Manchester and visited only on rare occasions. Their daughter had married and moved in with her husband. Emily was left alone in a spacious flat that suddenly felt empty and alien.
She threw her belongings into a suitcase without bothering to sort them. What did it matter? All she wanted was to run away, to hide from the pain and humiliation.
The phone rang as she zipped the suitcase. She saw Lucys name on the screen and sighed; she didnt feel like talking to anyone.
Hello, she managed.
Emily, love! I just heard How are you? Lucys voice sounded worried.
Fine, Emily replied bluntly. Packing.
Where are you off to?
I dont know, Emily admitted honestly. I just cant stay here any longer.
You still have that cottage in the countryside, the one your grandmother left you. Why not go there?
Emily froze. Indeed, she owned a small cottage in the village of Littleford, a modest property inherited from her maternal grandmother. They used to visit when the kids were little, but life had slipped away. Mark had always complained that the countryside was boring and said he preferred holidays by the sea.
Lucy, youre a genius! Emily exclaimed. Thats where Ill go!
Is it habitable? Does it have heating?
Theres a woodburning stove and electricity. Thats all I need.
An hour later Emily was on the commuter train heading toward Littleford, about thirty miles from the citya completely different world.
The village greeted her with quiet lanes and the scent of lilacs. The cottage sat on the edge of the lane, surrounded by ancient apple trees. She struggled to push open the squeaky gate and stepped onto the overgrown lawn.
Everything looked abandoned. The grass was waisthigh, the porch sagged, a window was broken. Emily let out a heavy sigh. What am I going to do here? How will I live? Im a city girl, used to comfort.
A hoarse voice cracked from behind the house: Whos there? A tiny, stooped old woman appeared, leaning on a stick.
Good day, Emily stammered, Im the granddaughter of Mary Thompson. This is her house.
The Thompson house? the old woman squinted, examining the stranger. And youre Emily, I presume?
Yes, Emily answered, surprised. And you are?
Im Mrs. Hawthorn, a neighbour. We were friends with your grandmother. Why have you come?
To live, Emily said firmly, surprising herself.
Live? You cant live there. Its dilapidated, needs repairs. And what would a city folk do in a place like this?
Ill manage, Emily replied stubbornly and headed for the cottage.
She found the key in her bag, turned the lock, and stepped inside. The air was damp and dusty. Old furniture lay under a blanket of grime, a stove sat in the corner, a table, two beds, and yellowed photographs on the wallsone showing a young, beautiful Mary smiling.
Emily sank onto a bed and finally let the tears flow, sobbing hard, spilling all the resentment and hurt she had bottled up.
When the crying subsided, a strange calm settled over her. In this old house she felt shielded from the world; no one would see her tears, no one would judge.
The next morning she awoke to birdsong and bright sunlight through the window. She washed her face with cold water from a bucket and stepped out into the yard.
Morning, neighbour, croaked Mrs. Hawthorn, holding a sack of milk, fresh bread, and a few potatoes.
Good morning, Emily replied.
Thought youd be hungry. The shops a mile away. She waved a hand dismissively. Are you serious about staying?
Yes, Emily said, nodding. I just dont know where to start.
Start with cleaning, Mrs. Hawthorn suggested pragmatically, pulling out rags and a broom. Ill help.
They spent the day sweeping, scrubbing, and airing the rooms. By evening Emily collapsed from exhaustion, but for the first time in years she felt content with the work shed done.
Tomorrow well check the stove, Mrs. Hawthorn said as she left. Mays weather can be deceptive.
Emily nodded, beginning to understand that country life meant constant labour, a thought that oddly reassured her rather than frightened her.
In the following days they repaired the stove, glazed the broken window, and steadied the porch. Emily learned to cook on the woodburner, draw water from the well, and heat the small garden sauna. Her hands grew calloused, her back ached, but her body adjusted to the physical toil.
One evening, Mrs. Hawthorn arrived with a woman she introduced as Claire, who worked at the village library.
Its nice to meet you, Emily, Claire smiled, shaking her hand. We dont get many newcomers here, especially ones who stay.
Im not sure how long Ill be, Emily admitted shyly.
What did you do in the city? Claire asked.
I was an accountant, Emily replied.
And your education?
Economics, Emily said with a shrug. Why?
Were short of teachers at the primary school, especially for maths. Would you consider giving it a go, even temporarily?
Emily was taken aback; teaching had never crossed her mind, but the idea intrigued her.
Ill think about it, she said.
A week later Emily stood before a handful of village childrenabout fifteen of various agesin a modest classroom. The school ran a mixedage programme, letting one teacher handle several year groups at once.
Good morning, class, her voice trembled slightly. Im Emily Clarke, and Ill be teaching you maths.
The children stared cautiously. Emily took a deep breath and began the lesson. To her surprise, the teaching turned out to be enjoyable; the youngsters asked insightful questions, and by the end of the hour she felt a lift of pride.
Soon Emilys days were filled with school, tending the garden she was reviving, and chatting with new friends. Her son sent occasional messages asking how she was; her daughter called now and then. Emily replied simply, All is well here, and it was true.
The city felt distant and foreign. She occasionally thought of her flat, her old job, Mark, but those memories no longer hurt; they were just a chapter left behind.
One afternoon a tall, broadshouldered farmer named Tom Whitfield knocked on her door, his beard neatly trimmed.
Emily, may I come in? he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
Of course, Tom, come in, she replied, offering tea.
They sat at the kitchen table, sipping honeysweetened tea. Tom talked about his farm, his plans for the upcoming season. Emily listened attentively.
Actually, I could use some help with the accounts, Tom said after a pause. The farms expanding, paperworks piling up, and Im not good with numbers. Could you assist?
Emily considered it. The offer was unexpected but appealing; she missed professional work.
Ill think about it, she answered.
Take your time, but not too long. The planting season is about to start, Tom warned.
A few days later Emily accepted. Her mornings were spent at the school, afternoons at Toms farm, evenings in her garden.
Tom later offered help with the overgrown plot.
Youve got a lot to manage alone, he said, gesturing at the wild beds. I have a tractor and some extra hands.
Emily welcomed the aid. The next day Tom arrived with his tractor and, in a few hours, turned the soil. Together they planted potatoes, onions, carrots, arguing occasionally, laughing often.
The fence is falling apart, Tom noted, eyeing the boundary.
I cant afford a new fence, Emily sighed.
Dont worry, Ive got timber and a few lads to help. Just promise to share some of your homecooked meals, Tom replied with a grin. Deal?
Emily smiled and agreed. The whole village pitched in: Mrs. Hawthorn with her son, Claire with her husband, and others. They worked all day and then held an impromptu celebration in Emilys yard.
To new beginnings! Tom raised a mug of homemade cider.
To fresh lives! Claire added.
Emily watched these simple, openhearted people and felt she had finally found her place. Here, among the fields and honest folk, she discovered the life shed missed in the cityreal, unpretentious, and fulfilling.
In autumn her former husband Mark turned up in a sleek black car, stopping at the gate as Emily was pulling weeds.
Emily, he called, may I come in?
She straightened, brushed flour from her apron, and nodded. Mark stepped into the yard, eyes wide with surprise.
You live here? he asked.
Yes, Emily replied simply.
But you have a flat in the city, all the comforts
I like it here, she shrugged.
Mark studied her; she looked healthier, slimmer, more confident, a spark in her eyes.
You look different, he observed.
I am different, she said, smiling. Would you like some tea?
They sat on the veranda, drinking tea with homemade blackberry jam. Mark spoke of his new life, but the words no longer stirred her.
Ive come to ask you to come back, he finally said. I was wrong. That other woman it was a mistake. I love only you.
Emily looked at him, bemused. Not long ago those words would have made her heart race, but now she felt only calm.
Mark, I appreciate your sentiment, but I wont be returning. My home is here, she said softly.
But this is just a village! No theatres, no restaurants, no shops! he protested.
Exactly. It has real life, and real people, Emily replied evenly.
What about our marriage? Twenty years together
Our marriage ended when you left, she said without accusation. If you hadnt gone, I might never have found myself.
Mark stared, bewildered. This confident woman was nothing like the Emily hed known.
Are you happy here? he finally asked.
Yes, she answered plainly. I am happy.
When Mark drove away, Emily returned to her rows of carrots. Tom soon arrived with a basket of apples from his orchard.
Emily, fresh apples for you! he called. Antonias best!
Thanks, Tom, she laughed. Could you help me pull the carrots? Its a heavy job alone.
Happy to help, Tom replied. Anything for you.
They worked side by side, chatting occasionally as the sun painted the sky pink. The scent of apples and fallen leaves filled the air.
Who came to see you? Tom asked suddenly, nodding toward the car.
My exhusband, Emily said.
And what did he want?
To bring me back to the city.
Tom paused, holding a carrot, then asked, And you?
I turned him down, Emily answered, smiling. Im happy here.
Tom beamed and went back to the work. Their comfortable silence spoke of mutual understanding.
That evening, as Tom prepared to leave, he turned to Emily and said, Theres a village fete on Saturdaya concert, dancing. Would you like to go with me?
Emilys face lit up.
Delighted, Tom, she replied.
On Saturday evening Emily put on her finest dresssimple yet elegant. Tom arrived, slightly nervous, bearing a bouquet of wildflowers.
You look lovely, he said, handing her the blossoms.
The concert was heartfelt, locals singing folk songs, reciting poetry, dancing. Tom invited her to a waltz. He was clumsy but earnest; Emily felt his strong, steady arms around her.
Emily, Im a simple man, no city polish, Tom whispered, eyes meeting hers. But Im completely smitten with you.
Emily saw the earnestness in his gaze and realized she felt the same.
Im smitten with you too, Tom, she whispered back.
They danced until the night grew late, and Tom escorted her home, gently taking her hand at the gate.
May I come again tomorrow? he asked.
Come on over, Emily smiled. Ill be waiting.
She lingered by the window, watching his sturdy figure disappear down the lane, and finally understood she was truly happysomething shed never felt before.
Winter settled over the village, blanketing Emilys cottage in snow. Each morning Tom cleared the paths. Evenings were spent together by the fire, sipping tea and dreaming of the future.
Claire once remarked, You and Tom make a wonderful pair. Whens the wedding?
Emily blushed, Were just friends.
Ah, friends who look at each other with lovers eyes, Claire teased.
In spring Tom got down on one knee, plain and sincere.
Will you marry me, Emily? I love you.
Ill marry you, Tom. I love you too.
The whole village turned up for the wedding. Emilys son and daughter arrived, initially shocked by their mothers decision, but they soon embraced her happiness.
Youre happy, Mum, and thats all that matters, her daughter said, hugging her.
Emily finally felt she had found her true placein a tiny English village, among honest people, beside the man she loved. The happiness she now lived was simple, genuine, and without pretence.
Every morning she woke with a smile, ready for a new day. School, farm work, home duties, evenings by the hearth with Tomeach filled her life with purpose.
Sometimes she thought of her former city existencebusy, stressful, full of empty chatter. She now knew that happiness is being where you belong, doing what you love, surrounded by those who truly cherish you.
