She fled to the countryside and found peace at last.
Anne hurriedly packed her belongings, her hands trembling, tears gathering in her eyes. After twenty years of marriage her husband announced he was leaving her for a younger, cheerful womannothing like Anne, who was weary from work, perpetually occupied with household chores and raising children.
The children were grown. Her son studied in another city and visited rarely; her daughter had married and moved in with her husband. Anne was left alone in a spacious flat that suddenly seemed empty and alien.
She shoved clothes into a suitcase without deciding what to take. What did it matter? All she wanted was to run, to hide from the shame and the hurt.
The phone rang as she was zipping the bag. The display showed her friend Sophies name, and Anne sighed. She did not feel like speaking to anyone.
Hello, she answered reluctantly.
Sophie, love! I just heard How are you? Sophies voice sounded worried.
Fine, Anne replied curtly. Packing.
Where are you off to?
I dont know, Anne confessed honestly. I simply cant stay here any longer.
You still have that cottage up in Willowbrook, the one your grandmother left you. Why not go there?
The thought stopped Anne in her tracks. Indeed she owned a small, aging cottage that had belonged to her maternal grandmother. They used to go there when the children were young, then fell out of habit. Her husband, Stephen, had always complained that the country was boring and that he preferred holidays by the sea.
Sophie, youre a genius! Anne exclaimed. Thats exactly where Ill go!
Is it livedin? Does it have heating?
Theres a stove and electricity. Thats all I need.
An hour later she was on the commuter train heading toward Willowbrook, a village fifty miles from Londona world apart.
The village greeted her with quiet and the scent of lilacs. The cottage sat on the edge of the lane, surrounded by ancient apple trees. Anne struggled to pull open the creaking gate and stepped onto the overgrown lawn.
Everything looked neglected. Grass brushed her knees, the porch leaned, a window was shattered. She let out a heavy sigh. What could she possibly do here? She was a city woman, used to comforts.
A hoarse voice called out, Whos there? A stooped old lady emerged from behind the house, a wooden stick in hand.
Good day, Anne stammered, Im the granddaughter of Mary Whitfield. This is her house.
The Whitfield house? the old woman squinted, eyeing the stranger. And you are Anne?
Yes, Anne answered, surprised. And you are?
Im Priscilla, the neighbour. Your grandmother and I were close. What brings you back?
Im staying, Anne said suddenly, with a steadiness she did not expect.
Staying? Priscilla shook her head doubtfully. This place is derelict, it needs work. And youre a city folk, I gather?
Ill manage, Anne replied stubbornly, heading toward the front door.
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 cobwebs, a stove sat in the corner, a table, two beds, and faded photographs on the walls. In one, her grandmother smiled, youthful and radiant.
Anne sank onto a bed and wept. For the first time in months she allowed herself to sob openly, the tears pouring out all the hurt and humiliation.
When the sobbing ceased, a strange calm settled over her. In this crumbling house she felt shielded from the world; no one would see her tears, no one would judge.
The next morning the birds sang, sunlight streamed through the cracked window. She washed her face with cold water from a bucket and stepped out into the garden.
Morning, Priscilla, croaked the familiar voice. The neighbour stood at the fence, a bundle of fresh bread in her hands.
Morning, Anne replied.
I thought youd be hungry. I brought milk and a loaf, and a few potatoes the shops a fair way off.
Thank you, Anne said, touched.
Neighbours look after each other. Are you sure you intend to stay?
I am, Anne nodded. I just dont know where to begin.
Start with cleaning, Priscilla suggested, pulling out a broom and a rag. Ill help.
They spent the day sweeping, scrubbing, airing the rooms. By evening Anne collapsed from exhaustion, but for once she felt a sense of accomplishment.
Tomorrow well check the stove, Priscilla said as she left. May is still a fickle month; the cold will return.
Anne nodded, realizing that country life demanded constant labour, yet the thought no longer frightened herit steadied her.
In the following days they repaired the stove, glazed the broken window, straightened the porch. Anne learned to cook over the fire, draw water from the old well, and heat the modest bath. Her hands grew calloused, her back ached, but her body adjusted to the toil.
One evening a newcomer arrived with a woman beside her.
This is Tatiana, she works at the village library. I thought Id introduce you, Priscilla said.
Pleasure, Anne smiled.
Likewise, Tatiana replied, shaking Annes hand. We rarely get newcomers, especially ones who plan to stay.
Anne blushed. Im not sure how long Ill be here.
What did you do in the city? Tatiana asked.
I was an accountant, Anne said.
And your education?
Economics, Anne shrugged. Why do you ask?
The school here is short of teachers, especially for maths. Might you give it a try, even temporarily?
The suggestion intrigued Anne. She had never considered teaching, but the idea sparked a small flame of interest.
Ill think about it, she answered.
A week later she stood before a handful of village childrenonly fifteen of various agesin a modest classroom that served several grades at once.
Good morning, children, she began, voice trembling, Im Miss Anne Whitfield, and Ill be your maths teacher.
The pupils watched her cautiously. Anne took a deep breath and started the lesson. To her surprise the teaching proved engaging; the children asked thoughtful questions, and by the end of the session she felt a buoyant lift.
Gradually Annes life wove itself into the fabric of Willowbrook. She taught at the school, tended a modest garden that she revived, and mingled with neighbours. Her son sent occasional messages, her daughter called now and then; Anne replied simply, All is well here, and meant it.
The city receded into a dim memory. She sometimes recalled the flat, the job, Stephen, but those recollections no longer cut her like a knife; they were simply chapters of a life left behind.
One evening a tall, broadshouldered farmer named Ivan Petrovich knocked at her door, his beard flecked with grey.
Miss Whitfield, may I come in? he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
Please, come in. Would you like some tea? Anne offered.
Id be grateful, he said, taking a seat.
Over tea with honey, Ivan spoke of his farm, his plans for the coming season. When the conversation settled, he ventured, I could use an assistant with the accounts. The paperwork is piling up and Im not much help with numbers. Might you consider it?
Anne hesitated. The offer was unexpected but tempting; she missed professional work.
Ill think about it, she said.
Ill be waiting, Ivan replied, but not for too longthe season is fast approaching.
A few days later she accepted. Her days now split between school in the mornings, bookkeeping for Ivan in the afternoons, and tending her garden in the evenings.
One day Ivan offered a hand with the garden.
Its overgrown, you cant manage it alone, he said, gesturing to the tangled rows. I have a tractor, and Im happy to help.
He arrived the next day with the tractor, ploughing the soil in a few hours. Together they planted potatoes, onions, carrots, laughing and occasionally bickering in good humour.
Youve made a nice home here, Ivan remarked, eyeing the yard, but the fence has collapsed entirely.
I havent the money for a new one, Anne sighed.
Well do it together, Ivan smiled, I have timber, you have the labour, and Ill be fed with your meals. Deal?
She agreed, and the whole village turned out to helpPriscilla with her son, Tatiana with her husband, and others. By dusk a sturdy fence stood, and they celebrated with a makeshift feast of homebrewed cider.
Heres to the new home! Ivan raised his glass.
To new lives! Tatiana added.
Anne looked around at the smiling facessimple, open, ready to lend a handand felt she had finally found her place. In this countryside, among nature and kind folk, she discovered what had been missing in the city: a true life.
In autumn her former husband Stephen arrived unexpectedly, his polished car grinding to a halt at the gate.
Anne, he called, may I come in?
She straightened, wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded. Stephen stepped onto the lawn, eyes wide with surprise.
You live here? he asked.
Yes, she replied simply.
But you have a flat in London, all the comforts
I like it here, Anne shrugged.
Stephen examined her closely; she seemed alteredher complexion healthier, her posture confident, a spark in her eyes.
You lookdifferent, he observed.
I am different now, she replied, offering him tea.
They sat on the veranda, sipping tea with a spoonful of homemade blackcurrant jam. Stephen spoke of his new life, but his words no longer struck a chord.
Ive come to ask you to return, he said finally. I was wrong. That other woman was just a passing fancy. I love only you.
Anne regarded him with a calm she would not have mustered years before.
Thank you for saying that, she said softly, but I will not go back. My home is here.
But this is just a village! he exclaimed. There are no theatres, no restaurants, no shops!
There is a real life here, Anne answered evenly, and real people.
What about our marriage? Twenty years together
It ended when you left, she said without accusation. If you hadnt walked away, I might never have found myself.
Stephen stared, bewildered, at a woman he barely recognised.
Are you happy here? he asked at last.
Yes, she replied. I am happy.
When he departed, Ivan soon appeared with a bucket of apples from his orchard.
Anne Whitfield, look what I haveAntonia apples, the sweetest! he called.
Thank you, Ivan, she said, could you help me haul the carrots? Its a heavy load for one.
Anything for you, he replied, and they worked side by side as the sun painted the sky pink.
What was that mans car? Ivan asked later, drying his hands.
Former husband, Anne said.
What did he want?
To coax me back to the city.
What did you say? Ivan asked, trying to keep his tone light.
I refused, Anne answered, smiling. Im content here.
Ivans face brightened. Later that evening, as he prepared to leave, he turned to her and asked, Theres a village hall concert on Saturday, then dancing afterwards. Would you like to go with me?
Annes eyes lit up at his shy grin.
With pleasure, Ivan, she replied.
On Saturday she donned her best dresssimple, yet elegant. Ivan arrived, neatly dressed, a bouquet of meadow flowers in hand.
You look lovely, he said, presenting the blossoms.
The concert was heartfeltlocal folk singing, poetry recited, a few lively dances. When the reel began, Ivan invited Anne to a waltz. He was clumsy but earnest; his strong, gentle arms guided her through the steps.
Anne Whitfield, he whispered, eyes fixed on hers, Im a simple man, without city airs. Yet Im utterly smitten with you.
She looked at his broad shoulders, his kind eyes, and felt the same.
I feel the same, Ivan, she murmured.
They danced until the night grew old, then he escorted her home, pausing at the gate to take her hand.
May I come by tomorrow? he asked.
Please do, she said, Ill be waiting.
She lingered at the window, watching his sturdy figure disappear down the lane, and realized, for perhaps the first time in her life, that true happiness had settled in her heart.
Winter blanketed the village in snow. The house was buried under drifts, and each morning Ivan shovelled the path. Evenings were spent over tea, chatting and planning.
One day Tatiana remarked, You and Ivan make a fine pair. Whens the wedding?
Anne blushed, Were just friends.
Tatiana smiled, Friends who look at each other with lovers eyes, perhaps?
By spring Ivan knelt in the garden and said simply, Will you marry me, Anne? I love you.
She nodded, Ill marry you, Ivan. I love you too.
The whole village turned up for the ceremony. Annes son and daughter arrived, initially shocked, but seeing their mothers joy they quickly embraced her.
Most important is that youre happy, Mum, her daughter said, hugging her.
Anne truly was happy. She had found her place in a tiny English village, among plain folk, beside a man who loved her, and the happiness was plain and genuine, free of pretence.
Every morning she awoke with a smile, eager for the day ahead. Teaching, farming, caring for the home, evenings by the fire with her husbandall gave her life purpose. Occasionally she recalled the frantic city lifeits endless bustle, shallow conversationsand marveled at how far she had come.
Now she knew happiness: being where you belong, doing work you love, surrounded by people who cherish you truly. She had escaped to the countryside, fled from pain and disappointment, and discovered love, selfrespect, and contentment. And she lived happily ever after.
