In the bleak days of Thatchers Britain, I wed a woman with three children, left to struggle on her own with no help in sight.
Blimey, James, youre really marrying a shop assistant with three kids? Gone barmy, have you? My mate Dave, sharing my cramped flat in a rundown boarding house, clapped me on the back with a smirk.
Whats wrong with that? I barely glanced up from the broken radio I was fiddling with, a screwdriver in my grip, though I caught his eye from the side.
Back thenthe early 80sour quiet Yorkshire town moved at its own sluggish pace. For me, a bloke of thirty with no kin, life was a dreary cycle between the factory and my narrow bed in shared digs. After college, Id settled into it: work, the odd game of darts, telly nights, and the occasional pint with mates.
Sometimes Id gaze out the window at kids playing football in the street, and itd hit methat old dream of a family. But Id shake it off quick. What sort of life could you build in a dingy boarding house?
Everything shifted one damp November evening. I nipped into the corner shop for a loaf. Same as always. Only this time, behind the counter stood *her*Sarah. Id never noticed her before, but now I couldnt look away. Tired but warm, with a quiet spark in her eyes.
White or brown? she asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
White, I muttered, feeling like a schoolboy caught gawping.
Fresh this morning, she said, wrapping it neatly before handing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something clicked. I fumbled for coins while stealing glances. Plain, in her shop apron, early thirties maybe. Worn out, but with a light inside.
A few days later, I spotted her at the bus stop, juggling bags while three kids buzzed around her. The eldest, a lad of about fourteen, clutched a heavy sack stubbornly; a girl held the youngests hand.
Let me help, I said, taking a bag.
No, its fine she began, but I was already loading them onto the bus.
Mum, whos this? the little one piped up.
Hush, Tommy, his sister scolded.
On the ride, I learned they lived near the factory, in a crumbling postwar flat. The boy was George, the girl Lucy, the little one Tommy. Sarahs husband had passed years back, and shed been raising them alone since.
We get by, she said with a tired smile.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Her eyes, Tommys voicesomething long buried stirred in me, like a promise just out of reach.
From then on, I became a regular at the shop. Milk one day, biscuits the next, sometimes just loitering. The lads at work noticed.
James, mate, three trips a day? Thats not shopping, thats love, my foreman, Harris, grinned.
Just 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, trying to sound casual.
You dont have to
Sleeping on the ceilings the tricky bit, I joked, taking the bags.
On the walk, she told me about the kidsGeorge did odd jobs after school, Lucy was top of her class, and Tommy had just learned to tie his laces.
Youre kind. But dont pity us, she said suddenly.
I dont. I want to be here.
Later, I fixed their leaky tap. Tommy hovered, fascinated.
Could you fix my toy train too?
Fetch it, lets see, I smiled.
Lucy asked for help with sums. We worked through them together. Over tea, we talked. Only George 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 Lucys grin when she nailed her maths test, Tommys laughter as we fixed his toy, and I knewI couldnt leave.
Gossip swirled at work, but I didnt care. I knew what I was living for.
Listen, James, Dave said one night, think it through. Why take that on? Find a nice girl without baggage.
Youre off your nut, mate! Marry a shop assistant with three kids?
Piss off, I grunted, still tinkering with the radio.
Its not thatjust three kids, its
Shut it, Dave.
One evening, I helped Tommy with a school project, cutting out shapes as he stuck out his tongue in concentration.
Uncle James, are you gonna stay with us forever? he asked suddenly.
What dyou mean?
Yknow like a dad.
I froze, scissors in hand. A floorboard creakedSarah stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth. Then she spun and hurried to the kitchen.
She was crying into a tea towel.
Sarah, love, whats wrong? I touched her shoulder gently.
Sorry Tommy 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 George burst in.
Mum, you alright? He upset you? He glared at me.
No, George, its fine, Sarah managed through tears.
Liar! Whats he even doing here? Clear off!
Let him speak, I met Georges stare. Say what you want.
Why dyou keep coming? Weve no money, the flats tinywhat dyou want?
You. And Lucy. And Tommy. And your mum. I need *all* of you. Im not going anywhere, so dont hold your breath.
George stared, then turned and slammed his bedroom door. Muffled sobs came through.
Go to him, Sarah whispered. You have to.
I found George 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 dad too. Mum tried, but it was hard.
So?
Just know what its likeno one to show you how to fix a bike or stand up for yourself.
I can fight, he muttered.
I bet. Youre a good lad, George. 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 Joan, dyou have anything simpler? I squinted at rings in WH Smith.
James Baker, youre seriously marrying Sarah? With *three* children?
Dead serious, I said, eyeing a plain band with a tiny stone.
I proposed without fussjust a bunch of daisies (shed once said she liked them better than roses). Tommy tackled me at the door.
Whore the flowers for?
Your mum. And theres something else.
Sarah froze when she saw them.
James My voice shook. Maybe we should make it official? Feels odd, just popping by.
Lucy gasped. George looked up from his book. Sarah burst into tears.
Mum, is it a bad present? Tommy panicked.
The *best*, love, she smiled through tears.
We married quietly at the factory canteen. Sarah wore a homemade white dress; I had a new suit. George shadowed her all day, solemn. Lucy decorated with friends. Tommy raced around announcing, This is my new dad! Forever now!
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bed in a new estate. Harris even helped move us in.
Alright, newlywed, he clapped my back. Just dont expect us to paint it for you.
Wouldnt dream of it, I grinned.
And we did it ourselvesGeorge plastering, Lucy picking wallpaper, Tommy passing tools. Sarah cooked, and we ate on the floor. It was the happiest Id ever been.
Sarah quit the shopI insisted she rest. George started technical college, helping me with odd jobs. Lucy took up ballet. Tommy just *shone*.
Not that it was perfect. We had rows. Once, George came home plasteredfirst time with mates. I didnt shout, just sat opposite him.
How is it?
Rubbish, he admitted. Heads killing me.
Good. Means youll think twice next time.
The years rolled on like pages in a well-thumbed book, and one rainy autumn evening, as I watched Tommynow taller than meteach his own son to fix a broken toy train, I realized the circle had closed, and the love wed built had grown roots deep enough to outlast us all.
