**Diary Entry 12th March**
A clatter sounded from the next room. Knocking over a saucepan, Agatha rushed in. The boy stood frozen, staring at the shattered vase.
What have you done? she yelled, swinging a damp tea towel at her grandsons back.
Gran, Ill clean it! He scrambled for the broken pieces.
Oh, Ill give you clean it! Another smack landed. Sit on the bed and dont move!
She swept up the mess, then trudged back to the kitchen. A puddle of water sprawled across the floor, potatoes scattered in itthankfully still raw. She gathered them, rinsed them off, and shoved them into the oven. Sinking into a chair, she wiped her eyes, cursing her daughter silently:
*Why must other families have it all together while mines in shambles? No husband for me, none for my daughter either. And now thisMarthas gone and fetched herself a prison guard from the train station. Some love story, writing letters for three years without ever meeting. Now hell be under my roof. As if feeding her and the boy wasnt enough! Well, Ill make his life hell. Hell run off soon enough.*
Gran, can I go outside?
Go on, then! But wrap up warm. And stay away from the riverthe icell break any day now.
Right, Gran!
A car pulled up. Agatha peered through the window. From here, she could see the mans facescarred and grim. *Whats that fool daughter of mine thinking? A prison guard, and ugly as sin to boot.*
The door swung open. Martha led her fiancé inside.
Ah, just the man I wanted, smirked the local constable. Need to check his release papers. And see what sort of chap youve dragged home.
Off you gotheyre just sitting down to lunch. And hes no son-in-law of mine, never will be.
***
Agatha went to fetch the boynot that he was hard to find, tearing about with the other lads. But she wasnt ready to face the house yet. She lingered with the neighbours, trading gossip. Like it or not, shed have to go back.
Her gaze fell on the enormous logs by the shed. *No splitting those anytime soon.* She grabbed an axe and started hacking splinters off the smallest one. On the third swing, a firm hand caught the handle.
Aunt Agatha, let me have a go.
Be my guest, she grunted.
The manHaroldran a thumb along the blade and frowned. Got a whetstone?
Check the workshop out back. My late husbands tools are still there.
***
Harold stepped inside the shed, his eyes widening at the trove of tools. The grindstone still workedhe sharpened the axe, then hefted the splitting maul beside it.
Outside, he set to work, cleaving the logs clean in two before reducing them to firewood. By dusk, every last log was stacked neatly in the shed.
Agatha watched, arms crossed. A flicker of approval crossed her face.
Aunt Agatha, Harold called. Those beams by the fencerotten?
Aye, and useless.
Ive got the same issue. Maybe between the two, we can salvage one.
They visited Old Tom down the lane. His chainsaw was knackered, but the sprocket and chain were sound.
Take the lot, Tom grinned. Fix yours, and you can cut my timber too.
***
Then the neighbour piped up: Listensplit mine, haul em to the shed, and Ill pay you. He shoved two fifty-pound notes into Harolds hand.
Job done, Harold laid the money on the kitchen table. Aunt Agatha, this is for you.
She blinked. Cash was rare in the villagebarter was king. But for the first time in ages, she smiled.
***
Next morning, Harold tinkered with the rotavatorploughing season was coming. Then the boy came sprinting, wild-eyed.
We were sliding on the ice, and your Jack got carried offhe couldnt jump back!
Agatha and Martha bolted outside, racing for the river.
Jack stood stranded on a floe, drifting toward the faster current. Upstream, massive sheets of ice bore downsomewhere, the jam had broken.
Martha screamed.
But Harold was already in the water, fighting the cold to reach the boy. He hauled himself onto the ice just as a crushing slab loomed.
Listen, Jack, he said, gripping the boys shoulder. Youre tough, right? When that big one hits, we jump. One shotgot it? Ready? Now!
He hurled Jack onto the oncoming floe and leapt after, gasping as his leg scraped raw. Blood soaked his trousers. The boy stared at his scraped palms, trembling.
The river snatched them away.
***
On the bank, the constableGeorgesquinted. Might not be done for yet. The bends sharp up ahead, and Harolds clever.
He sprinted for his Land Rover.
On the ice, Harold held Jack close. Next test, lad. Were hitting that bank hard. Move to the other sidenow!
The impact sent them skidding onto the gravel shore.
Alive! Harold laughed, hoisting Jack up.
My arm hurts. And my leg.
Bah! Youll live. Wedding scars are good luck.
But its bleeding!
Walk it off. Youre a man.
***
Minutes later, they staggered onto the road. Georges Land Rover screeched to a halt.
Still kicking, Harold said.
Christ, you look rough. Hospitalnow.
***
Back home, Martha sobbed into her pillow. Agatha paced by the window. The phones ringtone startled them both.
Georgeare they alright? Martha shrieked.
Jacks here, patched up. Hold on
Mum? Jacks voice crackled.
Sweetheart, are you hurt?
Nah. Im not a baby, am I?
George took over. Hes fine, Martha.
Agatha snatched the phone. George, what about Harold?
Getting stitched up. Here
Agatha? Harolds voice came through, weary but steady.
You daft fool, she breathed. Come home. Both of you.
She hung up, nudging Martha. Up you get. Theyll be starving.
**Lesson today: Sometimes the bloke you least want turns out to be the one you need.**
