The Village Intellectuals
“Tess, Tess, have you heard? A new maths teacher’s come to the village from the city. Miss Barbara finally retiredGod knows she was long overdue, bless her, but there was no one else to teach the children. So here he is,” chattered old Mrs. Whitcombe, the neighbour who always had the latest gossip at her fingertips.
“No, I hadnt heard. A man, is it?”
“Thats right. And not some young lad, eitherforty-six, they say, and single.”
“Single at that age?” Tess raised an eyebrow. “Maybe his wifes coming later. Or maybe not. City women dont fancy village life.”
“Well, so what if hes single? Arent there enough unmarried women here? Take our nurse, Margaretwidowed three years now, and a proper looker. Perfect match, if you ask mea teacher and a nurse…”
The village hummed with rumours before Gregory Ellis had even met Margaret. Yet somehow, everyone had already decided theyd marry.
Time passed. No talk of weddings. No one even saw them together much. Oh, theyd methow could they not, in a place this small? But nothing more.
Gregory had settled into the old cottage once reserved for teachers and medics. Tall, well-spoken, the children adored him. Lessons came alive with his jokes and clear explanations.
The real stir, though, was among the old women perched on their benches by the lane, dissecting every scrap of news. Gregory Ellis was their latest puzzle.
Two theories dominated. Mrs. Whitcombe led with the first:
“Mark my words,” she said, adjusting her scarf, “that Gregorys a recent widower. Buried his wife in the city, no doubtpoor thing mustve been ill. Came here to escape his grief, start fresh. Grief does strange things to a man.”
The second came from sharp-eyed Mrs. Archer, who missed nothing and invented the rest with equal conviction.
“Ill tell you whathes running from something. Got himself tangled in trouble up there. Debts, maybe. Or some young floozy, and his wife found out. Mark my words, hes hiding.”
No agreement was reached, but the theories spread like wildfire. Margaret, of course, stayed clear of the chatterthough patients made sure she heard every word.
At forty-one, with a daughter at university and a husband lost to heart failure three years back, Margaret had no interest in Gregory Ellis. Not that she disliked himtheir paths simply didnt cross. The school stood at one end of the village, the clinic at the other. Her children werent pupils, and Gregory never fell ill.
“Margaret, the village is pairing you off with that teacher. You know that, dont you?” asked Liz, the elderly nurse. “Theyre already planning the wedding.”
“Oh, Ive heard, Liz. What nonsense. Weve barely exchanged two words. He seems decent enough, butcity manners, polished shoes, those fancy wire-rimmed glasses. Probably doesnt know one end of a hammer from the other.” She scribbled notes, then added, “When I trained in the city, I met plenty like him. All talk, no substance.”
“Hes no boy, though,” Liz countered.
“Oh, Liz, you know what they sayLife begins at forty. And for men? It begins at twenty and never ends. Even when theyre leaning on a walking stick, their minds never change.”
Liz fell silent, then sighed. “Suppose youre right. A man alone at his age? Theres usually a reason.”
“Exactly,” Margaret said. “Let them gossip. Ive no time for romantic nonsense. If I wanted company, Id want a proper family.”
Eventually, the talk died down. Gregory earned the villages respect; Margaret kept to her work. Theyd nod politely at the shop, then go their separate ways.
Winter came. New Year passed. The children returned from holidays, and Gregory was no longer the outsiderjust another villager.
Then fresh gossip erupted. The council chairmans daughter had come home from universitypregnant, unmarried. The benches buzzed anew, though now the chatter moved indoors to the shop, the clinic, chance meetings on icy paths.
January brought blizzards. The lanes lay buried, travel a struggle.
Then, one evening, the village stirred again. Margaret was summoned to Mrs. Archers cottage on the far side of the village. Trudging through snowdrifts, medical bag in hand, she arrived exhaustedand found Gregory waiting inside.
“Hello,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello. Young Stephen was poorly at schoolfever, sore throat. I walked him home. His mothers at work. Then his grandmother took a turn…”
Margaret hurried to the bedroom. Gregory followed. “Im no doctor, but its serious. Her face is twisted, her speech slurred. Ive called an ambulance.”
Margaret agreed at once. “You did right. But how will they reach us? The roads are blockedtheyll only make it as far as the clinic.”
Gregory frowned, then stepped outside. A wooden ladder lay propped against the shed. “Stephenfetch me any straps or belts youve got.”
The boy returned with three, one of cloth. “Thesell do,” Gregory said.
Margaret watched as he lashed the ladder with the belts. “Well wrap her in blankets, strap her to this, and drag her to the clinic.”
“Brilliant,” Margaret breathed.
They set off, Gregory hauling while Margaret steadied their patient. Slowly, painstakingly, they forged through the snow. As they went, Margaret asked, “Why *are* you single?”
Gregory didnt flinch. “My wife left me seven years ago. Ran off with some businessman. Money, you see. Whats a teacher got to offer? I volunteered to come herereplaced a younger chap whose wife was expecting. Felt sorry for them.” He shrugged. “No regrets. I like it here.”
Margaret said nothing.
At the clinic, the ambulance waited. Once Mrs. Archer was loaded, Gregory turned to leave. Margaret stopped him.
“Youre a good man,” she said quietly. “No panic, no excuses. Just got on with it.”
That evening, villagers spotted Gregory walking Margaret homethough his own cottage lay in the opposite direction. The next day, and the next, they were seen together, laughing like old friends.
“Margaret,” Liz teased at the clinic, “whens the wedding?”
Margaret laughed. “Summer. Gregorys on holiday then, and works quieter for me.”
Maybe the gossip hadnt been so foolish after all. As the saying goes: *Where theres smoke, theres fire. Summer came early that year, golden and warm. The village hall was strung with garlands, children darting between tables as Gregory and Margaret stood beneath the old oak, hands clasped, exchanging quiet vows. No fanfare, no city polishjust honest faces and clinking teacups. Mrs. Whitcombe wept into her handkerchief, triumphant. Mrs. Archer, recovering in her bed at home, grumbled that shed known it all along. And when the first dance began, Gregory stepped forward, shoes scuffed but smile bright, and led Margaret across the floor like theyd been practicing for years.
