Fate favours the grateful
By the time he turned thirty, Stanley Clarke had already spent ten years in the thick of conflict zones, twice taken a bullet, and somehow emerged unscathed. After his second serious wound he lingered in Leeds General Hospital for months, then was sent back to his home village of LittleAshby.
LittleAshby had changed a great deal in those years, and so had its folk. All his schoolmates were now married, running farms or pubs, but one day Stanley caught sight of Ethel Whitaker, a face he barely remembered. When he left for the army shed been a shy thirteenyearold; now she was twentyfive, a striking beauty who, despite her looks, was still single. Nobody had yet offered her a man shed be willing to settle down with, and she wasnt keen on starting a family just for the sake of it.
Stanley was broadshouldered, solid as a brick, with a razorsharp sense of justice. He couldnt walk past Ethel without saying something.
Are you really still waiting for someone, and havent tied the knot yet? he asked, flashing a grin at the pretty girl.
Perhaps, Ethel replied, a faint pink tint to her cheeks, her heart fluttering a touch.
From then on they met regularly. It was a crisp lateautumn afternoon, the two strolling through a strip of woodland, leaves rustling underfoot.
Stan, my father wont allow us to marry, Ethel said sadly. Ive already proposed twice, you know how Arthur is.
Whats he going to do, frighten me off? Stanley replied confidently. If he tries to hurt me, the law will have his knuckles in cuffs, and he wont be a bother any more.
Oh, Stanley, youve no idea how ferocious he can be. Hes a hard man, everything under his thumb.
Arthur Whitaker was the most influential man in LittleAshby. Hed begun as a modest farmer, but rumors now swirled that his wealth was tied up with lessthanlegal dealings. He was stout, with a belly that shook when he laughed, a cold, calculating stare, and a reputation for cruelty. Hed built two farms in his youth, rearing cattle and pigs, and employed more than half the village. People bowed to him, almost as if they feared a royal decree, while he fancied himself a sort of local monarch.
My father wont let us wed, Ethel continued, and he wants me to marry the son of his old drinkingbuddy, Victor. I cant stand that rotgut, only knows how to pour a pint. Ive told him a hundred times already.
I cant believe were living in the Stone Age, Stanley muttered. Who, in this day and age, forces a girl to marry a man she doesnt love?
He adored Ethel entirely her gentle gaze, quick temper, everything. She, in turn, could not picture life without him.
Come on, he said, grabbing her hand and quickening his step.
Whats the destination? she began to guess, but could not stop him.
In the courtyard of the grand Whitaker house, Arthur was deep in conversation with his younger brother Simon, who lived in the adjoining cottage and was always ready with a quip.
Arthur Whitaker, Ethel and I intend to marry, Stanley announced boldly. I ask for your daughters hand.
Ethels mother, Margaret, stood on the porch, hand over her mouth in shock, eyes glued to her tyrannical husband. Arthurs stare turned into a glare that could freeze steel, but Stanley met it headon. The old man could not fathom where Stanley had found such audacity.
Out of my sight, Arthur thundered. Youre a daft, dazed clown. What were you thinking coming here? My daughter will never marry you. Forget this road, soldier.
Well marry anyway, Stanley replied, unfazed.
Stanley was respected by everyone in LittleAshby, while Arthur cared for naught but money. The insult stung Stanley, and he clenched his fists. Simon stepped in between them, understanding that neither would back down without a fight.
While Simon escorted Stanley out, Arthur herded his daughter into the house as if she were a frightened child. He never forgave anyone who dared cross him.
That night, a blaze lit up the village: Stanleys newlyopened garage was ablaze.
You little pest, Stanley muttered, certain it was Arthurs handiwork.
Ten minutes later the two were on the motorway, heading away.
The following night Stanley pulled up quietly at Ethels cottage. He had texted her earlier, asking her to pack a bag and run away with him. She agreed. From her bedroom window she handed him a suitcase, then slipped out, landing neatly in his waiting arms.
By morning well be far away, he whispered. You have no idea how much I love you. Ethel clung to him.
I feel both nervous and terrified, she admitted.
Ten minutes later they were speeding along the A1. Ethels breath caught, a chill running down her spine. Behind them, headlights flickeredArthurs sleek Mercedes, pulling up beside them, then swerving to block their path.
No, not this, Ethel gasped, folding into herself.
Arthur stepped out, flanked by two burly goons. He grabbed Ethel by the arm; Stanley tried to intervene but received a solid blow. He was knocked to the ground and beaten soundly, without a word spoken. The men climbed back into the car, left him lying by the roadside, and drove off with Arthur.
Stanley staggered home, spent a week recuperating. The garage fire was ruled an electrical fault, a convenient excuse. He understood everything, but what haunted him most was Ethels fate. She didnt answer his messages; her number was unreachable.
Arthur sent Ethel to the city to stay with his sister Violet, handing her a tidy sum of £5,000 and issuing strict orders:
Dont let her out of the house, no phone. If she returns, Ill have herwell, you know what Ill do. He jabbed his finger threateningly.
Blast you, Arthur, Violet hissed, why are you ruining your own daughters life?
Violet led Ethel to a small upstairs room, knowing she needed to bide her time until Arthur cooled down.
Arthur spread rumours that Ethel was to marry Victor in the city and never return to the village.
Dont worry, dear, Violet said, in time your father will calm down, youll find work, youll build a life.
Without Stanley?
Without him, Violet replied.
A few weeks later Ethel discovered she was pregnant. Violet tried to comfort her, her heart soft for her niece.
Your father must never know.
Ethel wept. Her father was the least of her worries; she just wanted to tell Stanley about the baby. But his phone number was gone, his device smashed by Arthur. Even if Violet let her use her own, there was nowhere to call.
I hate my father, Ethel sobbed. Hes no man. Violet stayed silent; there were plenty of reasons to despise him.
Time passed. Stanley could not shake Ethel from his thoughts. He drifted, uninterested in anything, work became a chore, even his attempts at drinking fell flat. Meanwhile, Ethel gave birth to a handsome little boy, Mason Clarke, a spitting image of his father. Occasionally, Margaret visited to dote on her grandson. Arthur never learned of the child; he never returned to LittleAshby and never guessed his lineage.
Four years slipped by. Mason grew into a clever, sprightly lad. One spring morning, as blossoms filled the air, Margaret arrived at Violets doorstep, clambered up the steps and sank into a kitchen chair.
Oh, dear, she wailed.
Whats wrong, Mum? Ethel asked.
Arthur is dying, Margaret whispered. The doctors say its cancer. He was healthy, never a soul in a clinic.
She sobbed; despite the bruises and humiliation Arthur had inflicted on her, his death felt like a cruel twist of fate.
How will I manage alone? she asked.
No one felt pity for Arthur. When his funeral took place in June, only a handful of his cronies turned up. Ethel stayed away; she could not bring herself to see the man whod ruined so much. The local gossip floated, He treated people like rubbish, and now the heavens have had enough of him.
Arthurs wife, left standing beside his coffin, wanted to speak the truth about her grandson, but kept her mouth shut. All his energy had been spent on vanity, not on what mattered.
The village moved on. Stanley, meanwhile, was away on a stint at the oil rigs, coming and going as work demanded. He lived with his mother, who, having finally escaped Arthurs shadow, seemed a little brighter. She even removed his picture from the mantel, not wanting Ethel to see the man whod haunted them.
Two weeks after Ethels return to LittleAshby, she learned Stanley was still on his contract, as her mother told her. A few days later she and Mason were wandering the hedgerows by the old lane. Mason chased butterflies, rolled in the grass, while she rested against a fallen oak, a gentle breeze ruffling her hair.
She thought back to her childhood, then felt a familiar tug at her heart, as if someone was standing right beside her.
Ethel, a soft voice called, and she turned, both of them leaping toward each other.
Stanley had changed; he was more steady, though a hint of sorrow lingered in his eyes. Ethel remained striking, a touch softer now. They looked at each other without a word; love had never left, merely settled beneath layers of pain.
Stanley, she whispered, forgive me for everything for my father, for not telling you about our son. I never married Victor; that was Arthurs lie. Ive been staying with Violet in the city.
Stanleys mouth fell open. Mason, who had been darting through the grass, ran to them, shouting, Dad, will you buy me a football?
Of course, lad, Stanley said, scooping the boy up. Well go to the shop right now, get you a ball and whatever else you want. He turned to Ethel, eyes soft, And you, my love?
Ethel, tears glistening, nodded.
Gratitude swelled in Ethels chest. Fate, it seemed, had a soft spot for those who thanked it, rewarding them with a happy family after all the turmoil.
