The Last Dawn
The deep of night reluctantly gave way to the cold dawn. The hour of farewell was near, and the thought of it tore at the heart. Dorothy hadn’t slept a wink, sitting by her husband George’s coffin all night. Memories of their years together flickered in her mind like old photographs—full of love, sorrow, and quiet joy. Both had crossed into old age long ago.
“George lived seventy-eight years—could’ve gone longer, if not for that cursed illness,” Dorothy whispered, two years younger than him.
“You were a good man, George, a faithful husband and father,” she said aloud, gazing at his face, clearer now in the morning light than it had been under the dim candle glow. “So many temptations, yet you never strayed… Oh, how quickly it all passed.”
All night, memories gnawed at her soul, as if she were turning the pages of their life together—fifty-five years of ups and downs.
When George realized his time was short, he kept telling Dorothy:
“Dolly, God’s punishing me for my sins. Must not have lived right, not thought right.”
But Dorothy, dabbing her tears, reassured him:
“Stop blaming yourself, George. You lived an honest life. Never drank, never strayed, loved me and our girl. What sins? Don’t you know yourself?”
He listened and quieted, trusting her words.
Dawn broke. Their daughter, Margaret, bustled in the kitchen, having come alone from Manchester. Long divorced, her husband was gone, and her own daughter—Dorothy’s granddaughter—had just had her second child, staying back home. The granddaughter wouldn’t see her grandad one last time. Though as a child, she’d spent every summer with them in their village near Leeds.
Margaret, their only surviving child, was their treasure. Two others had died as infants—one not lasting a day, the other barely a week. How Dorothy had cherished her Maggie, how she’d prayed for her! But before graduation, Margaret shocked them:
“Mum, Dad, I’m moving to the city after school. Don’t want to stay in the village. I know I’m your only one, meant to care for you in old age, but the city’s where life really is.”
“Well, Maggie, go then,” George agreed at once.
Dorothy pressed a handkerchief to her eyes:
“Oh, love, how will we manage without you?”
But George gave his wife a firm look:
“Don’t hold her back, Dolly. Let her make her own way. Village life’s not for her—milking cows and all. Let her find her place.”
Deep down, Dorothy understood, but letting her girl leave was terrifying. Margaret went, studied accounting at college, married, but never came back home.
Dorothy and George spent most of their lives just the two of them, working at the co-op, living in harmony, never quarrelling. In later years, they’d take their granddaughter for summers. But she grew up, and visits became rare. The old couple missed her but never imposed.
“Remember when our granddaughter joined us at haymaking?” Dorothy smiled faintly. “She’d shriek when George carried her into the river to teach her to swim. And he did, too…”
“Mum, what are you thinking about?” Margaret asked softly, approaching.
“Just remembering. Sit with me, love. Let’s say goodbye to your father in peace before folks arrive. The villagers respected George—never did anyone wrong, always helped. They’ll all be here.”
Margaret sat beside her, embracing her mother.
“How good you look like your father,” Dorothy said sadly. “His face might fade from memory in time, but you—it’s like seeing him again.”
“Mum, tell me how you two met. You never spoke of it.”
“Oh, Maggie, it was a strange little tale. He saw me—and just latched on.”
“How? Where were you?”
“I worked at the co-op, on the farm. Always top of my work. So they sent me to Leeds for a labourers’ rally. Got a certificate, a little wristwatch—so neat. No one in our village had one! I was over the moon. They took us on a city tour, fascinating stuff. Folk had come from all over the county, but few men.”
After the tour, they led us to a canteen. That’s where your father saw me. Sat at the next table, couldn’t take his eyes off me. Tall, sturdy, but scruffy—shirt crumpled, worn thin. Clearly missing a woman’s touch. Even got me curious. Our village had hardly any young men left—some to the army, some to the city.
Dorothy sighed, reliving the day. As she left, she heard behind her:
“Take me with you. Name’s George. And yours?”
“Dorothy,” she said sternly. “You don’t even know where I live. Some backwater. You’d swap city for that?” she laughed.
“I would, Dolly. Got nothing tying me here. I’ll follow you.” And from then on, he called her Dolly.
And he did follow. George had struck her fancy at once. Back in the village, he went straight to her parents:
“Pleasure to meet you. I ask for your daughter’s hand. Forgive the haste, but I’ve nothing—neither house nor land. Only my heart. Dolly’s dear to me, and I vow to be true.”
Her parents were stunned. Her father huffed:
“Sent you to that rally, and you bring back a groom?”
“Just happened,” she murmured, blushing. “But I’ll have him.”
They gave their blessing. A modest village wedding followed that Saturday—neighbours came, sang, danced. And then began their life—simple, but true.
Dorothy was happy. Walking through the village with George, folks whispered:
“Look what Dolly’s snagged! Handsome, tall. Men like that stray easy,” the old women clucked.
“Just wait, he’ll tire of her soon enough,” neighbour Prudence would say.
The gossip reached Dorothy, but George never gave cause. Loved only her. Children though—luck wasn’t with them: two lost as babes. But Margaret came healthy, a miracle.
“Dolly, how I love our Maggie, how I love you. If I’d not met you then, Lord knows how I’d have turned out. You’re my one and only,” George would say.
Dorothy believed him. Yet jealousy sometimes crept in. At haymaking, she’d noticed Linda—a local widow, known for her loose ways—flirting shamelessly with George. Pretty, curvaceous, but with a bad name. Her husband drowned, and since then, she’d lured men with homebrew and smiles.
Linda had eyed George at their wedding:
“Fine man, that George. Where’d you dig him up, Dolly? Doesn’t matter—I’ll bide my time.”
At haymaking, she didn’t hold back—brushing against him, whispering:
“George, meet me behind the barn tonight. Show you what I can do…”
George worked in silence, only glancing at Dorothy with a smile. After, they all went to the river to wash off the dust. Linda splashed nearby, laughing, grabbing his arm:
“George, what if I drown—save me?”
“Why should I? Got my own to look after,” he said flatly, softly eyeing Dorothy.
Her heart fluttered:
“What if he weakens? Linda’s a pro at stealing men.”
But George stood firm. Linda kept trying—lying in wait after work, offering “a drink”—but he’d walk past, just smiling, never rude.
“George, I love and respect you for ignoring Linda’s games,” Dorothy once said.
“Dolly, I gave you my word. It’s you I love, no one else.”
“That’s the love we had, love,” Dorothy finished. “And you look so like him—just as handsome. He was a joker too.”
In old age, George’s sight failed. One eye grew dim.
“Went to the clinic in town that winter,” Dorothy recalled. “Blizzard so thick you couldn’t see your hand. I didn’t sleep a wink, so worried. Roads blocked, buses stopped. At dawn, I dozed off—then a knock. Opened the door—a snowbank stood there, and from under it: ‘Missus, which village is this?’ And his eyes—full of mischief! My George, walked all the way! How he didn’t get lost in that storm—God knows.”
Mother and daughter sat embraced by George’s coffin, quietly weeping. Villagers gathered outside, stepping in to pay respects. So they saw him off—husband, father, friend.
After the funeral, Margaret left. Dorothy stayed alone. The silence weighed heavy. She’d hear George still—the floorboard creaking, tea brewing in the kitchen. Sitting there, she thought:
“He won’t leave me long. He’ll come for me. Knows I can’t bear being without him…”
