The Handkerchief: A Love Stronger Than Time
The bedroom of a small house in the quiet town of Windermere was silent, save for the loud snores echoing through the room.
“Geoff’s snoring again!” thought Lucy with irritation. She shoved her husband’s heavy arm off her shoulder and turned away.
Glancing at her phone, she saw it was already three in the morning.
“That’s it—no sleep for me now,” Lucy fumed inwardly. “Work tomorrow, and I’ll be nodding off. At least it’s the afternoon shift, but still! I’m not twenty anymore, able to dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. And these aren’t the nights we used to whisper under the stars, leaving me sleepless, replaying every word he said. Now, all I remember are fragments—his smile, how I giggled foolishly into my pillow. Geoff’s face, so familiar and close, flickered in my mind like an old film reel. His eyes—warm blue, honest, without a hint of pretense…”
Meanwhile, Geoff let out another loud snort, entirely unbothered, and continued peacefully dozing beside her.
“What am I to do with him?” Lucy wondered. “Maybe suggest separate bedrooms?”
Sleeplessness brewed old grievances, twisting them into fresh annoyances. It felt like she could fill a lorry and still have room for more. What drove her? Disappointment? Frustration? Hurt? Who could tell?
“The kids are grown, flown the nest. Just us left. On paper, everything’s fine—but something’s off. What?” The thoughts gnawed at her like a rusty drill, impossible to shake.
In the dark, Lucy studied her sleeping husband. He snored softly, oblivious to her midnight trial. She tallied his flaws, multiplying them in her mind, forgetting you can’t divide by zero. Easy to spot the speck in another’s eye, isn’t it?
“Geoff’s gone all grey,” she mused. “And that belly! Wrinkles like cracks on an old map line his forehead, marking the years, the shared hardships, illnesses, losses. And to think—he was such a looker once!”
“He doesn’t meet me after work anymore,” she continued. “Doesn’t hear me come in, doesn’t rush to take my coat, doesn’t kiss me. And the way he slurps his tea—enough to make your ears wither! Hides his dirty shirts, thinks I won’t find them. Yet I wash them while he sleeps, lay out fresh ones, and he still grumbles, ‘I like the old ones, give them back!’”
“He’s hurt me, no doubt,” Lucy wound herself up. “More than once. We’ve had our crises, rows, make-ups. And his family! They still act like I’m not good enough. At the wedding, they clung to him, congratulated him—I might as well have been furniture. Counted my skirts, my shoes, called me a spendthrift to my face. And I’ve always worked—my wardrobe was threadbare, just basics. My friend sewed my dresses from magazine patterns. Geoff never stood up for me, just said, ‘Don’t let it bother you, love. It’s envy. Rise above it.’”
“The worst,” Lucy went on, “was when our Emily fell ill. Seriously ill. I dragged her to every hospital before they diagnosed her. We went to the city for tests—I barely slept, terrified of the worst. And Geoff? Silence. He’d slip into another room, no embrace, no ‘It’ll be alright, don’t worry.’ I needed that so badly! Grief hits everyone differently, but back then, I felt we were strangers. When it was over, we cried together, apologised…”
“But how he used to court me!” Lucy suddenly remembered. “How we met! I was trudging down an unfamiliar street, sobbing my heart out. Didn’t want to go home. Rain poured buckets, no umbrella. My dress clung to my legs, tripping me. And the weight of my misery!”
“I was at university. Summer term, exams. My classmates pooled money for flowers and treats for the professors—three pounds each. I didn’t have it. Mum refused: ‘Don’t brown-nose, just study.’ As if I wasn’t already cramming day and night. My scholarship, top marks and all, went straight to Mum, who gave me fifty pence for three days in the canteen. Not a penny more. ‘You’ve a travel pass, food at home—what more do you need?’ That was their logic. No hard feelings—taught me frugality,” Lucy reflected.
“So there I was, tears mixing with rain, raging at the world. Where to get the money? Due tomorrow, and all I had was a pound coin and twenty pence in coppers. The twenty pence? Skipped meals, stomach growling. Nan, my rock, got her pension next week—gave me two pounds, all she could. No one to borrow from—friends were skint, relatives scraping by. Third of the month, payday five days off.”
Then, suddenly, an umbrella opened above me—black, with a wooden handle.
“Miss, what are you doing out alone in this downpour? You’ll catch your death!” a man’s voice chimed in.
“Mind your own business!” I snapped.
“I only meant to offer my handkerchief. Clean. Let me dry those tears,” he said gently.
From his pocket, he pulled a handkerchief—large, white, with navy checks. It smelled of cologne, and I froze. That handkerchief still sits in our drawer, a relic of our meeting. I washed it, kept it all these years.
“How did he know I was crying?” Lucy wondered. “Rain was blinding.”
“Felt it,” Geoff later said. “How could I leave a girl like you alone in trouble? I’d never forgive myself.”
“What’s your name, lovely stranger?” he’d asked.
“Lucy,” I muttered.
“I’m Geoff. Pleasure’s mine. Lucy—may I call you that? There’s a café just round the corner. Let me buy you tea, a cake. Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t worry—I’m a gentleman. Your secret’s safe,” he smiled, steering me inside.
Remembering, Lucy bit back a grin, careful not to wake Geoff.
“In that café, I spilled everything. Me—always guarded—poured my heart out to a stranger. Don’t know how it happened. Geoff listened, walked me home, and at the door, pulled three pounds from his wallet.
“Take it. Don’t argue,” he said. “I won’t let a clever girl cry over money. It comes and goes—tears over it are worthless.”
I took it. A week later, Nan gave me three pounds, and I proudly handed it to Geoff in the park. He refused, almost offended.
“A man’s job is to be needed,” he said, eyes piercing. “I should thank you for letting me help. If you’ll have me, I’d like to keep solving your problems.”
We never spoke of it again.
Dawn crept in. Lucy lay awake, retracing their life together. Joy, sorrow, loss—they’d seen it all. But Geoff never left her to face anything alone. Without fuss, he shouldered her burdens, never complaining.
They’d buried loved ones—wept in each other’s arms. The kids grew up, moved out, married. Now it was just them, like orphans themselves. And Lucy fretted at night: were their fledglings alright without them?
“What am I on about?” she suddenly thought. “Time to look in the mirror—wrinkles, extra stone, creaky knees. Enough whinging! So he snores! Just ask him to turn over—simple!”
Geoff shifted in his sleep, pulled her close like something precious, and kissed her head. A weight lifted—like a stone dropped from her heart.
How priceless, to be loved, cherished—to have your sorrows shared, to be called “my girl” even when grey. To have your tears dried with a handkerchief, soothed like a child.
Lucy woke at ten and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Sleeping Beauty’s up?” Geoff teased, kissing her.
“You woke me at six,” he said. “Purring like Mr. Whiskers on my arm.”
“You’re saying I snored?” Lucy gasped.
“Well, let’s say you… hummed a little,” he tactfully amended. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
Funny, how we spot the splinter in another’s eye but miss the plank in our own. Better to face our own reflections. And solve life’s troubles together—sharing one umbrella.
