A Lonely Soul in the Land of Oaks
In the quiet village of Oakwood, nestled deep in the forests of Yorkshire where barely fifty cottages stand, lived Martha Wilson. She was a stout woman in her fifties, broad-shouldered with calloused hands that spoke of a life of hard labour. Her face, weathered by wind and worry, held little of beauty, but her eyes carried the quiet ache of solitude. Fifteen years had passed since her parents had gone, one after the other, leaving her alone in a large house full of memories and emptiness. With no family left, she managed the farm as best she could—barns brimming with stores, pens full of livestock. Every week, Martha drove into town to sell meat, cheese, and milk. At first, in her father’s old Land Rover, then later in a shiny new one, polished like the dreams she’d never realised. Neighbours whispered, *”What does she need all that for? No husband, no children!”* But deep down, Martha still hoped a man might see her not just as a hard worker, but as a woman. Yet no one looked—only at her rough hands, heavy stride, and the bitter truth: she could never bear a child.
Running the farm alone was gruelling. Sometimes the village men helped—for a fee—ploughing fields or cutting hay, but never out of kindness. Chopping firewood, slaughtering livestock, mending the roof—all fell to her. Life might have rolled on, grey as an autumn drizzle, if not for the stranger who wandered into Oakwood. A drifter, the likes of which the village had never seen. The first day, he prowled like a trapped animal, hunger driving him to knock on doors offering work. Most shooed him away, though a few kind-hearted souls tossed him a scrap of bread.
One frosty morning, Martha loaded meat and milk into the Land Rover for market. Time was tight, but the engine wouldn’t start. Cursing, she kicked the tyre—then the drifter appeared beside her.
“Let me help,” he said quietly.
“What can *you* do?” she snapped.
“Get it running.”
With a grunt, she stepped back. Twenty minutes under the bonnet, and—miracle of miracles—the engine roared to life. Martha thrust two twenty-pound notes at him. “Here. Take it.” She scrambled into the driver’s seat.
“Need anything else?” he called.
“Come by for lunch!” she shouted over her shoulder as the tyres sprayed gravel.
By evening, she returned tired but pleased—nearly everything had sold. The drifter stood at her gate, shifting from foot to foot.
“Back for work, then?” she said.
He nodded toward the woodpile. “Need those split?”
Martha handed him the axe. He frowned. “Blunt as butter.”
“Bought a sharpener for knives, but I can’t manage the axe,” she admitted. “There’s a grinder in the shed, but it broke years ago.”
He tinkered with the rusted machine—then, to her shock, it whirred to life. Soon the axe gleamed, and he set to work, splitting logs with practised ease. Martha watched, then turned away with a shake of her head.
An hour later, she called him inside.
“What’s your name?”
“Frederick.”
“Martha,” she said. “Come eat.”
At the table, laden with roast potatoes, sausages, and pickles, he ate hungrily but neatly. Martha piled more onto his plate. “Eat up. No point being shy.”
By dusk, the woodpile still stood. “Enough for today,” she said. “It’s Saturday—heat the bathhouse, clean yourself up. Finish tomorrow.”
After bathing, she led him to a wardrobe. “Take what fits. My father’s clothes—too good to waste.”
That night, over supper, she asked, “Tell me about yourself.”
Frederick sighed. “Forty-seven. Had a wife once. Didn’t last. My boy stayed with her. Drank too much after. Lived with my aunt, worked odd jobs—loading, night-watch. Did alright sober. Then she died, and I lost myself. Ended up in hostels. Tried to clean up, met a woman. We had a daughter. Didn’t know she was deep in it too. Drank together. Fought a bloke, got two years inside. Came out—she’d moved on. Didn’t even let me see the girl.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t stay in the city. So I walked. Ended up here.”
Martha studied him. “Stay. Plenty of work, plenty of space.”
His eyes lit. “Nowhere else to go. Thank you.”
She made up a bed in the spare room. For the first time in years, Frederick slept soundly. Martha lay awake, heart pounding—something told her this man would change everything.
By morning, the smell of pancakes filled the house. Frederick frowned at the plumbing. “Leaking tap.”
“You know about that too?”
“Done a bit of everything.”
Martha left for market, and by noon, he’d split the wood, swept the yard, and mucked out the pens. She returned to a spotless home. That evening, as he stoked the bathhouse fire, she cooked supper. Fresh from her bath, cheeks flushed, she called him to the table—
Then he was before her, hands on her waist, lips brushing hers. Martha gasped, eyes fluttering shut—
The village watched in disbelief as love transformed her. Frederick, too, shed his ragged past. Together they opened a market stall, business thriving. By autumn, he’d earned his licence, and Martha never drove again. For the first time, she was happy.
Until the day Frederick returned from town, grim-faced.
“Old neighbour came by. My ex—she’s gone. No one to bury her.”
Martha counted out six hundred pounds. “Do it right.”
Three days passed. No word. Then the Land Rover rattled up the drive—Frederick stepped out, a thin four-year-old girl clutching his leg.
“This is my daughter, Elizabeth. She’s got no one else.”
Martha froze, staring at the child—*her* child, in a way she could never have. The girl ate hungrily, then suddenly gripped Martha’s hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Martha sank to her knees, pulling her close. “You’re home.”
Frederick knelt beside them. “Marry me, Martha.”