The Yellow Flower

He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known that he and Mary would get married; they had never even spoken about it because they hadn’t needed to. The whole village knew and for these simple village people there was no need to put into words those things that everyone knew. Their marriage would be the natural conclusion of their love. Jack had seen many things he had not given thought to in his village. He had seen beggars and nobles, poor men and rich, but no where in the city had he ever seen the easy, simple love that existed between him and Mary. City folk were all educated, not like country folk, and obsessed with talking and talking. Couples in the city never enjoyed the simple understanding that lay between Mary and Jack, an understanding that needed no words or lengthy explanations. Jack had watched them with pity in his heart because he knew instinctively that what he had with Mary was far truer and far more enduring.

When he had first come to the city, a gawking country bumpkin, he had been amazed at the sheer size of the place, so many people all packed together. He had been amazed all over again at the prices, which were many times those he was used to, and within a week his meagre savings were all but gone. There were too many men looking for work in the city, too many men like him who had come from the country looking for work, only to find that they would have been better staying at home. Many times in that first week he nearly turned round and went back, but his pride would not let him. He had been walking the docks one afternoon, looking for work, when he was suddenly struck by an idea. Ships that came in to unload were accustomed to hire men as and when they needed them but what if there was a gang of men available, all accustomed to the work and known to be trustworthy. Such a gang would surely be able to attract more work than just one man on his own. Excited, he had approached some other men in a similar situation to him, who he had grown to know over the last few days. Many were sceptical, but some had seen the sense in the idea and had agreed to put it to the test. Within a month their gang had grown a reputation for fast, honest work and other gangs were springing up all over the city. Working with this gang Jack had built up the capital he needed to buy a farm for him and Mary, and now, three years later, he was finally going to make all his dreams come true.

In the pouch around his neck, along with the money he had earned, he carried letters from Mary. Her father was the village cleric and he had taught both of them to read and write, a rare skill amongst the villagers. Jack and Mary had kept up a constant correspondence throughout the three years of their separation, using peddlers and other travellers as delivery-men. Sometimes Jack would take out one of these letters and read them as he walked. They were simple enough; full of news of a village where nothing really happened, but to Jack they were more precious and touching than any finely worded love letter. The news that would have bored anyone else was about the people he loved and the life he was anxious to return to, there was nothing else he would rather read.