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The Andersons came home right as the sun was setting. Rita headed straight to bed, wrapped in her thickest pink dressing gown even though it wasn’t cold.
Mel couldn’t settle. Usually, they calmed each other down, but their nerves had been all over the place today and they were exhausted. She’d tried tv, a car magazine, and petting Minty The Cat, but nothing was working.
Which was why she was now sitting on the bench beside their shed, miserably smoking a cigarette.
‘Thought you didn’t smoke?’
She looked up.
‘Awk, how ye doing?’ she asked, her Scottish accent coming out extra thick.
‘Perfectly fine. Don’t think you could say the same, though.’ Crowley said.
‘You’re dead right.’
‘Not just a pretty face, me. I’m perceptive.’
She snorted.
‘Aziraphale asked me to drop the latest issue of Simply Knitting down, where’s the missus?’
Mel deflated even further. ‘In bed. Poor hen’s had a rough day.’
Crowley sank down on the bench beside her. ‘Would that have anything to do with your jaunt to London?’
‘Don’t miss much, do you? We were in London for a doctor’s appointment. For Rita.’
Crowley raised his eyebrows.
‘Ye dunwanna hear the whole tale. It’s a sorry one.’
‘Try me,’ he said surprisingly gently, ‘I’ve heard a lot of sorry tales, and some of ‘em were mine.’
She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘We got hitched back in ‘96, unofficially, moved around a lot, decided we’d never settle down, then we got officially married the second it got legalised in Scotland.’
Crowley settled down on the bench, the magazine forgotten.
‘We came back from our wee Spanish honeymoon and… Rita got sick. Proper sick, actually. Cancer.’ She saw him grimace out of the corner of her eye.
‘We heard about some decent doctors, upped sticks n headed to London, and spent the next couple years in and out for whatever treatment or bullshit sympathy we could get. At one point, they told us to brace for the worst.’
She stared blankly at the back door of the cottage.
‘She’s not just me wife, she’s me best friend . She thought I was gonne leave her, can you believe that? Some daft statistic says people ditch sick wives. Not on your life . I wasn’t gonna leave her, no matter how many hospital chairs I had to sleep on.’
Crowley spoke up to say, ‘Aziraphale n me split up for a while, couple years ago.’
‘Seriously? You and your wee fruit are a right pair of dark horses. How did that work out for yis?’
‘We walked away n realised that both of us had made the stupidest decision in our long, long lives. So now, South Downs.’
Mel laughed, just a little. ‘We’d be a right pair o’ morons if we let a good thing get away.’ She continued;
‘We sat up one night, in her hospital bed, and wrote out some resolutions. We both thought it would be travelling, but nope. It turned out to be a bunch of daft, domestic shite- Own a mug in every colour of the rainbow, stay in a cottage, Rita said she’d dye her hair pink when it grew back-’
Yep, she was officially misty-eyed now. ‘Rita’s always been great. Hasn’t been easy, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. She’s a real angel.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I know something about that.’
‘She’s been in remission for five years now. She still needs a bunch of tests, and every bleedin’ one makes me a nervous wreck. My Rita’s the strongest lady I know, but I don’t want her to have to do that. Not again.’
She finished her cigarette. ‘Sorry for keeping ye out so long- I don’t even smoke. Keep ‘em around for when I’m extra stressed.’
He clapped her on the shoulder and handed her the knitting magazine. ‘What else are friends for?’ He put on her accent. ‘Now away up to your wife, that’s a good hen.’
She laughed and waved him off. He was a good’un, as far as she was concerned. She finally went inside, changed into Rita’s old t-shirt (which she’d claimed as a pyjama shirt at least a decade ago,) and hopped into bed.
‘Get your freezing toes away from me-’ came a sleepy mumble.
‘Sorry, love. Was in the garden having a lovely wee chat with that ginger.’
Despite the cold feet pressing against her calves, Rita pulled her wife closer.
‘What if it’s bad news, honey?’
‘It won’t be, ye numpty. And if it is, we’ll handle it.’
They’d handled the last thirty-odd years. They’d handle the rest of their lives together.