by Jonathan Payne
A prosperous northern mill town, engulfed in mist. A romantic lookout high in the Pennines, affording views of cobbled streets and factory smoke stacks below. A well dressed young man, tall and serious, emerges from a carriage and nods to the coachman, who hands down a wicker hamper. The man extends his hand to assist a young woman in stepping down onto the path. In a grassy clearing just below the horse and carriage, the man spreads a blanket and beckons the woman to join him. They open the hamper and enjoy a delicious lunch of tripe and cow heel.
When lunch is over, the man stands up, fastens his greatcoat against the wind, and spreads his arms, as if to address a throng. But his sweetheart is the only other soul in sight, save for the coachman. As the man speaks to her, he gazes out across the valley and town below. She looks up at him, both love and bewilderment in her eyes.
“Semiannually will I declare my love for you,” bellows the man, his arms still outstretched.
The woman looks on, bemused.
He continues. “Let us return to this spot on a regular schedule. On each occasion we will enjoy a wonderful lunch and I will reaffirm my commitment to you, my darling. I will shower gifts upon you and remind you of my never ending affections. I will sing songs for you, and tell stories to you. I will be sure that you have everything you need for a happy and prosperous life. If we are fortunate enough to have offspring, they will accompany us to this spot. If our offspring are fortunate enough to have offspring, they too will accompany us. On each occasion I will stand here in front of our family, whether it be large or small, and affirm my love for you. That love will sustain and nurture not only our marriage but also our whole family, for generations to come. Neither you nor our issue will ever be in want. This is my promise to you, my beloved, on this day and on every day we return to this place.”
He turns and looks expectantly at the woman, his face flushed with triumph.
She stands up from the blanket. Her expression crumbles from bewilderment into horror. She buries her face in her hands.
He is confused. “My darling, what is it?”
She looks up slowly, fighting to hold back tears. “You plan to declare your love for me only once every two years?” she hisses, and covers her face again.
The man is momentarily stumped. He runs through the impromptu speech in his mind, looking for the problem, and finds it in the first word.
“Oh, no, no, my love,” he says, reaching out a hand towards her. “You will not have to wait for two years to hear my confession of love. Far too long. We will return here every half year. Surely that is an acceptable interval?”
The woman looks up, tears filling her eyes. There is a despair on her face that he has never witnessed before.
“You said semiannually,” she scoffs. “Every two years. That is how you began your little speech. I heard it with my own ears.”
He reaches for her hands, but she rebuffs the gesture, finding a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
“A simple misunderstanding,” he says. “Twice each year. That is the meaning of semiannual. Twice each year.”
“Now you are twisting the meaning of words to save yourself,” she says, thrusting the handkerchief back into her sleeve.
“I assure you, darling, that I am not. We have only a simple misunderstanding which I am sure can be rectified. My intention was to propose that my declarations of love will be offered twice each year. That is, to my understanding, the meaning of semiannual. Perhaps I should have used plainer words.”
She appears unmoved. “Perhaps you should be honest with me about your original intentions. Perhaps you are now twisting the meaning of your own words only after seeing my reaction.” She turns away, sobbing.
The man’s mind is racing. He racks his brain to find a word he is sure will clear up this mess.
“Biannual!” he exclaims. “That, my love, is the word you are thinking of. Biannual means every two years. Semiannual means twice each year.” He claps his hands together in triumph.
Now there is anger in her eyes as well as tears. “Do you take me for a fool?” she snarls, gathering up her skirts and turning away from him. “I am well acquainted with the word biennial. That is not what you said.”
The man watches as the woman rushes down the hill to a farmer’s gate, and proceeds through a field of grazing cows. Twice she stumbles in long grass, picks herself up and gathers her skirts again before rushing on. She runs through field after field, heading down into the town, and soon he loses sight of her.
Wearily, the man packs the hamper and returns to the carriage.
He calls up to the coachman. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course, sir,” says the coachman, returning the hamper to its place.
“What would you think of my meaning, were I to use the word semiannual?”
The coachman frowns. “I’m not one for long words, sir, truth be told.”
“Very well, then. Suppose I offered to hire you and your splendid animal to take a long trip semiannually. How often would you expect to be working for me?”
The coachman furrows his brow. “Well, sir, I suppose that would be every second year.”
The man shakes his head and begins to climb into the carriage.
The coachman calls down to him. “The young lady will not be joining us for the return trip, sir?”
The man looks up at him with a forlorn expression. “She will not.”
Bio:
Jonathan Payne is a British-American writer based in Washington, DC. He holds a Master of Arts degree in Novel Writing from Middlesex University, London. His debut novel, CITIZEN ORLOV, was published by CamCat Books in 2023. The Wall Street Journal called it “part Kafka, part Alice in Wonderland”.