Shattered Dreams: The Tragedy of Eleanor
Eleanor paced their flat in Manchester with heavy steps, her eyes darting to the phone again and again. Her husband was late, and her patience had worn thin as a frayed thread.
“Where on earth is he?” she muttered, gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The lock clicked, and in the hallway appeared Alfred, weary but with a guilty smile. In his hands, he held a modest bouquet of daisies.
“These are for you,” he said, offering the flowers. “Sorry, got held up helping Mum.”
“Held up?” Eleanor flared, her voice quivering with hurt. “You couldn’t call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Got caught up, forgot,” Alfred murmured, fidgeting with the edge of his coat. “Helped Mum, then… Listen, we talked, and we’ve settled on something.”
“Settled on what?” Eleanor froze, a chill creeping down her spine.
Alfred took a deep breath and began explaining. As he spoke, Eleanor’s face hardened with anger and disbelief.
She couldn’t recall the last time Alfred had spent more than an hour at home. He left at dawn and returned well past midnight, long after she’d gone to bed—if he returned at all. Spring had swept into the city, and it was as though Alfred had become a different man. In winter, he’d hurry home, burrow under a blanket, and grumble at her suggestions of a walk. Now, he vanished for days on end.
Alfred’s mother, Margaret Whitmore, had repelled Eleanor from the start. When they first met, Eleanor had sensed how Margaret eyed her with cold calculation, as if assessing merchandise. At dinner, Margaret spoke only to her son, ignoring Eleanor entirely. Eleanor pitied Margaret’s husband, Charles—a worn-looking man who spoke softly to his wife, flinching at her sharp words.
Even then, Eleanor knew: living under the same roof as such in-laws would be pure torment. Fortunately, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Alfred moved in with her. Margaret hadn’t objected—she’d even helped him pack, as though glad to be rid of him.
At their housewarming, Margaret had lingered just long enough to scrutinise the flat, drink a cup of tea, and leave. A year into their marriage, Eleanor had neither much to boast of nor much to lament. They lived like most—home, work, the occasional holiday. Her parents, living in another city, often asked her to visit, but she’d grown used to independence. Here, she had work, friends, a home, and a husband. She’d thought she was managing married life well enough. Alfred was undemanding; they lived modestly but comfortably.
Sometimes they helped Margaret when she asked, and once a month, they might dine out, making plans and dreaming of the future. Eleanor dreamed of children, but Alfred stayed silent. She understood—dreaming was easy; raising a child was another matter. Alfred, meanwhile, longed for a car. Eleanor agreed a car would be useful, but it was costly. She refused to take out a loan or ask family. They’d have to scrimp and save for years, and even then, it would only buy them a second-hand vehicle.
Alfred explained his absences simply: “Helping Mum. Gardening season’s started—she’s at the allotment every day, and I’m with her. She needs the support.”
“And what about me?” Eleanor snapped. “How many times have I asked you to fix the tap in the bath? The balcony door’s barely hanging on!”
“Ellie, come on, you can’t compare that to Mum!” he’d retort.
Such quarrels grew frequent. Eleanor grew tired of being a “weekend wife”—and not even every weekend. Even on Saturdays, Alfred left for his parents’. She was relieved not to be dragged to the allotment, but sometimes she wondered—why?
Once, at Margaret’s, Eleanor tasted her pickled courgettes. They were so delicious she quietly finished half the jar.
“Did you make these yourself?” she marvelled.
“Of course,” Margaret replied proudly. “Slaved all spring and summer so we’d have proper food in winter.”
“My mum doesn’t make preserves—I’d forgotten how good they taste,” Eleanor said, hoping Margaret might offer her a jar.
But Margaret ignored the hint. “Strange family you’ve got. Not making preserves? I bottle everything—cucumbers, tomatoes, jam. Hard work, but worth it come winter. Lazy folk end up with empty cupboards,” she chided, eyeing Eleanor pointedly.
Eleanor never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of courgettes, fried potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Alfred was late again. Eleanor seethed, pacing the room, clutching her phone. She was sick of dining alone, sick of waiting like a loyal dog. The door opened, and she braced herself to unleash her fury. Alfred walked in with daisies, smiling guiltily.
“Sorry, Ellie,” he said, handing them over.
Silently, she placed the flowers in a vase, hoping for a romantic evening. But Alfred sat down, gave her a shrewd look, and began: “Mum and I talked. There’s no point keeping this flat—let’s sell it and buy something cheaper.”
Eleanor went numb. Oblivious, Alfred pressed on: “You’re always cross I’m never home. If we sell, we’ll get a smaller place on the outskirts—use the difference for a car. And we’d be closer to Mum’s allotment. Easier than dragging her to the train and walking three miles after.”
Eleanor stared at him, a storm rising in her chest. What kind of husband was he? An extension of his mother! She wanted to scream, but she forced out: “Darling, are you hungry?”
“No, ate at Mum’s. Roast chicken tonight—absolute perfection,” Alfred sighed, rolling his eyes dreamily.
Something inside Eleanor broke. This man would never be her husband or the father of her children. “Listen,” she said, her voice icy, “better sell the allotment and buy the car. Then you won’t need to drive Mum around, and you’ll be home more.”
“What?” Alfred gasped. “Mum would never agree! Where would we go in summer? Well, me and Mum. Dad hates the allotment.”
“Then here’s another idea.” Eleanor straightened, her voice trembling with resolve. “Pack your things and go to Mum and Dad. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I’m going out—cool off. When I return, I expect you gone.”
Alfred nodded stiffly and left without a word. Eleanor grabbed her coat and left, sitting in a café till closing, replaying their life together. Was this the right choice? But it felt inevitable—Alfred would never change. When she returned home, he was gone.
The next morning, a knock came at the door. Outside stood Alfred and Margaret. Eleanor stiffened at the sight of this “delegation.”
“Right, sort this out, quick!” Margaret barked. “Honestly, like children.”
Alfred shifted awkwardly, glancing between them.
“Alfie, leave us,” Margaret ordered. He obeyed, shutting the door behind him. “Eleanor, please—forgive him. Keep the flat if you like, but take him back. He won’t leave me alone even at the allotment!” Margaret waved a hand, bitterness creeping into her voice.
Eleanor laughed unexpectedly. “Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t want him either. I tried to understand, to accept him—but I can’t. I don’t need a husband who’s just a lapdog.”
Margaret opened her mouth to argue, then nodded and left. On the stairs, her voice rang out: “Leave me be, Alfie—stop trailing after me!”
Eleanor shut the door, exhaled, and felt the weight lift from her shoulders. She was free.
