Marion stirred the broth absent-mindedly, tethered to the cooker. Outside the kitchen window, across the narrow lane, Anthony Greenwood from number seven was tenderly planting tomato seedlings. Beside him on the bench lay a dozen crimson roses.
“Marion, just look at him!” whispered Valerie next door, nodding towards the Greenwoods’ garden. “Now *that’s* a proper husband. Buys flowers every week, washed the car first thing to drive Eleanor to work. Where’s yours?”
“Oh, Valerie, do stop,” Marion sighed wearily. “Everyone has their own way.” The air smelled strangely of ozone and damp earth.
“What way? Yours?” Valerie huffed, settling at the kitchen table. “Look properly! Garden like a postcard, worships his wife, takes the grandchildren cycling every weekend. And Eleanor floats about like she’s won the lottery! Yesterday she babbled for half an hour about Anthony giving her foot masshes.” Valerie’s words seemed to shimmer in the pale light.
Marion winced. Anthony Greenwood *was* held up as the model husband. All the neighbours said so. He swept snow from pensioners’ paths before his own, mended fences without being asked, loaned tools, his voice never raised towards Eleanor. Time felt like elastic stretching thin.
“And what use is that to me?” Marion switched off the hob, turning to Valerie. “My William’s a good man.”
Valerie snorted. “Good? Blasted his music last night past eleven! Little Sophie woke screaming. Then his car blocked the lane yesterday.”
“Just in a mood,” Marion defended, though the excuse sounded frail, even to her own ears.
William wasn’t perfect. Forgotten anniversaries, dishes left in the sink for days, spending half his wage on cricket gear. Yet Marion loved his clumsy breakfasts when she was poorly, his contented snuffling in sleep, even his socks scattered across the bedroom floor like silent accusations.
After Valerie left, Marion watered the cucumbers. Across the fence drifted the low murmur of Anthony and Eleanor.
“Darling, let me fetch you a stool. Don’t kneel, you’ll strain your back.”
“No need, Anthony, just checking the strawberries.”
“Tea then. Lemon, or jam?”
“Jam, sweetheart.” Their words hung, impossibly bright.
Marion couldn’t help recall her own morning: “William! Breakfast!”
“Coming!” he’d yelled from the bathroom. “Is there coffee?”
“Instant in the tin, find it.”
“Where is the wretched stuff…?”
He’d left with only tea. Marion had chided herself all day for not setting his mug out. The kitchen tiles felt unnaturally cold beneath her feet.
That evening, tucking in her granddaughter Daisy, Marion heard a sigh.
“What’s wrong, poppet?”
“Gran… why does Grandad Anthony buy Aunt Eleanor flowers every day? Grandad William never gives you any.”
Marion sat on the bed edge, adjusting the duvet, its pattern twisting like strange constellations.
“Do *you* wish he gave me flowers?”
“Course! You’re lovely! Why doesn’t he?”
Truth, spoken by a child, pierced sharply. Marion kissed Daisy’s forehead. “Sleep tight.”
Meeting Eleanor Greenwood at the shop the next day, Marion studied her. The woman radiated contentment, smartly dressed, hair perfectly neat, selecting tomatoes under stark fluorescent lights that hummed a low tune.
“Marion! Hello! How are things?”
“Fine. You?”
“Wonderful! Anthony’s cooking the roast tonight! Insisted I rest.” Eleanor laughed, a silvery sound. “Though I’ll hover. He’d confuse salt for sugar.” Her smile seemed almost painted on.
“Lucky you, such a husband,” Marion said, envy a sour tang.
“Lucky,” Eleanor agreed, her expression suddenly thoughtful, distant. “And William? Heard he bought a new cricket bat?”
“Yes. Weekends at the pitch.” Their voices echoed strangely in the canned air of the shop aisle.
Walking home, Marion dreamt of William offering to cook, or simply rest. Home awaited: William sprawled before a flickering telly, work boots abandoned by the sofa, a dirty plate in the sink.
“Marion, what’s for dinner?” he asked, eyes glued to the screen.
“Leftover roast.”
“Got any meat?”
“Bangers in the freezer.”
“Fetch ’em then, starving.” The request hung in the air, almost visible as dust motes danced in sunlight.
While she cooked, thoughts circled Anthony Greenwood. He was likely setting the table now, asking if Eleanor was tired. Dreams of attentive husbands mingled with the steam.
Over dinner, William complained about the foreman, waxed lyrical about cricket pitches. Marion nodded vaguely. Then, impulsively: “William… fancy the cinema tomorrow? Or just a walk?”
He looked up, surprised. “Cinema? Anything good on?”
“Dunno. Just be together?”
“Got plans with Steve tomorrow. Pole position at the nets. Another time?” ‘Another time’ never arrived. His world held more compelling things than his wife. The promise dissolved like smoke.
Another evening, gossiping with neighbours by the door, Valerie extolled the Greenwoods.
“Seen it? Anthony bought Eleanor a new washing machine! Top model! Plastic windows too, said she shouldn’t shiver.” Valerie’s eyes gleamed with borrowed pride. Light pooled under the streetlamp like spilled paint.
“All promises, my Geoff,” sighed Theresa. “Six months talking about the roof!”
“Recall their anniversary last week?” added Gail. “Anthony hired the Ploughman! Eleanor like a princess, new frock, salon hair. And his speech! Tears!” The description sparkled, unreal.
Marion stayed silent, remembering her birthday. William gave her saucepans. “Practical,” he’d announced. He’d watched cricket with mates; she’d washed the new pans. Reality felt… thinner.
“Ladies, why not retrain our husbands?” Valerie proposed. “Proof it’s possible! Look at Anthony!” The idea shimmered, dangerous.
“At our age?” Theresa scoffed. “Like concrete.”
But Marion pondered it. What if she explained? Wanted attention? Felt like a phantom? Back home, courage gathered like breath.
“William… talk?”
“Alright,” he murmured, pausing his game, the light from his phone glowing blue on his face. “Problem?”
“No. Just… wish you were more… attentive sometimes.” The words tasted odd.
He frowned. “How?”
“Oh… flowers, help, going out. Like normal folk.” Shadows deepened around them.
“Marion, we’re alright! Why muck about? I don’t drink, chase women, I bring my wage.” His confusion felt tangible.
“I want to feel loved. Not just… staff.” The word hung heavy.
He sighed. “Love, we’re not young. Flowers and nonsense?” His gaze drifted back to the screen’s glow.
“Anthony Greenwood next door buys Eleanor flowers weekly.”
William wrinkled his nose. “*That* one. Play-acting. All show.”
“Perhaps he just loves her?”
“Don’t compare, Marion. We have our ways.” He returned to his game. Marion washed dishes, loneliness a physical ache, the water swirling like an unknown current.
Next morning, bumping into Anthony at the gate felt like stepping into another scene.
“Morning, Mrs. Harrison. Keeping well?”
“Fine. You?”
“Grand. Off to find Eleanor her favourite jam – the one with ginger. Rare at ours.” His smile was effortless, like the weak sun.
“Long walk?”
“To the High Street. Pleasant stroll.” He seemed almost luminous. “William off to the pitch this weekend?”
“Yes. You?”
“Used to. Prefer home now. Wife beats any wicket.” Said simply, it struck Marion to the core. Here stood the perfect husband. Pole-axed, she
Their neighbour Sylvia still murmured over weekly roses while Harold whistled off to Portsmouth pier with his rods, but Marina finally saw the quiet poetry in mismatched socks left by the bed and thermos tea packed for rainy fishing trips—their own peculiar rhythm, as essential as kettle steam on a Yorkshire morning.
She now understood that love wasn’t measured in spotless driveways or dutiful bouquets, but in Harold’s rare, clumsy arm around her shoulder during the Antiques Roadshow, or how he’d saved her the last biscuit without being asked, not realising his floury thumbprint marked the edge.
True warmth bloomed not in imitation perfection, but in the comfortable, slightly frayed tapestry of their ordinary days—his newspaper rustling beside her knitting, elbows bumping at the chipped Formica table, the familiar mutter about the footed bath as he put the bins out.
The Perfect Husband, Just Not for Me
