Set My Sights on Another Mans Wife
When we first moved in together, Bradley Underwood proved himself to be a rather weak-willed man. His days seemed wholly dictated by whatever mood greeted him in the morning. Sometimes he was up with the lark, cheerful and light-hearted, cracking jokes and laughing all day long. But most of the time, Bradley was gripped by some pensive melancholy, guzzling endless cups of tea, and drifting gloomily about the house like some tortured artistwhich, in a way, he fancied himself to be. Bradley worked as a teacher at the local primary in a sleepy Oxfordshire village, covering art, design and technology, and occasionally music when Mrs Perkins, the music teacher, was off sick.
He yearned for the world of art. But since school didnt seem to provide a canvas for his creative ambitions, the house suffered instead. Bradley commandeered the largest, brightest room, one Alice had earmarked as a nursery for our future children. But, as the house belonged to Bradley, Alice hadnt the heart to argue.
He filled the space with easels and canvases, scattered it with tubes of watercolours, lumps of clay, and set to work: painting furiously, sculpting, moulding. He might stay up till midnight dabbing away at some odd still-life, or spend the whole weekend busying himself with a bizarre little figurine.
He never sold anything. His masterpieces decorated the home: walls crowded with loud paintingsnone of which Alice likedcupboards and shelves sagging beneath garish clay statues. If, at the very least, they were works of beautybut no. Their rare houseguests, fellow artists and old university mates, would glance at Bradleys works in polite silence, averting their eyes and sighing as they passed by each lurid canvas or misshapen figure.
No one ever complimented them. Only Leonard Harrington, the oldest of the lot, once exclaimed after downing a whole bottle of sloe gin, Heavens above, what meaningless daubing this is! What on earth is it meant to be? I havent seen a single worthy piece in this houseexcept, of course, for the lady of the house.
Bradley was deeply wounded by that critique. He shouted, stomped about, and demanded that his wife show the brute out.
Get out! he bellowed. Turncoat! You know nothing of art. Not I, but you! I know what this isyoure jealous, because your hands tremble too much from boozing to hold a brush! Youre belittling everything around you out of envy!
…Leonard nearly tripped down the front steps in his hurry to leave. Alice ran out after him to apologise.
Please dont take him too seriously. You shouldnt have critiqued his work, but I should have warned you, she said.
Dont apologise for him, my dear child, Leonard replied. Ill call a cab. I pity you thoughsuch a lovely home ruined by those ghastly paintings, and those ugly clay monstrosities. He should hide them, but he parades them with pride. Knowing Bradley, I suppose living with him cant be easy. We artists, you know, our work mirrors our soulsand Bradleys, well, is as empty as his canvases.
He kissed Alices hand in farewell and left their inhospitable home. Bradley raged for weeks, shouting, smashing his sculptures, tearing his paintings, quite beside himself.
***
Yet, for all that, Alice never argued with her husband. She decided that when the time came, once theyd had children, her dear Bradley would drop his little hobbies and turn the studio into a nursery. For now, she let him play at his still-lifes.
In the first months of their marriage, Bradley strove to be the model family man, bringing home fresh fruit and his pay packet, doting on his young wife. But that phase passed quickly. His affection for Alice cooled, and he stopped sharing his salary. Alice ended up shouldering all the work of the house, caring for her husband, tending the vegetable patch, the chickens, and coping with her mother-in-law as well.
The news that Alice was expecting filled Bradley with delight. But his joy was short-lived: within a week Alice fell ill, was taken to hospital, and lost the baby early on. The moment Bradley heard the news, his mood soured yet againhe became tearful and irritable, yelled at Alice, and shut himself indoors.
Alice was a shadow of herself by the time she was discharged; she dragged herself home, but no one met her at the gate. Worse awaited herBradley had locked the doors and refused to let her in.
Open up, Brad!
I wont, came his petulant voice through the door. Why are you here? You were meant to bear my child, but you failed. Because of you, my mother had a heart attack this very day! Why did I ever marry you? Youve cursed this house! Dont stand on the stepgo! I dont want you here anymore.
Alices world reeled. She sat on the doorstep and sobbed.
Oh, Bradley it hurts me too. Im suffering as well. Please open the door!
He was unmoved by her tears, and Alice sat there until nightfall. Eventually, the door squeaked open: Bradley, gaunt with grief, emerged. He bolted the house, but couldnt find the padlockhe never knew where anything was, and always had to ask Alice. He ignored her as he walked out the gate.
When he was out of sight, Alice unlocked the door herself and collapsed on the bed. She spent the night waiting for her husbands return. The next morning their neighbour brought dreadful newsthe mother-in-law had not survived the heart attack.
That broke Bradley. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed:
I never loved you, Alice. I married you only because Mother wanted grandchildren. You ruined our familyIll never forgive you.
Those words were a knife, but Alice decided to stay. Someone had to care for him.
Time passed, but things didnt improve. Bradley refused to get out of bed, subsisting on water, barely eating. His stomach problems flared up, his appetite vanished, depression set in. Soon, he stopped moving altogether, lamenting that he was wasting away for want of vitamin and nourishment.
Then she learned Bradley had filed for divorce. When it was granted, Alice wept at length. She tried to reach out to Bradley for comfort, but he pushed her away, murmuring that when he was well, hed throw her out, and shed ruined his life.
***
Alice couldnt leave because she had nowhere to go. Her mother, delighted to marry Alice off young, had quickly set about her own affairs once Alice was gone, and run off to marry a widower living somewhere on the Devon coast. She sold her house for a modest sum and left her daughter with nowhere to return in case of trouble.
So Alice was quite trapped by circumstance.
***
The day came when the food ran out. Alice scraped the last bit of rice from the cupboard, poached the last egg from under their best hen, and fed Bradley a dish of runny porridge with mashed yolk.
So life had turned out. Alice ought to have been feeding her baby by nowif she hadnt lugged those heavy buckets of water for the garden and chopped the firewood herselfbut instead she had only her thankless ex-husband to fuss over.
Ill nip out for a bitthe village fêtes come round. Maybe I can sell the hen, or trade her for food, she said.
Bradley, staring blankly at the ceiling, replied sullenly, Why sell her? Cook her up for broth. Im sick of porridgeI want proper broth.
Alice clenched the silk dress she woreher only good frock, the one shed worn to her school leavers dance, and later, her wedding. She wore it in the heat, as she had nothing else fit for the weather.
You know I could never Ill trade her or sell her to someone. I could take her to the neighbours, as I did the others, but this hen shes special. I think shed miss me too much.
Pecky-Pen! Bradley sneered. Do you name every hen you own? Daft womanI shouldve expected as much from you!
Alice bit her lip and lowered her eyes.
Going to the fête, are you? Bradley said, perking up. Take some of my paintings and statuesmaybe someonell buy them.
Alice tried to make excuses. Oh, but youre so fond of them
I said take them! he snapped irritably.
She glanced at the dressing table, grabbed two poorly painted bird whistles and a plump piggy bank Bradley had long been oddly proud of, and hurried out before he could demand she take more. Statues she could perhaps offer, but the paintingsno. They were terrible, and Alice was far too embarrassed to be seen with them.
***
It was scorching out. Even in her thin frock, Alice sweated, her face shiny, fringe plastered to her brow. It was village fête dayAlice couldnt remember the last time shed allowed herself a little outing. She marvelled at the bustling crowd: traders hawking honey, vibrant silk scarves, all manner of sweets for children. Smoke wafted from barbecues, delicious smells mixed with laughter and music.
Alice stopped at the last stall, pressed her bag closerthe hen insideand stroked it lovingly. The thought of parting with Pecky-Pen filled her with regret. Shed raised her from a chick, nursed her when shed hurt her leg, and the little hen had become more of a pet than anything. Every time Alice entered the coop, Pecky-Pen came hobbling over to greet her.
Even now, the curious bird was pecking and rooting around, sticking her beak through the bag.
***
An elderly woman behind the stall called out, Fancy a bit of costume jewellery, love? Stainless steel, silver plate, even some faux gold chains.
No, thank you. Im hoping to sell a live hena healthy layer with large eggs.
A hen, is it? Well, I havent anywhere to keep her
Just then a young man at the stalls edge animatedly interrupted.
Lets have a look at the hen, then.
Alice handed him the bird, barely knowing him.
How much do you want? Seems a bit cheapwhats the catch?
Alice felt his searching gaze, and blushed all the more. She limps a little, but shes robust and a good layer.
Alright, Ill buy her. What are those there? He pointed at the clay figures Alice was gripping.
Oh, er just some statuettes. Whistles and a piggy bank.
He picked up the pig, grinning crookedly. Handmade, are they?
Yesmy husbands work. I only want a little for them. I badly need the money, Alice answered.
Ill take the lot. I like odd little things.
The old jewellery seller snorted. What do you want with those, Denis? Havent you had enough toys for one day? You ought to help your brother on the barbecue.
At that, Alice panicked. Do you sell barbecue, then? I cant sell you the hen! She tried to take Pecky-Pen back, but Denis deftly dodged her hands.
Take your money, Alice pleaded earnestly. Shes not good for the grillshes not a meat bird!
He smiled kindly, I know. I wont cook herIll give her to my mum, she keeps hens herself.
You promise?
Promise. And youre always welcome to visit Pecky-Pen. Didnt know hens got names, I must admit.
***
Alice was nearly home when a car sped up beside her; Denis stuck his head out the window.
One moment! Do you have more of those clay figures? Id buy more as presents, if youve got them.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Alice smiled. Youre in luckthere are plenty back at the house!
***
Back home, Bradley woke and groaned at the sound of voices.
Whos that, Alice? Fetch me some water, Im parched.
Denis lingered at the threshold, glancing at the paintings crowding the walls.
Incredible he whispered. Who painted these? Was it you? he inquired as Alice passed with the water.
I did! Bradley declared, sitting up at once. And not paintedpainting is what children do on pavements with chalk. I create.
He watched Denis suspiciously. Why are you so interested in my art?
I like itId like to buy a piece. And those sculptures?
Mine as well! Bradley barked, shoving Alice aside. I made those. This whole lots mine!
Throwing off his coverlet, Bradley pulled himself upright, working the stiffness out of his legs, and joined Denis, showing off his works, beaming with pride.
Denis, for his part, watched Alice discreetly, noting the embarrassed flush on her cheeks and her gentle reserve.
Epilogue
Alice was rather taken aback by her ailing ex-husbands miraculous recovery. As soon as someone showed interest in his art, Bradleys maladies vanished overnight. Day by day, Denis turned up, chuckling, buying one painting after another, then snatching up figurines once the canvases ran out. Bradley, seeing his works finally moving, retreated to his studio, desperate to churn out more.
What he never realised was that Denis real interest wasnt in the masterpieces, but in Alice herselfhis former wife.
Each time Denis left with a purchase, he lingered long at Alices gate, talking with her. Over time, a real fondness grew between themsoon enough, feelings blossomed.
It didnt end there. Denis eventually took from Bradleys house the one thing he truly desired: Alice.
Denis would return from trips to the village, toss the newly purchased paintings onto the fire, and stack the odd sculptures in a sack, not quite sure what to do with them. Always, hed recall Alices sweet, gentle facethe first time he saw her at the fête in her light dress, bag slung over her shoulder, hed known at once she was the one. When he discovered how poorly she was treated by her self-important fool of a husband, who fancied himself an artist, he decided then and there to act.
Thats why Denis kept visitingostensibly to buy more art, but truly just for the chance to see Alice. In the end, she understood.
***
Bradley never guessed how it would end. Denis, whod been snapping up his art like hot cakes, stopped coming once hed whisked Alice away.
Bradley heard the word: the two had married. A wave of bitterness and regret swept over himhed been outfoxed. Good wives were rare, and Alice, it turned out, had been one. It took him a while to realise just what hed lostthe best thing he ever had. Where else could he find someone so caring? Alice had not only persevered, shed pitied and soothed him, almost like a second mother. And how lovely she was, too
And he, the fool, let it slip through his fingers.
Depression threatened to take him, but then he reconsideredthere was no one now to fuss over him, to mash egg yolks or fetch him water, no one left for him to offload the burden of house and garden.
