Violet was scrubbing dishes in the kitchen, lost in the clatter of crockery and the strange hum that seemed to seep from the walls, when John drifted in. A moment prior, hed flicked off the kitchen light, so now everything was lit with the white gloom of a late English afternoon.
Its light enough, no sense wasting electricity, he muttered from somewhere near the faded wallpaper, his voice trailing over the linoleum like a cold breeze.
I was just about to put a wash on, Violet murmured, not meeting his eyes.
Youll do it tonight, retorted John, his hands adjusting the ghostly tap until water ticked rather than rushed. Thats when its cheaper. And dont blast the tap like that youre pouring our money straight down the drain, Violet. You spend too much. You always do. Dont you see how youre flushing our pounds away?
Violet sighed, drying her hands on a floral tea towel that smelled faintly of old biscuits, and slumped into a chair that wobbled slightly as if it, too, were tired of the conversation.
John, have you ever seen yourself? I mean, really looked at yourself? she asked, her voice half-hidden behind a floating thought of rain-soaked fields.
I do nothing but, every day, John snapped, bitterness curling his lips as though the words tasted of vinegar.
And what do you see? Violet pressed, blinking slowly as if underwater.
As a person? Johns eyes darted around, as if seeking an open exit through the wallpaper.
As a husband and a father.
Husband as any, father as any normal, average, nothing special, John grumbled. Just like everyone else. Now, why are you on at me?
You think every husband and fathers like you? Violet felt the room draw in, distorting and stretching.
What is it you want, Violet? Looking to start a row?
Violet realized with a peculiar certainty that there was no return this was the only path, stretching endlessly like a misty lane. John, do you know why youve never left me? she asked, her voice slow and strange, as if shed forgotten which century they were in.
Why would I leave? John shot back, his smile askew, not quite real.
Because you dont love me, Violet said. And you dont love the children.
John opened his mouth, but she floated above him, continuing, Dont bother arguing, John. We both know you dont love anyone. No need to waste words.
And Ill tell you why you never left. Its because youre too stingy. Its a question of pounds and pence for you you can’t stand the thought of losing a penny. Thats why you stay. Fifteen years, John. Fifteen years of what, exactly? Apart from having children and living as husband and wife, what have we achieved?
Weve still got the future, said John, his words little more than a flickering shadow.
Not all of it, John just the leftovers. Listen: in all our years, we never once went to the seaside. Not once. I wont even mention abroad. We didnt holiday, we didnt camp, we didnt even pick mushrooms in the woods. We just walked the streets, spent our holidays here, in this grey city. Why? Too expensive.
Because were saving for the future, John recited, as if reading lines from a play performed endlessly in some strange society.
We? Violet let the word hang, twisting and curling like steam.
For you, for the children! Thanks to me, weve built a little nest egg, havent we?
Have we? Or is it only you? Tell you what: give me some money. Ill buy new clothes for the children and myself. Ive worn these same drab dresses since our wedding, and the children live in the faded hand-me-downs your brothers wife sends over. And lets not forget were all cramped in your mothers flat. I want to rent a place of our own.
Mum gave us two rooms. And those clothes why buy new, when the old still fits, more or less? Waste of good pounds.
And for me? Whose old clothes fit me? Your brothers wife? Violets voice floated higher, wobbling.
And who are you dressing up for? Youre the mother of two, thirty-five hardly the time to faff about with new frocks.
Then what should I be thinking about?
Lifes higher meaning, John intoned, a streak of moonlight catching the rim of his glasses. Theres more to life than clothes and flats, all that womens nonsense. Theres spiritual growth and all that. Thats what matters.
So thats why you keep every penny locked away. For our bright spiritual future. So we can rise above all this, hmm?
Cant trust you with money, can I? Youd spend it all, and God knows what would happen if something went wrong! Have you thought of that? Johns face flickered in the twilight.
What about living when do we start that? Violets voice, tired and ragged, spun gently off like a leaf in the autumn wind. Its like were already living through your mysterious rainy day, John.
John glared, silent.
You scrimp even on soap, loo roll, napkins, Violet went on. You smuggle home soaps and hand creams from work I know it.
Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, John quoted, words brittle as dead leaves. Why spend on fancy soap or luxury tissue?
Just tell me how long, John. How long do we have to bear it? Ten more years? Fifteen? Twenty? When are we allowed to live, buy good loo roll, wear nice clothes? Im thirty-five surely the moments not come yet?
John said nothing.
Maybe forty? Is that it? Life begins at forty? Her laughter was hollow, echoing strangely.
Again, his silence.
Not forty. Childs play. What about fifty, John? Can I live then? The kitchen seemed to fill with the soft ticking of imaginary clocks.
Silence again.
Still too soon. Of course. What if we dont make it, John? Honestly, with your penny-pinching meals, its a wonder were still alive. And were constantly in a mood do you ever notice? Dont people with sour moods die quicker?
If we moved out or ate well, we couldnt save.
Ah, but thats the thing, Violet said, finally standing, feeling the wobble in her knees. Im done saving. I cant do it anymore. You love this, John. I dont.
And how will you live? Johns voice trembled, a quiver running along his jaw.
Ill manage, Violet said, her voice as light as a moth at the window. Ill find a place for me and the children. I earn as much as you more, perhaps. Therell be enough for rent, enough for food and proper clothes. And best of all, Ill never have to listen to another lecture about electricity or water or gas. Ill run the washing machine at midday and turn on the lights whenever I please. Ill buy the finest loo roll and real napkins. Ill shop for what I want, never mind the sales.
You wont be able to save at all! John exclaimed, horror stirring the pots on the stove.
Who says? said Violet. Ill save your child support cheques if I like. Or maybe I wont. Ill spend every last penny. Ill live from paycheque to paycheque. On the weekends, Ill drop the children off at yours and your mums, and Ill go to the theatre, to restaurants, to the gallery. This summer Ill go to the seaside. I dont know which beach yet, but Ill decide, once Im free of you.
John stared as the walls seemed to close in, contours warping, colours leaching out of the world. He did sums in his head the pitiful amounts hed have left after paying for the childrens weekends and Violets imagined adventures by the grey English sea. But most of all, he mourned the fate of his precious savings, fluttering and dissolving like banknotes in the wind.
And the best part? Violets voice was bright and strange, echoing off invisible chambers. Well split that bank account of yours. Half for you, half for me. And Ill spend mine, every last bit of it. Not saving for life, John just living it now.
Johns mouth formed words but nothing came out. Fear pressed down on him a fear not for Violet, not for the children, but only for himself, for the future unwinding with each lost pound.
Do you know my dream, John? Violet asked. Her words shimmered as if drifting up from some secret spring. That when my time comes, there isnt a single penny left in my account. Then Ill know for certain that I spent everything I had on living.
Two hazy months later, in a world half-glimpsed and forever out of reach, John and Violet divorced.
