Valerie Was Doing the Washing Up in the Kitchen When John Walked In—But Only After Switching Off the Light. “It’s Still Bright Enough, No Need to Waste Electricity,” He Grumbled. “I Was Going to Use the Washing Machine,” Said Valerie. “Do It Tonight, When the Electricity’s Cheaper,” John Replied Sharply. “And Don’t Run the Tap So Hard. You Waste Far Too Much Water—Far Too Much. Surely You Understand You’re Just Flushing Our Money Down the Drain?” He Turned Down the Tap. Valerie Looked at Her Husband with Sadness, Dried Her Hands, and Sat at the Table. “John, Have You Ever Looked at Yourself From the Outside?” She Asked. “Every Day,” He Snapped Back. “And What Do You See?” She Continued. “As a Man?” He Clarified. “As a Husband and a Father.” “Average, I Guess,” He Responded. “Neither Better nor Worse Than the Rest. Why Are You Nagging?” “Do You Really Think All Husbands and Fathers Are Like You?” Valerie Asked. “Are You Picking a Fight?” John Shot Back. Valerie Knew There Was No Turning Back—This Conversation Needed to Happen Until He Finally Understood Living With Him Was Pure Misery. “Do You Know Why You’ve Never Left Me, John?” She Asked. “Why Should I Leave You?” He Retorted. “Because You Don’t Love Me. Or Our Children.” John Tried to Shoot Back, But She Continued. “And Don’t Say Otherwise. You Don’t Love Anyone. And I Won’t Argue—No Point Wasting Time. I Want to Talk About Why You Haven’t Left Me and the Kids.” “Well? Why Not?” “Because of Your Stinginess—Because You’re So Incredibly Tight-Fisted That You See Leaving Us As a Financial Disaster. How Many Years Together? Fifteen? What Have We Achieved? Apart From the Obvious—Getting Married and Having Kids. What Achievements in Fifteen Years?” “We’ve Still Got Our Whole Lives Ahead,” John Said. “No, John. Not Our Whole Lives—Just What’s Left. In All Our Time Together, We’ve Never Once Had a Holiday by the Sea, Not Even in Britain. Always in the City. Not Even a Day Out for Foraging. Why? Because It’s ‘Too Expensive.’” “Because We’re Saving for Our Future!” John Insisted. “We? Or You? Every Month You Take All the Money and Squirrel It Away ‘for the Family.’ Really? Our Account? Let’s Check—Give Me Some Money for Clothes for Me and the Kids. It’s Been Fifteen Years Since I Bought Anything New—Still Wearing My Old Wedding Outfit and Hand-Me-Downs From Your Brother’s Wife. So Do the Kids. And I Want to Rent a Flat—Tired of Living in Your Mum’s Place.” “Mum’s Given Us Two Rooms, You Shouldn’t Complain. And As for Clothes, Why Waste Money? The Kids Can Wear What Their Cousins Outgrew.” “What About Me? Whose Cast-Offs Should I Wear—Your Brother’s Wife’s?” “Who Are You Dressing Up For?” John Sneered. “You’re a Mum of Two, You’re 35! You Shouldn’t Worry About Outfits.” “And What Should I Worry About?” “The Meaning of Life. Your Spiritual Growth is More Important Than Clothes, Flats, or All That ‘Women’s Rubbish.’” “So That’s Why You Keep All the Money to Yourself—for Our ‘Bright Future,’ So We Can Grow Spiritually?” “Because I Can’t Trust You—You’d Spend It All! How Would We Survive if Anything Happened?” “And When Exactly Will We Start ‘Living,’ John? Haven’t You Noticed We Already Live As If the Worst Has Happened—Scrimping on Everything, Even Soap and Toilet Paper, Stealing Hand Cream From Work—‘Every Penny Counts.’ Tell Me, How Much Longer Must We Endure? Ten Years More? Twenty? How Old Do I Have to Be Before We Can Finally Afford Decent Toilet Paper?” John Stayed Silent. Valerie Guessed, “Forty? No, Too Soon! Fifty? Still Too Soon? Sixty, Maybe? Or Will We Just Never Start Living At All?” Still Silence. “You Know What, John? What If We Don’t Make It to Sixty? We Eat So Much Cheap Rubbish Because You’re So Tight, and We’re Always Miserable—Don’t You Know That Miserable People Don’t Live Long? But Even If We Moved Out and Ate Properly, You Couldn’t Save Your Precious Money.” “Exactly,” Said Valerie. “That’s Why I’m Leaving—I’m Done With Constant Saving. I Don’t Want This Any More. You Can Keep Saving—I Won’t.” “How Will You Live?” John Was Horrified. “I’ll Manage—Rent My Own Place, Buy Clothes and Food, and Most of All, I Won’t Have to Endure Your Lectures on Penny-Pinching. I’ll Use the Washing Machine in the Day, Buy Nice Toilet Paper and Napkins, Shop Without Waiting for Sales, and Yes, I’ll Spend Every Penny—Even Your Maintenance Payments. I’ll Drop the Kids at Yours on Weekends and Go to Theatres, Restaurants, and By the Summer, I’ll Have a Seaside Holiday—Haven’t Decided Where Yet, But I Will.” John Felt Terrified—Not for Her or the Kids, But for Himself. What Would Be Left After Child Support? Especially If She Started Travelling and Spending ‘His’ Money? “One More Thing,” Valerie Said. “The Joint Account You Guard So Jealously—We’ll Split It. Half Each. And I’ll Spend My Share, Too. Every Penny. When My Time Comes, I Want My Account at Zero—That’s How I’ll Know I Truly Lived for Myself.” Two Months Later, John and Valerie Were Divorced.

Margaret was washing the dishes in the kitchen when Edward came in, flicking off the lights as he entered.

Theres plenty of daylight left. No sense in wasting electricity, he muttered, wearing that familiar scowl.

I was going to put a load of washing on, Margaret replied, a tired note in her voice.

Do it tonight, when its cheaper, Edward said curtly. And you dont need such a powerful stream, you know. Youre using far too much water, Margaretfar too much. You must realise that every little bit you waste is our money, down the drain.

He turned down the tap, and Margaret watched him in silent despair. Finally, she switched off the water altogether, wiped her hands dry, and sat at the table.

Edward, have you ever taken a good, honest look at yourself? she asked, voice quiet.

All I ever do is look at myself, Edward snapped, sharper than usual.

And what do you see?

As a person? he asked irritably.

As a husband and a father.

Husband as husbands go. Father as fathers go. Average, like everyone else. Why do you ask? he answered, evasive and impatient.

So you think all husbands and fathers are like you? Margaret pressed.

Edwards brow knitted. Are you trying to start an argument?

Margaret knew there was no turning back; some things had to be said, even if it stung. If only it would finally dawn on him just how miserable their life together had become.

Edward, do you know why youve never left me? Margaret asked.

And why should I leave you? Edward replied, curling his lips into a sarcastic half-smile.

Well, for one, because you dont love me anymore, Margaret answered softly. And you dont love our children, either.

Edward made to protest, but Margaret held up a hand and continued.

Theres no need to argue. Well save our breaths. I wanted to talk to you about something elseabout why you wont let go of me and the children.

Go on then, Edward said.

Its your stinginess, Edward. Your dreadful, relentless parsimony. The thought of separating is dreadful to younot because of emotion, but because it would cost you. Fifteen years, weve had. What have we done with them? What do we have to show, except our marriage and the children? Name one thing weve achieved, Edward.

We still have the rest of our lives ahead, Edward said flatly.

Not all of it, Edward. Only whats left, Margaret replied sadly. Fifteen years, and not once have we gone to the seaside. Not even somewhere here in Englandnever mind abroad. Every holiday spent in this very town. Not even a day out in the countryside for a bit of mushroom picking. And why? It all costs money.

Were saving for our future, Edward insisted.

We? Margaret echoed incredulously. Or are you just talking about yourself?

For you and the children, of course.

Oh, really? You mean to say youve been saving up every shilling, mine and yours, these many yearsjust for me and the children?

Who else would it be for? Do you have any idea whats in our account, thanks to my carefulness?

Our account? Perhaps you have a tidy sum somewhere, but I dont see a penny, Margaret answered wryly. Lets test your generosity. Give me some money so I can buy new clothes for myself and the childrenwe havent had anything new in fifteen years. I wear what I married you in, and old hand-me-downs from your brothers wife. Our children wear what their older cousins outgrow. And I want to finally rent our own flat, Edward. Im tired of living with your mother.

Mums given us two rooms in her house. You shouldnt complain, Edward huffed. And as for clotheswhats the point, when the children outgrow everything so quickly and hand-me-downs do just fine?

And me? Whose castoffs am I meant to wear? Your brothers wifes?

Who are you dressing up for, then? Edward laughed, bitterly. Youre a mother of two, thirty-five years old! Clothes are hardly what you should be worrying about.

And what should I worry about, then?

About lifes meaning, Edward said loftily. Theres more to life than clothes and womens trifles. Things of far greater worth.

What exactly do you mean?

Im talking about spiritual fulfillment, Edward declared. The things that truly matter, beyond all the fuss over flats and frocks.

So thats why you keep every penny in your own account and never let us have anyso we can become spiritually fulfilled in poverty? Is that it?

Because you cant be trusted with money! Edward nearly shouted. Everything would be squandered. Then what would we live on if something happened? Have you even thought of that?

And when, pray tell, will we start living, Edward? Margaret asked, sarcasm sharpening her words. Because it feels as though were already living as if that daythe dreadful what ifhas come.

Edward glowered at her in sullen silence.

You skimp on soap, loo roll, even napkins, Margaret pressed on. You bring home soap and hand cream from the factorywhat they give you for free.

A penny saved is a penny earned, Edward intoned. Little things add up, Margaret. Theres no sense throwing away money on luxury loo roll or fancy hand creams or napkins.

At least give me a general ideahow many more years must I endure before we can treat ourselves like other people do? Ten years? Fifteen? Twenty? Im thirty-five now, and I suppose the time hasnt come yet, has it?

Edward remained silent.

Ill hazard a guess. Forty? Is that when life begins, in your world?

Still nothing from Edward.

Fifty, perhaps? Will it be time then, Edward? Time to live a little?

Again, Edward said nothing.

Sixty? Margaret pressed on, voice almost light with a cruel humour. Perhaps then, with a handsome sum in your account? Could I then buy new things for myself and the children?

Silence.

Do you know what worries me, Edward? Margarets voice trembled. What if we dont make it to sixty, you and I? Considering your miserly ways, we eat the worst sort of food, and far too much of it because its cheap and filling. Have you thought that eating rubbish might kill us? But more than thatits the constant gloom hanging over us. You cant live long with your spirit so dampened.

If we leave Mum’s and feed ourselves properly, we wont be able to save, Edward mumbled.

Exactly, Margaret agreed. And thats why Im leaving you. I cant save money foreverI dont want to. It makes you happy. Not me.

How will you live? Edward breathed, horrified.

Ill manage, Margaret replied. No worse than now. Ill rent a small flat for myself and our children; my salary matches yours, and therell be enough for food and clothes. Most importantly, I wont have to listen to any more lectures on saving on water, gas or light. Ill run the washing machine during the day if I please, and I wont fret about leaving the light on. Ill buy the best loo roll, and therell always be napkins on my table. Ill buy what I want in the shops, without waiting for sales.

But you wont save a thing! Edward cried.

Oh, I shall, said Margaret, Ill put aside your maintenance payments for the children. Or perhaps not. The truth is, I dont care to save any more. Ill spend every last poundeven your money. Ill get by from payslip to payslip. And when the weekends come, Ill send the children round to you and your motherthatll save me a pretty penny. Ill go to the theatre, out to restaurants, to exhibitions. This summer, Ill finally go to the sea. I havent picked where yet, but I will decide, once I lose these last chains.

Edwards face drained of colour as the arithmetic raced through his mindhow much hed have left after Margaret took the childrens share, after the costs of her newfound independence. What hurt most was the thought of Margaret flinging those hard-earned pounds, his pounds, on trips to the seaside.

I havent told you the most important bit, Margaret continued. That account of yourswell split it. Half for each.

What do you mean? Split it? stammered Edward.

Equally, Edward. However much youve stashed away these past fifteen years, Ill have my shareand Ill spend it, too. I wont save for my life; Ill live it, now.

Edwards mouth worked, but no words came. Horror seized him; he was unable to speak or to think.

Do you want to know my dream, Edward? Margaret said quietly. When my own time comes, I want not a single penny left in my account. Then Ill know that every bit of what I had, I spent on living. On myself. On life.

Two months later, Margaret and Edward divorced.