Sparkling Hob
Jane! Come here.
No please. No when youve finished. Just come here, as if youre calling a dog.
She leant the mop against the wall and stepped into the kitchen. David was sat at the table, eyes on his phone. Nearby, in her spot by the window, sat Mrs. Margaret Richardson, her mother-in-law. She was sipping tea. The room smelt of boiled cabbage and the tablets Margaret swallowed by the handful from morning til night.
Mum says you havent cleaned the hob properly again, David said, eyes glued to his phone.
I cleaned it last night.
Clearly not very well.
Margaret placed her cup down on the saucer with a quiet clink.
I am not used to living in a dirty house, she said in that self-evident tone people save for lectures about standards. Ive kept this house in order for more than twenty years on my own, and theres never been such a disgrace.
Jane was fifty-three. She stood in the kitchen, rubber gloves on, hands still damp, and listened for the umpteenth time.
If you show me the dirt, Ill clean it, she said.
Yes, do show her, David chimed in. Cant you see for yourself, Jane? Or do you need it pointing out to you on your knees?
He said it quietly, almost calm. He always spoke that way: never shouting, but he cut right to the quick.
Jane looked at the hob. It gleamed. Shed scrubbed it last night after dinner, spent half an hour getting the grease off the rings. The hob was spotless.
And thats when something shifted.
Not an explosion. No tears. She just looked at that shining hob, then at David with his phone, then at Margaret with her tea, and inside, everything went completely, quietly still the kind of still you get before something finally breaks.
She pulled off her gloves and set them on the table.
Ive been hearing this for twenty-eight years, she said. Thats enough.
David glanced up from his phone. Margaret froze, cup in hand.
What did you say? David asked.
I said: thats enough.
She left the kitchen. Walked to the bedroom, pulled out a big Sainsburys bag from the bottom of the wardrobe, and started packing a few things: paperwork, a couple of jumpers, some clean underwear, her phone charger. Her hands werent even shaking she surprised herself by how calm she felt, like someone finally making the decision that had been brewing for years.
Muffled voices drifted from the kitchen, first soft, then louder.
David, arent you going to stop her?
You go if you want. Im not running after her.
Jane zipped her coat, picked up her bag, and headed for the front door. Sat down, pulled on her shoes. Opened the door.
Jane! Margaret yelled from the kitchen. Do you even realise what youre doing? Where will you go? Youre nothing without him! Nothing!
Jane shut the door behind her. Quietly, no slam.
On the landing, the air smelled of the neighbours cat tray from the flat upstairs and fresh gloss from the ground floor. She walked down and stepped out into the street. It was October, cold and damp, the leaves clinging in thick, soggy layers to the pavement. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and took out her phone.
Lizzie answered on the second ring.
Liz, Jane said, Ive left.
Pause.
Left where?
Left David. For good. Ive nowhere to go.
The silence hung for three seconds, then Lizzie said, You remember my address? Ill be in in twenty minutes. Wait outside, Ill text you the entry code.
***
Lizzie lived in a tiny flat off Park Road. It was only a one-bed, but it was hers, which shed bought seven years ago while working long shifts as a hotel receptionist, scraping every penny together. The place was crammed with bookshelves, plants everywhere, and on the kitchen wall, there were magnets from towns all over the country. It smelled of coffee and something sweet, maybe cinnamon.
Jane curled up on the sofa, clutching a mug of hot tea, while Lizzie tucked her legs under herself in the armchair and watched, waiting patiently for Jane to start.
Go on then, Lizzie said.
Theres nothing really to say, Jane replied. Same old story. The hobs not clean. The soups not salty enough. Floors arent spotless. And the way they look at you, like youre a faulty appliance.
Jane, its always been like that. So, what happened today?
Jane thought for a moment.
Today, I looked at that perfect hob and realised if I dont leave now, I never will. Ill die there one day, and theyll say I didnt look after myself properly.
Lizzie nodded without a word, just topped up Janes tea.
That night, Jane lay on Lizzies sofa under a thick blanket, listening to a real, beautiful silence. No telly blaring through the wall. No Margaret coughing all night. No feeling like she needed to get up and do something.
She stayed awake until nearly three. Not out of anxiety, but because she honestly didnt know what it felt like to just lie there and owe nothing to anyone.
Eventually, she slept.
***
Her phone was silent for two days. On the third, David texted: When are you coming back? Not sorry. Not we need to talk. Just when are you coming back as if shed nipped out to Tesco.
Jane read the message and slid her phone back into her pocket.
Good, said Lizzie, whod seen everything over Janes shoulder. Dont even reply. Let him stew.
Theres nothing for him to stew over, Jane replied. He thinks Ill come round and be back by tea. Hes always thought that. That Ill never actually go.
And will you? Lizzie asked.
Jane looked out into the drizzly October courtyard, damp cars, bare trees.
I will, she said. I just havent a clue where yet.
Those first weeks were odd. Jane didnt know what to do with herself. All her life, shed woken up at seven breakfast to make, house to tidy, laundry, medicine to fetch for Margaret, groceries and back again cooking, cleaning, all day. And still it was not enough, not right.
Now she’d wake up and the whole day stretched out empty. No obligations. It was nearly unbearable.
Lizzie, she said one morning, as her friend was pulling on her coat for work, I need to do something. If I dont, Ill go mad.
Get a job, said Lizzie.
Doing what? I havent worked for twenty-eight years.
Youre an artist.
Jane laughed shortly. I was once. Did two years at a publishers after uni, then I married David, and he said there was no need hed provide. His mother said respectable women keep house, not run around offices.
And you agreed.
I did. I was twenty-five, I thought that was love. That someone looking after you was the dream.
Lizzie shrugged on her scarf. Jane, Ive got watercolours in the bottom of my wardrobe. My niece left them. And a sketchpad, I think. Have a go? Just see?
Whats the point?
The point is you still remember how your hands do, anyway.
***
Jane found the paints wrapped in old newspaper at the back of Lizzies wardrobe. Cheap, meant for kids, in a plastic box. The paper was there too, proper watercolour pads, only half-used. She took everything to the kitchen table and just stared at the blank sheet for ages.
Then she picked up the brush.
At first, nothing worked. The paint wouldnt go where she wanted, her hand shook, all the proportions were off. She ruined three pieces of paper. But eventually, she relaxed; stopped planning, stopped caring, just let the colour run. Just shape. Just colour.
After an hour, in front of her, lay a little watercolour: an autumn courtyard, the view from Lizzies window. Rainy trees, grey sky with a single patch of rosy sunset.
She looked at it and thought: that. I did that.
Not soup. Not a spotless hob. This.
That evening, Lizzie came home, saw the painting, and stopped dead.
Jane, did you do this?
I did.
Its lovely, it really is.
Its a mess, everythings wonky.
But its alive, said Lizzie. Ive seen a hundred back gardens, but this ones real. You can feel it.
Jane said nothing. But she didnt throw the painting away.
***
Meanwhile, at David Richardsons flat, things werent going as he expected.
For the first three days, he waited for Jane to come home. What else could she do? She didnt have a clue. No money, no work, nowhere to stay. Shed come back she always did.
She didnt.
On the fourth morning, he discovered the fridge was empty. Completely. He peered in at a solitary pot of yoghurt, then closed the door. Went to work hungry.
That evening, his mother sat in the kitchen, looking at him with that I-told-you-so air.
Have you eaten?
No.
I havent either. Did you bring anything from the shops?
No, I didnt have time.
So, you havent eaten and you didnt bring food home, Margaret said. Brilliant. Seventy-eight years Ive lived and never known a house without a loaf of bread in it.
Mum, go to the shop yourself.
The pause was very long.
David, said Margaret slowly, I am seventy-eight. My knees are done, Ive got high blood pressure, and I walk with a stick. And you tell me to pop to the shops.
I was busy, Mum. I had work.
And Jane never worked? Jane ran herself ragged for you from dawn till dusk, and you pushed her out.
David bristled. I pushed her? She left.
Because you drove her to it! Margarets voice rose. I warned you: dont be so hard on people. But you always know best.
You were always on at her too! Hobs filthy, soups bland, floors are a mess!
I was giving pointers! My right, in my own home!
My house, Mum! My flat!
They stared at each other, for the first time in years. There was no Jane between them now, absorbing all their blows, keeping the peace.
David yanked on his coat and stormed out, slamming the door.
Margaret remained, alone in the kitchen. It was dark outside. She got up, flicked on the light, opened the fridge, stared at the lone yoghurt pot, then shut it again.
She sat back down.
It was quieter than the flat had ever been while Jane lived there.
***
November set in with cold and the first snow. By now, Jane had been staying with Lizzie for three weeks, gradually returning to herself like someone whod been shut away for years and finally let out into the fresh air. At first you squint. Then you get used to it.
She painted every day. Bought herself proper paints. Lizzie spotted an advert online: a tiny studio for rent on Riverside Road, not far from the park. Small room, north-facing window, wooden floor cheap, because it needed fixing up.
Jane went to view and knew at once: this was the place.
Taking it on, are you? asked the owner, an old woman with a knitted hat.
I am.
She barely had any money. Jane sold the gold earrings her parents had given her for her wedding. It stung memories and all that. But then she thought: which memories, really? What for?
The studio became her space. Shed arrive early, open the window, let in the sharp air with its hint of river and frost. The place smelled of turpentine, oil, wood. Shed line up her jars, paper, or canvas, and just work, sometimes for hours, forgetting to eat.
She painted whatever she could see: landscapes, city back alleys, little still lifes with a mug, an apple, a battered shoe. Gradually, things got better. Her hands really did remember they just needed to warm up after all those silent years.
One December afternoon, Lizzie rang at the studio.
Jane, the hotel wants to do an art show local artists, small, in the lobby. I recommended you. Can you bring a few pieces?
Lizzie, Im not an artist. Ive only just started again.
You are. Ive seen your work.
Im just playing.
Jane, with that patience she had for the hopeless youve been telling yourself for thirty years that youre only this or just that. Enough. Will you bring them?
Jane went quiet.
All right, she replied. I will.
***
Thats where she met Edward.
He wasnt really fussed about paintings; hed simply booked a room and found himself in the lobby at the right time. Tall bloke, in a checked shirt, grey at the temples, quiet brown eyes. He stopped at one of Janes winter landscapes: a park bench, footprints in snow, walking up and walking away.
Jane came over to straighten the frame and heard him muttering to himself, Thats how its done, then. Came, sat, left.
Do you mean the footprints? she asked.
He turned around, totally unembarrassed to be caught talking to a picture.
Yes. I look at it and think: two people, came, sat, then left in different directions. Did they have a laugh, or did they fall out who knows?
I always thought that was one person, Jane replied. Came, sat, went home.
No one goes home in zig-zags, he said, perfectly seriously. See? The tracks loop. Two people.
Jane looked at her own painting, seeing it fresh.
Maybe so, she agreed.
They talked for another twenty minutes. Turns out, he lived in a town not far away: he was helping his brother with the house. He was a builder, could do most things carpentry, electrics, plumbing. Widower, two grown-up kids. He barely talked, but when she did, he listened really listened. Didnt interrupt. Didnt check his phone every two minutes. Just looked at her and listened.
It was so unfamiliar, she didnt really know what to do with it.
As he left, he asked, Do you have a card?
No, Jane blushed. Never made one.
Mind if I take your number?
She gave it. Later, she wondered why. Maybe he wanted to buy a painting.
Three days later he texted: Good evening. Its Edward we talked about snow tracks. Id like to buy that painting, if its still available.
It was. He came, collected it, wrapped it up ever so carefully in a bag hed brought himself, and asked if she had any more pieces he could see.
They went to the studio. He looked at everything silently. Bought two more small landscapes.
You paint very well, he said.
I didnt, for a very long time, she replied.
Why not?
She shrugged. Didnt explain. Not now.
Life got in the way.
He nodded, took that in, didnt push.
***
David called in January. Jane had been moving between Lizzies flat and the studio for a few months. Technically, she and David were still married she hadnt filed any papers.
He rang in the evening, while she was painting at the studio: a big winter still life, pine branches in a glass vase, fir cones, a candle.
Jane, he said.
Yes.
How are you?
Im fine.
Silence.
Mums ill, he said.
Im sorry to hear that.
Could you come round? Even just once a week just to help out around the place.
Jane set her brush down.
David, Ive left. I live separately. I wont be coming to help round the house.
Youre still my wife.
For now. But thats not for long.
Jane, dont be like that. Come home lets just talk.
Weve never talked, David. Not in twenty-eight years. You and your mum talked, and I listened and did what I was told.
Youre blowing it all out of proportion.
Maybe, she agreed, calmly. But Im not coming back.
She hung up. Her hands were steady, and she found that surprising.
Then she thought: to outsiders, this looked so simple a wife leaving her husband. Happens every day. But from the inside, it was like learning to walk again. Every day, a new wobbly step.
***
Managing money was slow-going. People bought her paintings now and then, but never for much. Once in a while, someone commissioned greeting cards, or a landscape for a gift. With Lizzies help, she set up a page online, started posting her work, and eventually, a trickle of people began to follow, sometimes leaving kind messages.
She scraped by: rent for the studio, just enough for food and clothes. No luxuries, but enough.
It felt like wealth, somehow. That was the surprise.
Edward came every two or three weeks: to see his brother, but always popped in for coffee or a walk around the frosty parks. He talked about his projects, sons one was already married with twins on the way. She talked about her painting, how she wanted to try oils instead of just watercolour.
He never hurried. Never pushed. One day, she realised she actually looked forward to his visits. It was a bit quieter in the studio when he was gone.
Liz, she said one evening, Edward I just dont know.
Dont know what?
Hes unbelievably kind. It frightens me.
Why should something good be frightening?
I suppose Im used to good things hiding a catch. That something bad comes after.
Lizzie watched her a long time. Jane, maybe some people just dont have a catch?
Jane thought that over for days.
Eventually, she texted Edward first: If youre free on Saturday, pop in? Ive just started a new piece Id love to show you.
He came that weekend, admired her painting, agreed it was lovely. They ended up out in their usual coffee shop, and there he said,
Jane, would you like to go somewhere at the weekend? Theres this old abbey about an hours drive away supposed to be gorgeous in winter, apparently.
She said shed love to.
***
Every so often, Jane heard rumblings from her old flat on King Street. Her old neighbour, Mrs. Davies from the fourth floor, who she used to chat with in the stairwell, would ring for a catch-up.
How are you holding up, Jane? Listen, its chaos over there, you know. I hear the rows through the walls. Margarets on at David every single day for not keeping you hes shouting back. Yesterday they were so loud I nearly phoned the police.
Jane listened and didnt feel much just a distant, far-off sadness. Not vengeance. Not triumph. Just: well, isnt that how it goes?
It wasnt that they missed her. They missed having someone to take the blows. Theyd spent years fighting in one direction; now that Jane was gone, all the shots landed on each other.
In February, Mrs. Davies called to say that Margaret had been taken off in an ambulance. High blood pressure, heart trouble. David was at the hospital looking miserable.
Jane put the kettle on and wondered, should I call? After twenty-eight years perhaps you owe someone that much.
Then she thought longer. No. Shed done the right thing her whole life. Time for David to manage on his own.
***
March rolled in with the damp smell of thawing snow. Jane was at the Saturday market, tote bag in hand, deciding what to buy for breakfast. She fancied painting this spring market all the colours and noise and life.
Then she saw David.
He was wandering between stalls with a carrier bag, checking his phone, didnt notice her at first. He looked older, she thought, standing back for a second. Or maybe shed just never seen him from this angle before. Slumped shoulders. Crumpled coat. Grey face.
She waited for any feeling: fear? Anger? The wish to disappear before he spotted her?
Nothing.
He looked up, spotted her, hesitated.
They stared at each other across the fruit section.
Jane, he said.
His voice was the same, quiet, but there was something new in it lost, maybe.
David, she replied.
He came closer. The woman at the next stall pretended to be deeply occupied with Granny Smiths.
How how are you? he asked.
Im all right.
Youve lost weight.
Maybe.
Mums in hospital. Heart trouble.
I heard. Im sorry.
He shifted his bag awkwardly.
Youre really not coming back?
Jane met his gaze, calm, no hate and no pity. Just looked.
No, David. Im not.
Weve got to live, somehow
You do. I already am.
He couldnt think of an answer. She picked up her tomatoes, paid, and walked on.
Her heart was steady. That was her real victory not that she left or stayed away, but that she could stand there and not shrink, not apologise, not tell herself be nice, dont be rude, or maybe hes right, maybe Im too much. Just two strangers having a chat.
She picked up fresh herbs at the next stall, grabbed a crusty loaf and headed home. Home meaning the studio shed been calling it that for a while now.
***
She filed for divorce in April. Did it all herself, went to the council, filled in the forms. David didnt contest. They met just once at the solicitors, scribbled their names, and left.
She didnt get the flat. David kept it. Lizzie reckoned Jane shouldve fought for her share, but Jane just shook her head.
I dont want that place, Lizzie. I want my life back.
Money never hurts though.
Money will come, Jane said. A different kind. My own.
By summer, she and Edward were seeing each other every week. Sometimes shed visit his town, sometimes he came to hers. He had a little house on a quiet road, with blackcurrants and a gnarly old apple tree in the garden. When Jane first visited in May, she stood staring at the blossom for ages.
Its beautiful, she said.
My wife planted it, he replied, unflustered. Gone eight years now. But the tree still flowers.
They stood together and watched the tree.
Edward arent you scared? she said. Of being close to someone again?
He was silent a while.
Of course, he said honestly. But you make me happy, and I dont think fears a reason not to live.
She laughed surprising herself.
Thats wise, that is.
I just believe in fixing things with a hammer. No fuss.
***
That autumn, exactly a year since Jane left the old flat on King Street, she and Edward sat at his kitchen table late one evening. He was fixing a sticking kitchen drawer, she was sketching with a coffee by her elbow.
It was warm, quiet; the air smelled of wood and coffee.
Jane? Edward said, still messing with the drawer. Will you move in?
She looked up.
Where?
Here. With me.
She didnt answer at once. He stayed quiet, tightening a screw.
Ive got my studio there, she said.
I know. Theres a spare room here too big east window, gets the sunrise. Told you before.
You did.
So?
Jane looked back at her sketchbook a rough drawing of his kitchen: man with a screwdriver, woman with a mug, window, and garden beyond.
I need to think about it.
Take your time.
Youre not going to rush me?
Nope.
Why not?
He tested the drawer. It slotted in perfectly now.
Because Ive got all the time in the world, he smiled. And its daft to rush a grown woman.
Jane looked again at her sketch.
All right, she said.
All right youll think or all right youll move in?
All right, Ill move.
He nodded. Sat down, poured himself some tea. They sat quietly for a while and the quiet felt just right.
***
Six more months passed.
Jane lived with Edward now, but kept her Riverside studio, working there three days a week. The spare room with the east window became her morning art corner; shed do sketches there while Edward was out working.
Her paintings sold a bit more. She wasnt about to become some famous artist, but she had regular folks who came for her work, who followed her page, who cared what she made. It was all modest and cosy but it was hers.
She still occasionally heard about David: a call from Mrs. Davies, mostly. Margaret never properly recovered, mostly stayed in bed now. David had hired a carer. Go to work, come home, same routine.
Jane would listen to the stories, remembering how that man once took up her whole sky. His moods were the weather, his words the laws. What looked like a good marriage from the outside turned out, on the inside, to be the smallest cell the most dangerous, because the door is locked shut from the inside, by your own hand.
But now, her sky was different.
One Tuesday in December, Jane arrived at the studio before dawn, flicked on the kettle. Outside, thick gentle snow was falling.
Her phone rang Lizzie.
Jane, hi! How are you?
Good, just working.
So Ive got some news, no idea how youll take it. A friend of mine said theres a gallery in the city centre looking for artists for their spring show its a small place, but a proper gallery. Shes seen your work online and wants to chat. Heres her number.
Jane scribbled it down.
Liz theyll want someone proper, surely. I havent got a name, or a CV.
Jane, you didnt paint for five years, then started again. Now youve got over a hundred pieces. Thats pretty serious.
Well
Just ring her. Just chat.
All right.
Jane ended the call, glanced down at the number, then looked out at the fresh white snow. She poured herself some tea, picked up a paintbrush.
Shed call later. But right now, she had to catch this snow before it vanished.
***
That evening, Edward picked her up after the studio closed. He knocked, stepped in, saw her hunched over a half-finished canvas.
Ready?
Five more minutes.
He perched on a stool, waiting without a word. Just watching her work that clear, patient gaze people only give to things they deeply value.
After five minutes, she tidied up.
There, she said.
Looks good, he nodded towards the painting.
I dunno. Snows hard you look at it, its white, but its actually blue, grey, pink, anything but white.
Funny, he said, dead straight. Id never have guessed.
Thats just it you look and dont really see.
They stepped out into the cold. The snowflakes had stopped; the air felt impossibly clean.
Edward, she said, as they padded across the frosty pavement, I got a call about a gallery in the city. For an exhibition.
And?
Im dithering should I?
Do you want to?
She paused.
I do. Im just terrified.
What of?
That theyll say its not good enough or not right. That Im not a real artist. That its all just nonsense.
Edward kept pace with her, hands in pockets, staring ahead.
You know what? he said gently. Nothing scary about it at all.
What do you mean?
I mean, the scariest parts done. You lived for twenty-eight years somewhere you were told, daily, you were nothing. And you walked out with one bag. That was hard. The gallery? If they say no, so what.
She stopped.
You always do that, she said. Nail on the head.
I try.
She grinned, and so did he, just a little she could see it under the streetlight.
Come on, he said. Freezing out here.
Off they went; snow scrunched underfoot, lamplight bouncing off icy puddles. The windows ahead glowed warm.
Edward, breathed Jane.
Mm?
Thank you.
What for?
For never telling me what I have to do, or what I ought to be.
He gave it a moments thought.
A grown-up knows what shes got to do, he said. Im only here to remind you, now and then. Nothing else.
At the door, he let her in first. The hallway smelled faintly of wood and apples he kept some in the cellar since autumn.
Jane slipped off her shoes, strolled to the kitchen, flicked on the light.
Familiar things: the old wooden table, two chairs, window onto the garden. Her sketchbook there where shed left it that morning.
She flipped it open yesterdays sketch: the kitchen, man with a screwdriver, woman with a mug, window, and garden beyond.
Now all that was left was to add the snow.
She reached for her pencil.
