The Unfinished Book
“Right, Jenny, I’m off! No need to see me out. Ill be late tonight! Lay out my blue shirt and trousers for tomorrow, dont forget! And remember, I need to pick them up from the dry cleaners!” Victor called from the hallway, hurriedly threw on his coat, paused to inspect himself in the mirror, grabbed his hat, and swept out of the flat, the door slamming behind him with such force the glass in the open window rattled.
*Draught…* I thought, turning off the tap and wiping my hands on my apron. I poked my head out of the kitchen, everything looking as it always did – the sun pouring through the corridor, ending at the entrance hall, family photos on the wall, cheerful striped wallpaper in soft blue, my coat slung over the rack. But then
I frowned.
A parcel! Victor had forgotten his packet, the one with the pasties! Id got up at dawn to make them, with leek and egg, just as he likes. Made specially for today since hes out at a site visit no chance of a decent meal there, and nothing is better than homemade!
I whipped off my apron, neatened my hair, and, still in my simple house dress with little puffed sleeves and a coffee stain on the hem, snatched the warm bundle, cradling it to my chest like a baby as I dashed from the flat thank goodness I remembered my keys! Down the stairs I hurried, holding the rail, the smooth wood cool and polished, winding down gracefully fourth floor, third, second
I could have, like most housewives, just shouted to Victor from the window when he left the block, but that seemed undignified. No, Id bring the bundle myself, say goodbye properly, offer him my cheek so he could peck it with those dry lips, nodding to say its time to go
The race down the stairs left me breathless. Into the courtyard I flew, shoving the heavy door aside not bad, considering Im closer to fifty than I am to twenty, and running does not come easy these days.
Looking around quickly, I spotted him just at the gates in that familiar charcoal mac and light hat.
Victor liked his long coats, never buttoning them, loved them trailing behind him as the wind toyed with the hem like wings. And hats! He had scores, one for every season, and I tended to them all, cleaning and buying new ones whenever needed. I made sure.
“A hat is style!” Victor would insist if our son Mike named after his grandfather ever teased him. “You young ones cant understand, all flat clothes and faux leather!”
But where was Victor now?
Ah, there he was already at the bustle of the main road, just moments from catching his bus. If I didnt hurry
I legged it across the tarmac, nodding to the elderly neighbours sunning themselves on benches. They watched my sprint, smiling as if quietly pleased by my devotion, by our happy marriage.
“Whats all the rush?” old Mrs. Jenkins called after my scurrying back.
“Lunch! Victor forgot, and I made pasties!” I shouted back.
She nodded, beaming. Fresh pasties and love. Couldn’t be better.
I, meanwhile, reached the gates and was about to call out when I froze. There stood Victor, at the bus stop, his arm round a curvy young woman. She laughed, blushing and fussing with her hair, while Victor looked down at her, grinning. All at once, she shrugged off his hand with an icy look, but Victor bent down, desperately clutching her arm, trying to kiss her. She jerked away, his face darkened, then went soft as he tried again, pressing a sweet in her hand. She opened her mouth to accept it, giggling.
I felt sick. God! Victor respected, grown, almost elderly grovelling before some young woman! Where was his pride?
She wore a pretty summer dress, blue with white polka dots, ribbon matching in her hair, neat sandals. My eyes flicked over her, and suddenly I had no idea what to do with my silly bundle, or my life.
The bus pulled in, and the two of them joined the crowd clambering aboard. Victor guided her in, doors hissed shut.
Just as the bus lurched away, I could have sworn Victor looked straight at me. All at once, shame washed over me my old house dress, worn slippers, and a greasy paper bundle of pasties.
I turned sharply and walked back, through the courtyard where neighbours, now with their cardigans off, still basked, now oblivious to my dashed hopes.
“Did you miss him then, love? Didnt get there in time?” Mrs. Jenkins nodded at my bundle.
“Didn’t make it,” I answered absently.
“Shame. Waste of good food. Ill send round Tom hes always peckish. Youll be in, wont you?”
I shook my head vaguely.
“Good, let him have them. Never got the patience for pastry myself. Ill tell him to pop round.”
Then, she started chasing off the tractor that had rumbled into the courtyard. “Oi! Get off my petunias, you great fat thing!” she shrieked at the driver, but I didnt hear the rest.
I trudged back inside, the marble staircase echoing with my small, miserable steps. My breath hitched as the door creaked shut behind me.
That was it. The end. The end of family, warmth, safety, trust. Id lost faith, not just in ‘people’, whoever that means, but in Victor my husband, the one person entrusted with me, to care and cherish. What now?
I slumped onto the hallway stool, pasties scattering from the bundle. My cat, Oliver, padded over, winding around my legs and purring, begging for food. But I barely saw him. I was still back by the drainpipe, staring at that blue polka-dot dress and the woman inside it, and at Victor. Hot tears streamed down my face, bitter and heavy, but there was some strange pleasure in giving up the good wife act for once, just to sit and wallow in sweet, ordinary heartache.
How long I sat there, I dont know. The front door pushed open, and Oliver skittered away.
In poked the head of Uncle Tom Mrs. Jenkinss husband. Chunky nose, pockmarked cheeks, curly greying hair, red neck there was something a bit rough about Tom for our building, for our crowd, but he was one of us a proper gent, if a bit odd.
“Painter, Jenny!” Victor always said. “Artist and a gallery manager! Artistic folk a bit eccentric, or theyd be ordinary, and what a loss that would be”
I wiped my cheeks and stared up at his kind blue eyes. If he hadnt been an artist, I thought suddenly, hed have been a rather saintly vicar.
“Hello, Tom, its you?” I stammered.
“Who else?” Tom grinned, glancing down at himself. “Jenkins told me youve got spare pasties? Our kitchens being redone Jens replacing all the units. She hasnt cooked in days, tells me to eat out. Had enough of that!”
He seemed about to sniffle, then squeezed his burly frame into the patch of sunlight on the hallway carpet.
“Wait, just got to take my shoes off stepped in a puddle. And the socks too, mind. Yes!” he declared, nodding at his huge feet. Socks with a blue stripe from the corner shop decent socks, except for the hole in the big toe.
Absentmindedly, I reached to take his damp shoes to the balcony for drying.
“Oi, leave ’em!” Tom barked, and I stopped, startled.
“I must dry them youll catch your death,” I whispered.
“My body my problem! Put them back, go on!” Tom gave me a cheeky look, shaking his curls.
But I didnt. You dont send a guest away in soggy shoes! I set his shoes in a sunny patch, shooed away Oliver, and sighed. Tom clattered about in the kitchen, rustling and sniffing.
“Jenny! Tea, please! Havent had a real cuppa in ages. Strong, with a lemon! Be a star, would you? Im worn out.” He flung his mighty legs into the hallway so I could hardly pass.
“Of course, just give me a minute,” I muttered, switching on the hob and plonking the kettle on, head swirling with icy dread.
Victor My husband. How could he? Two steps from our door, and already hes making eyes at another woman!
I simmered at the thought of where his adventures might have led.
“No! This is all a misunderstanding! They mustve just bumped into each other, happens all the time! Colleagues, thats all,” I told myself firmly, using my mums chief-reasoning voice. “When he comes back, be kind, care for him, keep him warm hell forget all about her!”
Tom, meanwhile, frowned at me.
“Whats this now? Giving me old tea, are you? Fresh pot, please, none of that leftover lark. Pour it out!” He sniffed the floral china pot, scowling. “No, Jenny thats got to go.”
“But its new brewed it only this morning! Its lovely, just try” I protested, but sighed and nodded.
It wasnt hard to brew a fresh pot. That was nothing. But Victor how could I go on?
The kettle shrieked, and the scent of proper ‘English Breakfast’, tannic and clean, filled the kitchen.
“Now, thats more like it! And fetch me one of the cobalt cups, will you? You know, with the gold rim I love those. Dont be stingy, Jenny!” Tom winked slyly.
“Weve got new ones, Victor brought them back from a work trip, much comfier!” I brushed him off, but Tom thumped the table.
“I want the cobalt ones! All my life Ive drunk from them your mum served tea in them too. Go on. And the pasties. Heap them on a nice plate not that one, its chipped. The fancy one! And sew up my socks while youre at it, would you? Jen won’t bother shes busy with her kitchen and the holes killing my toe!”
As a former teacher I quit ten years ago to keep home for Victor, to be supportive, to be the rock I looked at those socks with a flicker of disdain, but my hand reached for them anyway.
After a moment, Tom thumped the table with his fist, sat up straight and puffed out, suddenly mountainous, cross.
“Jenny what are you doing? You must have some self-respect! Youre the lady of the house, but you let me boss you about like a skivvy. Good heavens! Jen warned me, but I didnt believe her. I remember you, Jenny, tall and proud you used to sweep across the courtyard and the sparrows paused in awe. Now youd let anyone mop the floor with you! Good grief!”
He gesticulated wildly, so agitated the cobalt cups trembled, pasties toppled, clattering.
“Why did you even come, Tom, why say this now? I cant deal with this Victor, my Victor, was just at the bus stop with another woman I saw it, I saw it all I rushed out with the pasties, and there they were I” The tears welled up, falling onto the tablecloth.
Silence fell. Even the curtain stilled, the street outside hushed.
Tom sighed, almost growling.
“Thats exactly why, Jenny. Victor stepped out on you, yes. But you, Jenny, you used to have stood your ground! Now you scurry with bundles, smothering Victor like hes your only child, not your husband. ‘Victor, dont forget your hat! Victor, Ill get the shopping, you rest!’ Even I used to get flustered when you looked at me the way you did and that was with a wife as pretty as Jen. But now? Now you fuss and fuss and you know what? That suffocates a mans spirit. We men are hunters, Jenny we crave a bit of wild, not just warm socks and woolly hats! You moved Mike out, turned your mothering onto Victor, and now hes sampling excitement elsewhere. Its the strop that flare he misses.”
I didnt understand. Or maybe I just didnt want to. How could it be? Id poured my whole life into this marriage. Was it all for nothing? Had I lost myself?
Id left teaching easier to see Victor off every morning, gone were the sleepless nights over marking, no more nerve-shredding meetings, just warmth and order. Pupils still came for private lessons for a while, but Victor caught pneumonia, and the racket and germs bothered him, so I stopped seeing pupils at home.
I stopped singing as I cleaned. No more radio; Victor complained about the scent of the oil paints, so even my painting was boxed away, brushes and all.
*And what next? Ive just faded away,* I said to my own reflection, with a bitter little laugh.
Manicure? When? Theres soup to stir and cutlets to fry.
New dresses? Why, when Victors always too tired to go out anywhere?
Heels? “Why bother?” Victor scoffed once. “Look at your veins, bulging out like worms.” So the shoes went up to the attic.
Friends rarely called. Our son popped round once a month, wolfed down food, answered my questions half-heartedly, and left with a Tupperware or two never phoning after.
And that was it. The end of it all.
“Dont be so down, my dear! Come on, Jenny, youre still young youre still in bloom. Chin up and find yourself again! Or Victor will keep riding about on buses with other women!” Tom warned, tapping the table. “And Jenny, these pasties Wonderful. If I were young again, Id be chasing after you myself!”
Then he was gone, and I was alone.
***
Victor came home late, tipsy and rumpled, reeking of perfume and wine.
“Conference ran late,” he grunted, shoving his briefcase at me, wincing at a twinge in his back. “Make us a cuppa. I fancy some potatoes. With a shot. Jenny, why are you just standing there? I said”
I didnt take his briefcase. Instead, I told him politely to make way for my case.
“Where are you off to? Whats going on?” he asked, stunned, staring at me my hair in a chic shell twist, earrings in, wearing a neat sand-coloured dress and proper sandals. He seemed to shrink.
“Im off on business. Youll have to manage, Victor with or without a shot of vodka, on your own,” I said, shrugging.
“And my potatoes? My shirt for tomorrow?” Victor demanded.
For a moment, old habits almost took over I wanted to fetch his shirt and iron it. Then I stopped myself.
“Sort it yourself. Or have *her* come. I dont mind, Victor if thats what you want, then let it be. Goodbye, Victor. Time I was off!”
I flitted out of the flat, hesitating only slightly with the awkward case handle cutting into my palm, but soon enough my heels clicked down the steps and my pretty dress vanished into the evening. A taxi sputtered in the drive, then silence.
Victor lunged for the stairwell, wanting to shout, but only groaned as a pain jabbed into his back, sparks in his eyes, tears blurring his vision.
“Jenny” he rasped.
Where are you now, Jenny? Youd have massaged me, rubbed in the ointment, wrapped me in a woolly shawl, cuddled close and soothed me.
“Fiona? Is that you?” Victor whimpered down the phone. “Yes, its me I know Im not supposed to ring, but my back, Fiona! I need some help and a bite to eat I cant even get to the kitchen, Fiona! Were not strangers, are we?”
The line crackled with something about getting a doctor, then an abrupt end. Fiona would not come, would not rub, would not iron shirts or cuddle up. She was too proud, too independent. She was not Jenny, not in the slightest. What a disaster.
He shuffled to the kitchen, spotting the plate of cold pasties, and groaned. This wasnt a nightmare this was a catastrophe, and it was all his own doing.
***
I returned the next afternoon with the doctor and a bouquet of roses, which I placed in a crystal vase. I smelled of perfume and, faintly, cigarettes. Yes, I smoked now and then, when I was really fretting.
“Hold on, Doctor dont inject him just yet,” I said, halting the syringe.
Victor groaned in pain, desperate for relief.
“What is it?” asked the doctor.
“One moment. Victor, what did you promise her? Women like her dont just get involved for nothing, youre too old for her” I leaned over my sweating husband.
“Im not old! Im in my prime”
“Pension,” the doctor finished dryly. “So what did you promise her? Quickly, or I have to go elsewhere.”
“A job. And a title. But shell get nothing! I made a mistake, Jenny, a colossal mistake! Only you, Jenny! I only need you!” Victor babbled. “Forgive me! Shell have nothing!”
“Shell have it all. A man keeps his word. She gets the job and the title she mustnt feel cheated. And you, Victor, leave your firm. Find something else. And by the way, I go back to work next week. The irons on the shelf, shirts in the wash. Dont like it? Divorce me. Understood?”
Victor snorted, rolling his eyes, dabbing his brow with his sleeve and nodding. The pain was excruciating; I was in charge, the doctor was backing me up and Tom was peering through the door, likely to fetch Mrs. Jenkins the humiliation never ended.
“Yes. Got it. Jab me already, you lot! Or Im done for!” he whimpered.
I nodded approvingly. And the doctor got on with it.
***
Fiona was thrilled. No, more than thrilled elated. Her rushed thesis sailed through review, she had her degree, the cushy job, and that sweet, silly old Victor.
Now, Fiona ignored him turned her eyes away, failed to greet him. No need; his wife had made it clear she could take everything away the degree, the job overnight. So Fiona would find someone new.
And Victor left his firm. Everyone wondered why, such a steady job. He said only that hed given his word nothing more.
At his farewell party, he brought me (in diamonds, too), danced a proper tango, and looked at me in a way hed never looked at Fiona. Why? What was it about Jenny?
It was everything. I was the very air he breathed all these years; only now did he notice its loss. It wasnt about a warm side at night or a back massage. I was still that unfinished book, mysterious, heady and sweet, like ripe strawberries under a July sun, the ones he once fed me by the sea. And you never finish such a book, never close the final page. At least I hope not.
And Fiona? Perhaps one day shell find herself a reader, but for now, she hasnt grown up to it. Or isnt able to. Life will tell.
If theres one thing Ive learned, its this: never lose yourself for another, and never stop being the main character in your own unfinished story.
