After dropping his mistress off at the corner of Oxford Street, Mr. Butcher bade her a gentle farewell before making his way homeward. He lingered a moment outside his terraced house, weighing up what he ought to say to his wife. Then he trudged up the steps and unlocked the door.
Evening, he called out tentatively. Charlotte, are you in?
Im here, came his wife’s calm reply from the sitting room. Evening. So, shall I go start the chops?
Butcher had sworn to himself that this time he would act decisivelyfirmly, like a proper man should! He would put an end to this double life, while the taste of his lovers kisses still lingered, while his soul hadnt yet been sucked back into the ordinary depths.
Charlotte, Butcher cleared his throat, Ive come to tell you that we must part ways.
Charlotte took the news with almost alarming composure. Nothing much seemed to ruffle Charlotte Butcher. Once, hed even teased her about being as unshakeable as Britannia herself.
What do you mean? she asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway. No chops, then?
Thats up to you, Butcher replied. If you want to fry them, fry them; if not, dont. Im leaving for another woman.
Most wives, after hearing such a declaration, would have gone at their husbands with the frying pan, or at least thrown a spectacular scene. But Charlotte was not most wives.
Well, she remarked, arent you a fine one. Did you bring my boots back from the cobblers?
No, Butcher admitted sheepishly. If its so important to you, Ill go fetch them now
Good grief Charlotte grumbled. Thats just you all over, Butcher. Send a fool for boots and hell only bring back the old ones.
Butcher felt affronted. Something about this parting confession wasnt going as hed expected. There werent enough feelings stirred, no passionate row or righteous indignation! But then, what could he expect from his stoic wife, the one hed jokingly dubbed Britannia Cold?
I dont think you quite hear me, Charlotte! Butcher insisted. Im making it official: Im leaving you for another womanleaving, and all you think about are your boots!
Quite right, remarked Charlotte. Unlike me, youre free to roam wherever you like. After all, your boots arent with the cobbler. Why shouldnt you go?
Theyd been together for years, and yet Butcher still couldnt always tell if his wife was mocking him or being sincere. It was, in fact, this placid nature, her knack for keeping the peace and her reserved ways, that had first drawn him to her. Add to that her prudence in managing their home and her shapely figure, and Charlotte had seemed the model wife.
She was unflappable, reliable, as steadfast as a ships iron anchor. But now Butchers affections belonged to anotherhe loved fiercely, guiltily, sweetly! It was time to put his cards on the table and reel in his net for a new life.
So Charlotte, he said, a trace of ceremony, sorrow, and regret in his voice, Im grateful for everything, but Im going. I love another woman, and I no longer love you.
Well, thats a turn-up, Charlotte replied drily. Doesnt love me, the silly old boot! My mother, for instance, was fond of our neighbour, and my father loved his dominoes and whisky. So what? Look how fabulously I turned out.
Butcher knew arguing with Charlotte was impossible; every word from her landed like a weight. The fire in him flickered, and he no longer felt like quarrelling.
You are rather wonderful, Charlotte, he mumbled dispiritedly. But I love someone else. Passionately and with abandon. I mean to leave, do you understand?
And who is it, this someone else? she asked. Margaret Thornbury, perhaps?
Butcher recoiled, startled. He had indeed had a secret affair with Thornbury last year, but hed had no idea Charlotte knew her!
How do you? he began, then stopped himself. No, Charlotte, not Thornbury.
Charlotte yawned.
All right then, maybe its Samantha Burleigh you thought youd run off to?
Butcher felt a chill creep down his spine. Burleigh, too, had been an affair, but that was ancient history. Had Charlotte always known? But then, she was fortitude itselfnever a word out of place.
Wrong again, Butcher said. Not Burleigh, not Thornbury. Its someone entirely different, a dazzling woman, the pinnacle of my dreams. I cant live another day without her, and you mustnt try to persuade me.
Somost likely, its Maya Valentine, his wife replied. Oh, Butcher, you daft man What a classic. The woman you dream ofMaya Valentine. Thirty-five, one child, two, ah, lost hopes yes?
Butcher grabbed his head in despair. Bang on targethe was indeed tangled up with Maya Valentine.
Howhow did you guess? Were you spying on me? he stammered.
Elementary, Butcher, said Charlotte coolly. My dear, Im a gynaecologist with years of practice. Ive seen every woman in this wretched city, while youve only managed a handful. Just a glance in the right direction tells me youve been about, you hapless loon.
Butcher struggled to compose himself.
Suppose youre right! he declared with an attempt at bravado. Suppose it is Valentine. That changes nothing; Im going to her!
Oh, silly Butcher, retorted Charlotte, at least you could have asked me before you made up your mind. By the way, theres nothing special about Valentine, just the same as every other womanI know, Im a doctor. And you havent even seen the chart on your pinnacle of dreams, have you?
N-no, he confessed.
There you have it! First, get yourself into the shower this instant. Tomorrow, Ill ring old Mr. Simmons and hell fit you in at the clinic, no queue required, Charlotte said matter-of-factly. Then well talk. Its a disgracehusband to a gynaecologist, and he cant even pick a healthy woman!
What do you want me to do? Butcher pleaded.
Im going to fry the chops, Charlotte said. You get yourself clean and do as you please. And if you find youre still hunting for that dream womanspotless and allIll give you some suggestionsButcher stood in the hallway, caught in a wash of culinary aromas and the steely pragmatism of Charlottes words. Upstairs, the world of fresh linens and old regrets beckoned. For a moment, he lingeredhalf listening to the familiar clatter in the kitchen, half tasting the sweetness of freedom he no longer craved. The door to the outside gaped slightly, as if inviting him to make good on his declaration. Yet something invisiblecall it habit, call it love, or perhaps simple exhaustionkept him fastened to the spot.
He shrugged off his coat, left it drooping over the banister, and padded to the washroom. The water ran hot, stinging away the perfume of day-old infatuations. As he soaped his face, Butcher considered his prospects. A dazzling woman, the pinnacle of his dreams? Or another patient on Charlottes ledger, worthy only of a clinical note?
By the time he reemerged, Charlotte had set the table and was humming a tunenothing romantic, just the sort of thing you might hear when soup simmers and windows fog with domesticity. She glanced at him as he entered, half a smile playing on her lips.
Chops are ready, she said, the subtlest warmth in her voice.
Butcher nodded, drawn by hunger and something harder to swallow. He took his seat. Knives and forks glinted; steam floated between them like a truce. For all his talk of parting, here he remainedin the quiet gravity of Charlottes kitchen, under her steady gaze, tasting the life he had so nearly thrown away.
More peas? she offered, ever practical.
He found, with a curious ache, that he wanted them.
Yes, please, he replied.
And so the evening stretched ahead, ordinary and strange, with neither confessions nor departuresjust two stubborn souls, weathering life over a plate of chops, and sharing, perhaps, a silent understanding that some anchors are worth their weight in iron.
