Kept an Eye on Another Mans Wife
Living together with Victor Dunham revealed what sort of man he wasweak-willed and indecisive.
His entire day would be dictated by the mood with which he woke up. Occasionally, Victor was bright and cheerful, cracking jokes and laughing heartily all day long.
Yet, most of his life was spent in gloomy contemplation, drinking endless mugs of tea, and wandering about the house with a cloud over his head in that way creative types often do. And yes, Victor was one of them: he worked as an arts and crafts teacher in a village school, occasionally pitching in for music lessons when the regular teacher was off sick.
Art pulled at him. School never quite allowed his creativity to shine, so his home bore the brunt of his ambitions. Victor transformed the largest and sunniest room into his studio, despite the fact that Sophiehis wifehad set her heart on it as a nursery for their future children.
Still, the house was Victors, so Sophie never complained.
Victor cluttered the room with easels and tripods, littered every corner with tubes of paint and blocks of clay, and immersed himself in his art: painting feverish still lifes, sculpting, moulding
Some weekends, hed stay up into the early hours trying to finish off a bizarre painting, or spend days making odd little figurines.
He never sold his masterpieces; everything stayed in the house. As a result, the walls were covered with his paintingsnone of which, incidentally, Sophie liked. The shelves and sideboards strained under the weight of clay cats, birds, and other strange shapes.
If any of it had been truly beautiful, things might have been different. But no.
Old friendsartists and sculptors from Victors college dayswould come for weekend visits, only to avoid looking too long at the artwork and sigh quietly as they wandered through the rooms.
Not one ever offered praise.
The only exception was Leo Pritchard, the oldest of the group. Hed once downed a whole bottle of sloe gin and proclaimed:
My goodness! Whats this jumble of rubbish? What are you trying to do here? I dont see a single worthwhile piece in this whole houseexcept, of course, for the beautiful lady of the house.
Victor took the criticism badly, yelling and stamping his feet, and told Sophie to throw their crude guest out at once.
Get out! he shouted, Youre the one who doesnt understand artnot me! I know what this is! Youre bitter that you cant hold a paintbrush any more because of drink! Envys what it is; you devalue everything because youre jealous!
Leo stumbled down the steps, nearly tripping at the gate. Sophie ran after him and apologised for her husbands outburst.
Please, dont take what he said to heart. You shouldnt have criticised his work, but honestly, I should have warned you.
Dont you make apologies for him, my dear, Leo replied, nodding quickly. Its all alright. Ill call a cab and head home. But I do feel for you. Lovely house, but Victors ghastly paintings ruin everything! All these dreadful statuettes Should be hidden, really, not shown off! But knowing Victor, Im sure it isnt easy living with him. You see, for us artists, our creations are a mirror to our souls. Victors work shows an empty soul, as empty as his canvases.
He kissed Sophies hand and left their inhospitable home.
Victor brooded for weeks over Leos words, destroying some of his own sculptures, tearing up paintings and carrying on before finally simmering down a month later.
***
Through all this, Sophie never argued with her husband.
She told herself that once they had children, her sweet Victor would settle down and find other priorities. Hed turn the studio into a nursery, but until then, he could amuse himself with his painting.
After their wedding, Victor made an attempt at being the perfect husband, bringing in fresh fruit and his wages, looking after his young wife.
But that didnt last. He cooled towards Sophie, stopped sharing his earnings, and soon left all the houseworkand caring for himto her. The kitchen garden, henhouse, and even his mother fell to her shoulders.
Victor was elated when he heard Sophie was expecting. But his glee was short-lived. Within a week, she fell ill, landed in hospital, and miscarried.
The news changed Victor instantly: he became weepy, nervous, shouted at Sophie and locked himself up in the house.
Sophie left hospital like a shadow of herself, barely making it home.
No one met her, but worse lay ahead: Victor had locked himself inside and wouldnt let her in.
Open up, Vic!
I wont! Victor whimpered from behind the door. Why-why are you even here? You should have carried my childyou failed! And now, because of you, my mothers in hospital with a heart attack!
Youve brought nothing but misery! Dont stand there, go away! I dont want to live with you anymore.
Sophie slumped down on the front steps, her vision blurring.
Vic Im suffering too! Please, open up!
But Victor ignored her tears, and Sophie stayed outside until dusk.
At last, the front door squeaked open. Out came Victor, gaunt from grief, fumbling to find the door chain but failinghe never knew where anything was and always asked Sophie.
He hesitated, then stalked out to the gate, avoiding her gaze.
Once he disappeared round the corner, Sophie unlocked the door and slipped inside, collapsing onto the bed.
She waited up all night. The next morning, a neighbour delivered grim news: Victors mother hadnt survived.
The loss floored Victor. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed to Sophie:
I never loved you. This marriage only happened because my mum insistedshe wanted grandchildren. Youve ruined everything I had with her. Ill never forgive you for that.
His words cut deep, but Sophie decided she wouldnt leave her husband.
Time passed, but things didnt improve. Victor refused to get out of bed, drank only water, barely atehis ulcer flared up and he grew listless and weak.
Before long, Victor filed for divorce, and the Dunhams officially split.
Sophie wept for days.
She tried hugging Victor, kissing him, but he pushed her away and whispered that hed throw her out as soon as he recovered, blaming her for his ruined life.
***
Sophie simply had nowhere else to go.
Her own mother, whod been all too eager to marry her off young, had wasted no time starting afresh with a widower shed long fancied, far off in Devon. They set up house together and, after wedding, Sophies mother returned briefly just to sell up and left her daughter with no place to turn in case of divorce.
And so, Sophie was well and truly trapped.
***
One day, the larder was empty. Scraping the last oats from the cupboard and boiling the last egg from underneath the broodiest hen, Sophie made Victor a watery porridge and mashed the yolk through for him.
Life had dealt her an odd hand. She could have been spoon-feeding a baby by now (and would have, if not for all the heavy lifting in the kitchen garden) but instead, she was pandering to her ex-husband, who never appreciated her one jot.
Im popping down to the fetetheyre setting up in the next village, she told Victor. Ill try to sell or swap the hen for some food.
Victor, staring at the ceiling, croaked, Why sell her? Make a decent broth out of her. Im sick of porridge. I want broth.
Sophie toyed with the hem of her cotton dressher one nice outfit, worn for her graduation, her wedding, and now on warm days as there was nothing else.
You know I could never do that. Shes too fond of me. Ill trade her at the fete, or maybe sell her. Id take her to the neighbours, but she always comes back to me.
Speckle Victor sneered, what, you give names to every chicken now? I shouldnt be surprised Stupid woman.
Sophie bit her lip and looked down.
Off to the fete, then? Victor seemed to rally a bit. Take a few of my paintings and those figurines. Someone might want them.
Sophie avoided his gaze and tried to protest, Darling you treasure them so.
Take them! he commanded.
She grabbed two bird-shaped whistles (clumsy imitations of Staffordshire pottery) and a bulging pink piggy bank Victor was bizarrely proud of and rushed from the house, praying he wouldnt follow to press more onto her.
She could offer the figurines around, but the paintings? They were hopelessshed be mortified.
***
It was hot out. Even in her thin dress, Sophie was sweating. She couldnt remember the last time she wandered out for enjoyment. The throng in their Sunday best, merrily browsing at stalls, both delighted and bewildered her.
There was plenty to see: honey of every description, bright silk scarves, all sorts of sweets for children. The air was thick with the aroma of roasting meats, heavy with laughter and music.
Sophie stopped at the last stall, clutching her fabric bag with the hen inside, stroking her feathers for comfort.
Truth be told, she hated the thought of parting with the bird, to which shed grown unusually attached.
Years ago, shed bought a line of chicks; one, maimed young, had to be nursed indoors. Speckle had been full of personality, hopping after Sophie on one foot, given to playful mischief.
Now, she ran to greet Sophie whenever she came near the chicken coop. Even as they stood at the fete, the hen peered out with curiosity, pecking affectionately at Sophies hand.
***
An elderly stallholder peered over.
Chin up, love, why not treat yourself to a bit of jewellery? Stainless, silver, even some nice gold-plated chains.
No, thank you. Actually, Im hoping to sell my hena good layer, lovely eggs, Sophie replied as politely as she could.
A hen And what would I do with her?
Just then, a young man at the stall came alive, Lets see the hen, then.
Sophie carefully handed Speckle to him.
How much for her? Surely shes not this cheap?
Sophie noticed the way he looked her over, making her flush even hotter.
Shes a bit lame, but healthy. Lays well.
Alright, Ill buy her. And what have you there?
He nodded at the clay creations in Sophies hands.
Oh some figurines. Bird whistles and a piggy bank.
The young man inspected them and grinned crookedly, Handmade, are they?
They are, yes. Ill take a low price. I need the money.
Ill buy the lot. Ive a taste for unusual bits.
The stallholder shook her head, What dyou want with those toys, Danny? Go help your brother with the barbecue instead.
Sophie, tucking the money away, hesitated.
You sell grilled food? I cant sell you my hen then!
She made to reclaim Speckle, but Danny danced out of reach.
Heretake your money back! Sophie pleaded, I cant let Speckle become dinner! Shes not for eating!
Danny laughed. I understandpromise, shes for my mums brood. She keeps hens.
Truly?
Cross my heart, Danny replied kindly. Come round and see her any time. I didnt even know chickens had names.
***
On the way home, a car pulled up alongside. Danny leaned out the window.
Wait, missI wanted to ask, have you more of those clay figures? Id buy them for gifts and such.
Sophie squinted against the sun, smiled. Thats wonderful! There are dozens of them at home.
***
Victor, roused by voices, groaned from the bedroom.
Whos there, Soph? Bring me a glass of waterthirsty.
Danny, standing in the doorway, glanced at Victor before turning to survey the strange paintings on the walls.
Incredible, he murmured. Who painted these? Was it you?
I did! Victor sat up, annoyed. And for the record: children draw. I paint!
Propping himself up, Victor stared Danny down. What is it to you, anyway?
I like them. Id very much like to buy something. What about those sculptures? Yours, too?
Of course theyre mine! Victor shouted, shoving Sophie aside, water sloshing from the glass. Everything here is mine!
He threw back the blankets, stood a bit unsteady, and shuffled over.
Your studies are interesting, Danny remarked, eyeing the silent Sophie.
While Victor rattled on, showing him his work, Danny sneaked glances at Sophie, noticing how shyly she blushed.
Epilogue
Sophie was staggered by the miraculous recovery of her ex-husband.
Turned out Victor hadnt truly been ill at all!
The second someone showed interest in his creations, his ailments vanished.
The mysterious newcomer came by every day, then, buying one picture, then another. Soon he cleared out the sculptures too.
Seeing his art selling so well, Victor locked himself in the studio, desperate to make more.
What Victor never realised was that it wasnt the art Danny cared forbut Sophie. His eyes were on Victors ex-wife all along.
Every time he left with a new masterpiece, Danny lingered at the gate, talking with Sophie. Affection soon grew between them, blossoming into love.
In the end, Danny got what he came for: Sophie herself.
Once the courtship melted into marriage, Danny took to tossing Victors art onto the fire at home, while the ugly clay creatures were bagged uphe had no idea what to do with them.
What stayed with him was Sophies sweet face. Hed noticed her that first day at the fete, in her pale dress with her bag slung over her shoulder, and knew instantlyshe was meant for him.
After learning Sophies circumstances with her vain, foolish husband, Danny made up his mind to see her every day, using Victors art as an excuse until Sophie understood where his real interest lay.
***
Victor never saw it coming.
The collector stopped visiting after whisking Sophie away. News reached Victor that the couple had marriedand he was left with nothing but bitterness for having been so easily fooled.
He realised, too late, how rare and precious a good wife is. Sophie was exactly that: patient, caring, and nurturinglike a second mother.
He had let a real treasure slip through his fingers, a mistake he came to regret deeply.
I realise now, looking back on it all, that I had everything I needed and I simply didnt value it. Its easy to lose sight of whats truly important until its gone. Good people are hard to come by, and some treasures, once lost, can never be regained.
