He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself as a spineless and weak-willed man. Every day depended on the mood with which he woke up. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and lively all day, cracking jokes and laughing heartily. But most of the time, he was wrapped in gloomy thoughts, drinking cup after cup of tea, and wandering around the house as moody as any stereotypical tortured artist. And indeed, he considered himself one—Victor Dudley worked in a village school, teaching art, woodwork, and sometimes music if the regular teacher was off sick. He longed for creativity, yet couldn’t fully unleash his artistic potential at school, so he took it out on the house—Victor converted the biggest and brightest room into his own studio. This room, incidentally, was the one Sophie had earmarked for a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered tubes of paint and clay everywhere, and created—he painted obsessively, sculpted, modelled… He might devote an entire night to a peculiar still life or spend the whole weekend making an inscrutable figurine. He never sold his “masterpieces”—everything stayed at home, so every wall was covered with paintings (which, by the way, Sophie didn’t care for), and the cupboards and shelves bowed under the weight of his clay figures and statuettes. And if only these had been beautiful things—but no. The handful of old art school friends who occasionally visited always fell silent, averted their eyes, and sighed while examining his paintings and sculptures. Not one of them ever offered a compliment. Only Leo Percival, who, by the way, was the oldest of the lot, exclaimed, after a bottle of rowanberry gin: “Oh my, what an absolute load of rubbish! What is this supposed to be? I haven’t seen one thing worth a glance in this house—apart from the lovely lady of the house, of course.” Dudley took the criticism badly, shouting, stamping his feet, and demanding his wife throw the rude guest out. “Get out! You scoundrel! You’re the one who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, now I see the truth—you’re just jealous you can’t hold a paintbrush with your drink-shaking hands, so you belittle everyone and everything!” …Leo dashed down the front steps and lingered at the garden gate. Sophie caught up with him to apologise for her husband: “Please, don’t take what he said seriously. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should’ve warned you how sensitive he is.” “There’s no need to explain, dear girl,” Leo nodded quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a taxi and head home. But you have my sympathies. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings spoil the lot! And those ugly clay figures—honestly, you should hide them from visitors. Knowing Victor, I imagine life’s difficult for you. But this is how it is with us artists—what we create reflects our souls! And Victor’s soul is as empty as all these canvases.” Kissing Sophie’s hand, he left the inhospitable house. Victor raged for days, smashing sculptures, tearing up paintings, and flying into tantrums for a month before he calmed down. *** Throughout all this, Sophie never argued with her husband. She’d decided that in time, when they had children, he’d give up his hobbies and convert the studio into a nursery, but until then, she’d indulge his fancies. For a while after their wedding, Victor put on an act as the model husband, bringing home fruit and his salary, caring for his young wife. But that soon stopped. He grew cold towards her and stopped sharing his wages. Sophie was left caring for the home and her husband alone. There was also the garden, the chickens, and her mother-in-law to look after. …Victor was initially overjoyed at the news of a baby on the way, but the joy was short-lived—within the week, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and lost the pregnancy early on. Victor was transformed by the news: he became sullen, nervous, shouted at his wife and locked himself in the house. Sophie barely made it home from the hospital, only to find Victor refusing to let her in. “Open up, Vic!” “I won’t,” Victor whimpered from behind the door. “Why have you come back? You were meant to carry my baby, but you couldn’t handle it! And today, because of you, my mum has ended up in hospital with a heart attack! Why did I even marry you—you’ve brought nothing but trouble! Don’t stand on the doorstep, go away! I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision blurred, and she sat down on the steps. “Vic, please… I’m suffering too—open the door!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie sat outside until dark. At last, Victor emerged, thin from grief, locking up behind him but fumbling with the unfamiliar lock—he never really knew where things were, always asking Sophie. Without looking at her, he strode off. When he was gone, Sophie let herself in and collapsed onto the bed. She waited all night for him. The next morning, a neighbour brought terrible news: Sophie’s mother-in-law had died after her heart attack. What happened destroyed Victor. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed to Sophie: “I never loved you, and I don’t. I only married you because my mum wanted grandchildren. But you ruined our lives and I’ll never forgive you.” The words hit hard, but Sophie decided not to leave her husband. Time passed, but nothing improved. Victor still refused to get out of bed, lived on water, barely ate. His ulcer worsened, he grew more apathetic, eventually stopped getting up at all, claiming he was too weak from lack of food and vitamins. And then the divorce papers arrived. Sophie wept for days. She tried to embrace Victor, kiss him, but he pushed her away and whispered that as soon as he recovered, he’d throw her out. She’d ruined his life. *** Sophie had nowhere to go—her own mother, having all but married her off straight from school, soon set off to live with a widower down by the seaside. She remarried, briefly returned home to sell the house, and left Sophie homeless. She was trapped by circumstance. *** One day, every scrap of food in the house was gone. Sophie boiled up the last egg, scraped out the last bit of porridge, and spoon-fed Victor. Yes, life had decreed it so—Sophie might have been feeding her own baby by now, had she not overexerted herself with chores, but instead she had to cater to her ex-husband, who did nothing for her. “I’m just popping to the village fete. I’ll try to sell or trade the chicken for food.” Victor, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, croaked, “Why sell it? Make me some broth. I’m tired of porridge.” Sophie twisted the hem of her only dress. “You know I can’t bring myself to—I’d rather trade her. She’s attached to me.” “‘Pesto’—you give the chickens names? How silly. But I shouldn’t be surprised, not from you…” Sophie bit her lip. “If you’re off to the fete,” Victor perked up, “take a couple of my sculptures and paintings—maybe someone will buy them?” Sophie tried to avoid this, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two poorly made bird-shaped whistles and a big, lumpy piggy bank, then hurried out, dreading he’d chase after her with more “art”. After all, she was mortified at the thought of trying to sell his dreadful paintings. *** The day was sweltering. Sophie, in her thin summer dress, sweated in the heat. She stopped by the last stall, clutching the chicken. She hated parting with her beloved hen, the one she’d nursed back to health years before. The bird tried to poke out of the bag, pecking her hand as if sensing her sadness. *** An older stallholder spotted Sophie. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Got silver, gold-plated, lovely chains.” “No, thank you. I’ve come to sell a live hen—she lays big eggs.” “A hen? What’ll I do with her…” Then a young man at the stall perked up. “Show me the chicken.” Sophie nervously passed the chicken to him. “How much? That cheap—what’s the catch?” “She limps a bit, but she’s otherwise healthy.” “I’ll buy her. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the clay ornaments. “Just some figurines, whistles, and a piggy bank. All handmade. I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller snorted. “What do you want with that, Dennis? Toys? Go help your brother with the BBQ.” When Sophie realised he ran the grill stall, she panicked. “Wait! If you’re selling barbecue, I can’t sell you my hen! She’s not a meat bird!” Dennis dodged, holding onto the chicken. “Relax—I’ll give her to my mum. She keeps hens.” “You promise?” He smiled warmly. “Of course. You can come visit her any time. Didn’t know chickens had names.” *** As Sophie walked home, Dennis pulled up in his car. “Excuse me, miss—do you have more clay figurines? I could buy some—for gifts, you know.” Sophie, squinting at the sun, smiled. “We have loads at home!” *** Back at the house, Victor, waking up to the sound of voices, groaned. “Who’s there, Soph? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” Standing at the door, Dennis glanced around and eyed the paintings. “Amazing,” he whispered. “Who painted these—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she passed with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor called from bed. “And I didn’t paint—I create!” Propping himself up, Victor stared at the guest. “Why do you care about my pictures, anyway?” he whined. “I like them. I’d like to buy them. And the sculptures—whose are those?” “They’re mine too!” Victor snapped. Shuffling out of bed, Victor hobbled over, eager to show off his “art”, oblivious to the fact that Dennis only had eyes for Sophie. *** EPILOGUE Sophie was astonished by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery”. Victor had never been ill—in fact, he perked up as soon as someone showed an interest in his “art”. Dennis came by every day, buying up all the pictures, then the figurines. Victor feverishly made more, but was blind to the real attraction. With every visit, Dennis spoke at length to Sophie on the porch, and—slowly but surely—feelings blossomed. Eventually, Dennis took what he’d always wanted from the Dudley house—Sophie herself. Whenever Dennis returned from the village, he tossed Victor’s paintings on the fire and stashed the grotesque clay figures in a sack, still unsure where to get rid of them. He remembered Sophie’s lovely face—how he’d noticed her at the fete in her summer dress, instantly knowing she was his destiny. Learning of her wretched home life with a delusional “artist”, he had no choice but to come every day, buying dreadful art just to see her. In the end, Sophie realised it too. *** Victor Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis stopped visiting as soon as he married Sophie and took her away. Victor heard about it and, in bitter retrospect, realised he’d been outsmarted. The truth is, finding a good wife isn’t easy—and Sophie had been one. She put up with everything, cared for him, loved him, but Victor had thrown it all away. Too late, he realised he’d lost his greatest treasure. Who would ever look after him again, feed him, fetch his water, or care for his house? He’d lost the best wife he could ever wish for—because he set his sights on someone else’s treasure and never appreciated his own.

Set His Eyes on Another Mans Wife

Looking back over the years, I remember how Victor Dudley revealed himself as a man weak of will and character.

Each of his days seemed dictated by how he woke. Occasionally, hed rise full of cheer, his laughter ringing down the hallway as he sprinkled the whole day with jokes. But far more often, Victor wore the gloom of a stormcloud, brooding restlessly, sipping endless cups of tea, and darkening every corner of the housea temperament befitting someone who fancied himself an artist. Thats how he saw himself, at least. He taught art, woodworking, and the occasional music lesson (when the music mistress took ill) at the village primary school.

In school, Victor never truly found the spark he sought. So, our home bore the brunt of his frustrated creativity. He claimed the sunniest and largest room for his studio, although Id secretly hoped to turn it into a nursery for the children we might one day have.

Still, the cottage belonged to Victor, and so I never protested.

He filled that bright room with easels and canvases, squeezed sculpting clay and blocks of wood into every corner, and waged his endless artistic battlepainting, carving, moulding whatever inspiration struck. He might spend an entire evening hunched over a bizarre still life or devote a weekend to crafting indefinable figurines.

But he never sold a single masterpiece. Every inch of our walls bloomed with his peculiar paintings, which, to be honest, I never liked; shelves groaned under the weight of clay creatures and wooden trinkets.

Had those things been beautiful, perhaps it wouldve been different. But they werent.

His few friends in art and sculpture, leftovers from his student days whod visit from time to time, would stare at his work in silenceeyes averted, sighs stifled.

No one ever praised his art.

Except Old Lionel Peake, a painter well past his prime, who, having drunk deeply from a bottle of damson cordial, once cried out:

My word, what meaningless daubs! What is any of this? Ive not seen a single worthwhile piece in this houseexcept, of course, for the lady of it.

Victor took the criticism to heartscreaming, stamping, demanding I send the oaf from our door.

Begone! Enemy! You know nothing of artno, youre just jealous because your trembling hands can no longer hold a brush! Thats it! You sneer and devalue everything around you out of spite!

Lionel staggered down the steps and paused at the garden gate. I hurried after him and apologised for my husbands behaviour.

Dont you make excuses for him, child, Lionel shook his head. No need for that. Ill find my way home. But my dear, its a lovely cottage you keepif only those ghastly pictures didnt ruin it! Those monstrosities ought to be locked away. Knowing Victor as I do, I imagine you have a tough time. We artists, see, our creations reflect our soul. And Victortheres nothing in him but emptiness, just like his canvases.

He kissed my hand, bade farewell, and left our cold house behind.

Victors rage lasted a monthhe hollered, smashed some of his knickknacks, shredded canvases, and complained endlessly until he settled once more into his tired routine.

***

Yet through all this, I never defied my husband.

I reasoned that, with time and the arrival of children, hed abandon these distractions and convert that studio into a childs room. For now, he could play at his still lifes.

For a little while after our wedding, Victor pretended at family lifebringing home apples, his wages, and small comforts, fussing over me as a new bride.

But that didnt last. Victors warmth cooled. Soon he kept his wages, and all the work of running the home and caring for him fell to me. I tended the garden, looked after a few chickens, and even saw to his mother.

When I fell pregnant, Victor was overjoyed at first. But the joy vanished too quickly when I miscarriedjust a week later, I fell ill, was taken to hospital, and lost our child almost before I knew it.

When Victor heard the news, he changed at once. He became petulant, fretful, and shouted at me, then locked himself inside and refused to speak to me.

On the day I returned from the hospital, I felt scarcely more than a shadow. I dragged myself through the village to our cottage. No one met me at the doorworse still, Victor had locked me out and would not let me in.

Victor, open the door!

No! he whimpered from inside. Why have you come back? You were supposed to bear my child. You failed! And now, thanks to you, my poor mothers in hospital with a bad heart! Youve only brought misfortuneplease, leave! I dont want you here.

It was like the day had suddenly darkened; I sank onto the front step.

Please, Victor, I cried, Im suffering toocant you see that?

But he ignored my tears. I stayed outside til nightfall.

At last, the door creaked and Victor, pale and thin, came out to gaze across the gate. He locked the door but couldnt find the keyhe never knew where anything was, always asked me.

He didnt even look my way as he strode through the gate and off down the lane.

Once hed gone, I managed to let myself inside, and collapsed on the bed.

All that night I waited, but he never returned. Come morning, our neighbour brought dreadful newsmy mother-in-law had died of her heart trouble.

The shock floored Victor. He quit his job, took to his bed, and finally said to me,

I never loved you. I only did as Mother wishedshe wanted grandchildren. But youve broken my life and Ill never forgive you for it.

Those words cut deeper than any woundbut leaving never seemed an option.

Time passed, nothing improved. Victor refused to rise from bedonly sipping water, barely eating. In fact, hed aggravated his peptic ulcer. He grew thin and apathetic, soon stopped getting up at all. Then, in a final blow, he filed for divorce and it was over.

I wept bitterly.

I tried to soothe Victor, to kiss and comfort him, but he only recoiled and muttered hed turn me out once he was well again. That I had ruined his life.

***

And still, I couldnt leave. Where would I go? My own mother, eager to see me married straight from school, now lived with a widower by the southern coast, their union happy and distant. She came back only briefly to sell our childhood home for a tidy sum, then vanished with her new husband.

She never left me a place to return to. And so, I was caught by my circumstances, like a bird in a snare.

***

Then came a morning when the pantry was empty. I scraped together the last of the oats, boiled the final egg from our lone laying hen, and did my best to feed Victor thin porridge and egg yolk mashed to a pulp.

How things might have been! By then, I couldve been feeding a childif I hadnt worn myself out fetching water and tending everything by myself. Yet I was left to pander to my former husband, who never valued a moment I gave.

Im off for a bit, I told him. The village fairs in Little Merton today. Ill try to sell the chicken, or trade her for something to eat.

Victor, staring at the ceiling, barely blinked. Why sell her? Make broth instead. Im sick of this gruelcraving decent soup.

I twisted the hem of my single neat dressthe one Id worn to my leaving ball, then my wedding, and now whenever the heat allowed, as it was the only one I possessed.

You know I cant bring myself to do that. Ill trade or sell her, not for broth. I could ask the neighbours, like with the other hens, but this onePatchI think shed just try to come home. Shes too fond of me.

Patch? Victor sneered. You name even the chickens? Utterly daft womanthough I suppose nothing else could be expected.

I bit my lip and lowered my eyes.

Going to the fair, are you? Victor asked, perking up for the first time in ages. Take a couple of my pictures or figurines. Who knows, maybe someonell buy them.

I tried to protest, but he insisted. In the end, I gathered two bird-shaped whistlesbad imitations of blue-and-white ceramicsand his prized, bulbous piggy bank.

I dashed for the door, praying Victor wouldnt follow and force more horrors upon me. It would be one thing to try the figurines, but his paintings were so unsightly, I was mortified at the thought of showing them.

And so I set off under the hot July sun, already wishing for the cooling shade.

***

The fete made the whole village hum. Bright bunting fluttered overhead, and the throng at the stalls buzzed with excitement. Tables sagged under jars of honey, hats were adorned with ribbons, and sellers offered sweets to wide-eyed children. A smoky tang of grilled meats drifted by, musicians played, and laughter filled the air.

I wandered from stall to stall, clutching Patch tight in my bag, feeling the weight of parting more keenly with each step. Years ago, Id nursed her through a broken legshed become my companion, following me with her little hop.

Now, she poked her curious beak through the cloth, peering out as I stroked her feathers.

At last, I stopped at a stall run by an elderly lady.

Have a look at my jewellery, lovereal silver, and lovely gold plate, she said with a wink.

No, thank you, Im hoping to sell a live chickena fine layer, very dependable, I replied politely.

A chicken, here? What on earth for

Then a young man nearby piped up. Lets see her then.

Wordlessly, I handed Patch into the strangers hands.

How much are you asking? Seems awfully cheapwhats the catch?

I blushed under his intent gaze. Shes a bit lame, but she lays well and is healthy.

Ill buy her, he smiled. And what have you got there?

Oh, just some figurinesa couple of whistles and a piggy bank, I said.

He picked up the pig and smiled crookedly. Well now, home-made, are they?

Yesvery much so. Ill sell them all, I truly need the money.

Ill take the lot. I like things that are a bit different.

The old jewellery seller gave a skeptical grunt. Why, Dennis, whatever do you want with all that? Shouldnt you be helping your brother at the grill?

I recoiled suddenly, clutching the hen. You sell meat, then? I cant sell Patch for the grillshes not for that!

Dennis laughed, dodging as I tried to reclaim the bird. No, no! Shell live with my mothershe keeps hens. You can even visit Patch if you likenever thought a chicken might answer to a name!

***

It was nearly dusk when Denniss car caught up with me on the lane home.

Misswait, he called through the window. Have you any more of those clay animals? Id buy moremake good presents, you see.

I squinted against the sunlight and managed a tired smile. Theres a cupboardful at home, if you want them.

***

Victor, still in bed, groaned when he heard voices.

Whos there, Sophie? Bring me water, Im parched.

Standing at the threshold, Dennis glanced over Victor, his gaze then lingering almost kindly on me.

Incredible, he murmured, studying the haphazard art on the walls. Who painted all these? You?

I did! And I didn’t paint, Ill have you know, Victor bristled, dragging himself upright. Children paintI create!

Fussing about, Victor nudged me aside and peered suspiciously at Dennis.

What do you want with my works?

I quite like them, Dennis said smoothly. Id buy some. And these sculpturesyours too?

All mine! Victor crowed, pushing past me. I made the lot! The whole house is filled with my things!

Dennis cast me a sly glance. Remarkable. Your styles unusual. While Victor showed off, Dennis quietly watched me, noting, I imagine, how the strong sun had brought colour to my cheeks and made me shrink bashfully from his gaze.

Epilogue

It was, in the end, a miracle cure for my ex-husband.

No sooner did someone show interest in his work than Victors mysterious illness vanished. Dennis began coming daily, buying a painting or a figurine each time.

When hed taken all the art there was, Victor set to work feverishly, desperate to create more, clueless that the visitor had not come for his so-called masterpiecesbut for me.

Every day, as Dennis left with another parcel under his arm, he lingered at the gate, chatting with me beneath the fading roses.

A shy fondness blossomed between usone that quickly deepened.

Before long, Dennis took from Victors house the one thing hed truly wanted: his (now former) wife.

All those silly figurines? Dennis tossed them in a sack, the paintings into his hearth. He remembered the first time he saw me at the fete, my summer dress clinging lightly and my bag on my shoulder, and knew at once his heart had found its house.

Hed soon learned how sadly I lived. But with nowhere to run, I stayed in that cheerless home. So Dennis returned day after dayostensibly for art, really for me. And at last, I understood.

***

Victor never saw it coming. After Dennis left with me, he never returned, and Victordeprived of his only admirerwas left with nothing but silence and ever more hollow rooms.

He later learned Dennis and I married, and the bitterness of it nearly undid him. For it took losing me to realise what hed hada wife whod not only endured, but pitied, cared for, and loved him.

Where would he ever find such grace again?

At first, Victor thought to wallow in his miserybut then it struck him that there was no one left to bring him soft eggs or a cup of water, or to manage the house and the garden.

Such are the miseries of a man who never valued what mattered most.