Settled My Sights on Another Mans Wife
Living together revealed everything I needed to know about Oliver Fenton: he was weak-willed, indecisive, and always at the mercy of whatever mood the morning brought him. Occasionally, hed rise chipper, joking around the cottage with a bright laugh. More often, though, hed shuffle through the day with a cloud over his head, brewing endless cups of tea and wandering dismally from room to room, as if all tormented artists were doomed to gloom.
And Oliver certainly considered himself an artist. He taught art, design and, when Mrs. Walton was off sick, even music at the local primary in our village in Suffolk. School, of course, never quite allowed him to unleash his creative genius, so our home suffered instead. He claimed the sunniest, largest room for his studioone Id earmarked in my heart as the future nursery.
But since the house was Olivers to begin with, there was little sense in protesting.
He filled the room with easels and tripods, tubes of acrylic paint and lumps of clay, and he’d busy himself for hours: sketching, sculpting, painting away into the early hours. Sometimes, hed spend a whole weekend perfecting a baffling abstract still-life. Every wall gradually vanished behind his canvases, and every shelf groaned beneath small, ugly clay figurines. If any of it had been lovely, I might have minded less.
His few remaining friends from art collegepainters and sculptors themselveswould stop by, fall into a pained silence as they surveyed his works, and never muster the faintest compliment.
Only Leonard Archibald, the oldest of the lot, finally blurted after finishing a bottle of homemade sloe gin, God above, what mindless daub! Is this meant to be art? Not a single worthwhile piece hereexcept, of course, for your lovely wife.
That struck Oliver like a blow. He shouted Leon out of the house, stamping his feet, Get out! Philistine! Im the artist here, not you! I understand nowyou cant even hold a brush steady in those boozy hands, and youre jealous! Jealous of my talentso you try to drag everything down!
Leon stumbled down the front steps, nearly tumbling, then paused at the gate. I hurried after him, unsure how to apologise for such a scene.
Dont trouble yourself for his sake, my dear, he sighed, Its not your fault. Ill call a taxi, be off home. I feel sorry for you, thoughsuch a lovely cottage, and those dreadful paintings and beastly figurines ruining it. Honestly, you mustnt let anyone see them. And yet, with Oliver, I suspect life isnt easy. Among fellow artists, its said that what we create reveals our souland I daresay Olivers as empty as his canvases.
He kissed my hand in farewell, then vanished into the night.
After that day, Oliver stormed about for weekstearing up his own paintings, smashing some of his sculptures, and shouting so much I thought hed never calm down.
***
Even so, I never openly disagreed. I quietly hoped that in time our family plans might air out his obsessions and the studio would, eventually, become a nursery. For now, I let him lose himself in his splodges of colour.
Early on, Oliver made a show of bringing me apples and his salary, and fussing like a proper husband over my well-being. But it didnt last. Quickly, his warmth cooled; he stopped contributing to the bills, and I had to manage the cottage, garden, chickens, and even his cantankerous mother all on my own.
When I told him I was expecting, Oliver was radiantbut the happiness was short-lived. Within days, I fell ill, was hospitalised, and lost the baby.
The moment he heard, Oliver crumpleda gust of accusation and tearsthen refused even to let me in when I returned, weak and grief-stricken.
Let me in, Ollie, please!
His voice was thin, miserable from behind the door. No. Why did you come back? You should have carried my child, thats what you were meant for! And now, because of you, my mothers in hospital with her heart!
He wouldnt let me cross the threshold, convinced Id brought ruin on his house. Exhausted, I slumped on the stoop, weeping until nightfall. At last, he emergedgaunt with griefand locked the door. Standing lost, he wandered off down the lane without so much as a glance.
Once sure he was gone, I crept inside and collapsed onto our bed.
I waited up for him that night. In the morning, the neighbour rushed in with the news: Olivers mother hadnt survived her heart attack.
That crushed Oliver completely: he quit his job, took to his bed, and told me flatly, Ive never loved you. Mum forced me to marry, hoping for grandchildren. But you destroyed everything. Ill never forgive you.
The words hurt deeply, but I couldnt bring myself to leave him.
Time passed, and things only got worse. He barely left the bed, survived on nothing but water, and hardly ate. Turned out that his old ulcer was flaring up again, stripping away any hint of appetite or desire. He grew frail and pale, claiming hed filed for divorce. I wept and tried to comfort him, but Oliver would only push me away: As soon as Im well, youre out! Youve ruined my life!
***
And where could I go, anyway? There was nowhere to run. Mum had washed her hands of me years ago, marrying some widower on the coast and selling our childhood home for quick cash before disappearing. Alone and married to a man who saw me as a burden, I was completely trapped.
***
Finally, the day came when the larder was bare. I scraped together what was lefta handful of barley, the last egg from our one faithful henand spoon-fed Oliver a watery porridge with mashed yolk.
Life is cruel, I reflected: I should have been feeding a baby by now, if only I hadnt carried pails of water or stacked logs all on my own. Instead, I was stuck caring for an ungrateful ex-husband.
Im going into town, Oliver. The markets come from the next villageIll try to sell the hen, or trade her for groceries.
Staring emptily at the ceiling, he croaked, Why sell her? Make brothIm sick of gruel.
Clutching the edge of my faded silk dressmy only nice piece, worn for graduation, my wedding, and now whenever it was hotI hesitated. You know I cant do it. Ill try to barter hernot to cook her. I could ask the neighbours, but shes grown fond of me I cant just hand her over.
Dottie, is it? Oliver sneered. You name all the chickens? Not surprising for you
I bit my lip and looked away.
If youre off to the market, he piped up, a bit more alert, take some of my statues and paintings. Maybe someone will buy a few.
But, darlingthey mean so much to you
Take them, he snapped.
Reluctantly, I grabbed two lopsided bird-shaped whistles and a fat, broad piggy bankhis pride and joy. Then, as quietly as possible, I ducked out before he could force more art on me.
At least the trinkets could plausibly be sold; but the paintings? They were embarrassing, utterly unsellable.
***
The market sizzled in the summer heat; my face shone, and my fringe stuck to my forehead as I wandered through the crowds, basket on my arm and poor Dottie peering out from inside.
It was the highlight of the village calendar: honey sellers with every golden shade, silk scarves bright as summer flowers, lollipops, laughter, and the fragrant smoke of grilling sausages drifting over the music.
I stopped at a stall and tucked Dottie closer to my side. I couldnt help but feel a pang at the thought of parting with her. Shed been my favourite since I nursed her through a leg injury as a chick; Id grown silly-attached to the daft hen, and she still hopped to greet me every time I entered the coop.
An elderly woman called to me, Fancy a bit of jewellery, dear? Quality steel, sterling silver, a few nice gold-plated chains.
I shook my head politely, Thank you, but Im hoping to sell a laying henshes healthy, good-sized eggs.
A hen? Now what would I do with that
Just then, a young man inspecting the wares beside me piped up, Lets see her, then.
With care, I offered Dottie over.
How much? he asked. This cheapyou sure?
She limps a little, but shes strong and a good layer.
He studied me carefully, as though sensing my anxiety.
Ill take her. And whats that, then? He pointed at my clay offerings.
Bird whistles and a piggy bank, I replied, feeling hopeful for the first time.
Well, arent they a thing! Handmade, yeah?
Yes. I could sell them cheap.
Ill buy the lot. Always liked something unusual.
The jewellery lady sniffed. Oh, really, Danny? Not enough toys as a boyoff you scurry, help your brother with the barbecue.
Panicking, I blurted, Waityoure selling sausages? I cant sell Dottie if shell end up on a grill! Shes not for meat!
Danny laughed and deftly evaded my reach. No, love, my mother keeps hens. Its a gift for her, promise. You can visit her anytime.
Really? I could barely believe it.
Promise, he smiled warmly. I didnt even know chickens had names.
***
I was nearly home when a motorcar drew up beside meDanny again.
Waithold on! Do you have more of those little statues at home? I’d buy moremake good presents, I reckon.
The sunshine stung my eyes, but I couldnt help grinning, There are plenty more where those came from.
***
Oliver, back in bed, woke with a groan at the sound of voices.
Whos there, Sophie? Bring me some water, will you?
Danny, waiting at the door, shot a glance at Olivers prone form, then surveyed the riot of lurid paintings.
Incredible, he murmured, Are these yours? he asked as I walked by, cup in hand.
I am the artist! Oliver popped up indignantly. I dont just dabblethe children draw, I create! All of them, my handiwork.
He pushed my arm aside to make the point, glaring at Danny for daring to ask.
The guest only said, Your sketches are certainly unique, glancing my way with something close to a smile.
As Oliver held court, showing off his works, Danny kept sneaking glances at me, his look gentle, conspiratorial, and kind.
Epilogue
It astonished me how quickly Olivers illness vanished as soon as someone expressed the slightest interest in his art. Danny stopped by every day, each time buying a picture or two, then some figures, until there was little left but the ghosts of Oliver’s egotism.
Oblivious, Oliver believed it was his masterpieces Danny wanted.
But in truth, it was me. Danny lingered by our gate for long farewells, and he made me smile in a thousand small ways. Bit by bit, affection crept in. The rest followed naturally.
In time, Danny took what he’d truly come forme.
Hed return from his rounds, pitch the wonky art into his fireplace, pop the odd statuette into a sack, his mind on me. He later told me hed known at first sight, seeing me at the fair, that I was the one; and soon discovered what a loveless, trapped life I led in Olivers shadow.
So, every day, he became a collector just for a glimpse of me, until finally, I understood.
***
Oliver, for his part, never saw it coming. When Danny whisked me away and promptly proposed, Olivers parade of purchases ended overnight.
He learnt we’d married; the sense of loss hit belatedly and hard. For the first time, Oliver realised he’d lost the rarest thinga loving, patient wife, who had borne his moods and nursed his wounds. Who, in another life, would have turned his house into a true home.
Alone now, he considered sulkingbut soon thought better of it. After all, with no one to spoon-feed him egg yolk mash or fetch him water, what else was there to do?
