The Last Straw
“I’ll kill her, damn her!”
Thomas hammered his fists against the cottage door while the gathered crowd tried to calm him.
“Tom, what’s gotten into you? You’ll be begging forgiveness tomorrow, like always! Aren’t you ashamed? Two little ones you’ve got, and your Annie never gave you cause for this—yet here you are, disgracing yourself and her!”
Tom turned to the gate.
“What’s this, then? A spectacle? Clear off, the lot of you!”
Nobody moved. His and Annie’s neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, spoke gently.
“Tom, love, why this fuss? There must be a reason?”
“A reason? Annie’s the reason! I’ve given her my heart, and what does she do? Smiles at everyone, locks herself away—who’s she hiding in there with?”
Thomas staggered down the steps and slumped onto the bench. His voice was tired and whining, an unsettling sound from a grown man.
Mrs. Wilkins softened.
“You’re wrong about your wife, Tom… She’s a good woman. Honest.”
His reply came weakly.
“She doesn’t love me, Auntie Em… I’m just a farm boy, and she’s town-bred—always looking past me.”
“You daft fool… You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger one.”
But Thomas was beyond listening. His head drooped, and soon he was asleep. Mrs. Wilkins gave him a nudge, someone tucked a cap under his head, and he sprawled across the bench.
“Well, that’s that. He won’t be moving till he sobers up.”
***
Fifteen years ago, Thomas had left for the city to train as an excavator operator. The village was growing then, new houses going up. Folk joked that soon enough, they’d be calling it a proper town. Never mind the lack of flats or indoor plumbing—what mattered was the folk.
The village had its own construction crew, building cottages for specialists. Then came the grand idea for a proper community hall—not the old wooden shack they’d been using, but a proper two-story stone one with clubs and all.
They had their own excavator, but no skilled hands to run it. So they’d picked Tom and Michael from the other end of the village and sent them off for training.
Tom and Michael had never been friends—if anything, they were rivals. Same lasses caught their eye, and they’d come to blows more than once.
In the city, they were shoved into a single room, forced to share. Michael wasted no time.
“I’ll find myself a city girl, settle here proper.”
Tom was stunned.
“The village paid your way, and you’d just stay?”
Michael laughed.
“God, you’re thick. Everyone does it—what’s back in the village worth staying for?”
Tom only scoffed.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re queuing up for you.”
Three days later, Michael appeared with a girl on his arm—and the sight near stopped Tom’s heart. He fell for her on the spot.
That evening, he cornered Michael.
“Who was that lass with you?”
“Annie? City girl, lives with her gran—place’ll be hers soon enough.”
“You sweet on her?”
Michael snorted.
“Her? Built like a plank. I like mine curvier.”
Tom decked him. Twice. Michael wiped his nose and grinned.
“Ah, so you’ve gone soft for her. Just wait till she’s my missus—she’ll sit home while I step out, forgiving me all the while.”
Next morning, Tom tailed him. When Michael draped an arm round Annie’s waist, he charged.
He blurted it all out—Michael’s plans, his words. Annie stared between them, then walked off with a sharp, “Bugger the both of you.”
Another brawl followed. By evening, Michael had swapped rooms. Meanwhile, Tom haunted Annie’s steps.
For days she ignored him—until, at last, she stopped.
“How much longer will you lurk? Fancy taking me to the pictures?”
He took her—and her elderly gran—back to the village. The old woman passed a decade later, by which time they had two sons.
Thomas built them a home, sturdier than any in the village. The boys had the finest bicycles, Annie worked as a nurse, and he doted on her.
Then, a year ago, the unthinkable—Michael returned. His city wife had packed his bags for him.
When Tom heard, he stormed home black-faced.
“Thomas, what’s wrong?” Annie asked, startled.
He pulled a bottle from the cupboard, poured, drank. She paled. He barely drank—once a year, at most.
Grim, he spat the words.
“Michael’s back.”
She frowned.
“Michael? Which—”
“That bastard Michael. The one you—”
Annie laughed.
“Oh, him? Didn’t take to city life, then?”
Her smile faded at his glare.
“So he’s back. What’s that to us?”
“I’ll tell you what—if I hear anything, I’ll kill him!”
Her brows shot up.
“Hear what? You’re not making sense!”
“You’ll know soon enough!”
Peace vanished that day. Sober, Thomas grovelled.
“Fool, such a fool, Annie… forgive me.”
She did. But within weeks, he’d be drunk again, raging. Each outburst grew worse. Yet for all his threats, his vile words—never once did he raise a hand.
***
Morning found Thomas in the woodshed—mosquitoes must’ve driven him there. Memories of the night flooded back, and he clutched his head.
“Bloody hell… Again.”
Peering outside, he saw the yard empty. Just past seven. He sprinted for the house.
Annie sat at the table. The boys, pale and quiet, huddled on the sofa. Between them, a packed trunk and two sacks.
“Annie, what’s this?”
“Our things. We’re leaving. Michael’s and Johnny’s too. I won’t live like this anymore—we’re moving to town.”
The hangover vanished.
“Annie, don’t—I was drunk, stupid—”
“You’ve been ‘stupid’ all year. What about me? The boys? Their mates laugh at them after your ‘performances’.”
“Annie, please—I swear—”
“You swore every time. I’m done. Johnny’s thirteen—he’s ashamed in front of girls!”
She stood.
“The bus leaves soon.”
He leaped up.
“Annie, no—never again—”
She didn’t look back. The trunk in her hands, the boys with smaller bags—they left him standing in the empty shell of their home.
He stood, then sank to the floor and wept.
“Auntie Em?”
Mrs. Wilkins stood in the doorway, taking in the empty bottles.
“Good Lord—what’ve you done to yourself?”
Thomas wiped his face.
“What day is it?”
“Thirtieth of July, last I checked.”
He groaned.
“Month-long bender, near enough. The crops are weeds—your potato field’s vanished!”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Shut it! You think I won’t tan your hide like when you were knee-high?”
He hadn’t forgotten—but back then, she’d been tall. Now, he was the giant.
He fled outside—only for her to strip a nettle stalk and thrash his legs.
“Ow! Auntie Em—what the—?!”
“That’s for your filthy tongue!”
Drunk-weak, he couldn’t dodge. Only when the nettle was pulp did she stop, warning,
“I’ll be back tomorrow—fresh ones sting sharper.”
An hour later, still itching, he lit the sauna—childhood’s only cure. By evening, scrubbed raw, he returned to a stinking house. Bottles went in sacks, floors were scoured. At dawn, he slept.
“You alive in there?”
He jerked upright.
“Auntie Em, I’m sober!”
She eyed the tidy room.
“I see that. Now—what’s your plan?”
“Plan?”
“Get dressed. We’re going.”
“Where?”
“The clinic. You drove Annie off—who’ll tend us now? Your mess, your medicine!”
Her glare broke him.
“Why torment me?! You think this is easy? I’m in hell!”
“If you’re suffering, why sit here? Go to them! When’d you last see your boys?”
“Sod the lot of you!”
She left, door slamming. Something fluttered from his pillow—a crumpled drawing. Four stick figures, hand in hand.
Mum, Dad, Us…
Johnny’s work. Thomas crushed it, groaned into the pillow.
***
Dawn found him on the bus.
He knew the house—they’d visited yearly. NeighbThe day their daughter was born, Thomas held Annie’s hand, silent tears streaming down his face, and knew he’d spend the rest of his life making sure she never had reason to leave him again.
