“Bloody hell, I’ll kill her!”
John hammered his fists against the front door while the gathered villagers tried to calm him.
“John, mate, what are you on about? You’ll be begging her forgiveness tomorrow! Aren’t you ashamed? You’ve got two little lads, and Jenny’s never given you a moment’s grief—yet here you are, making a fool of yourself and her!”
John turned toward the gate, glaring. “What’s this, then? Come for a show? Sod off, the lot of you!”
No one moved. Their neighbour, Mrs. Taylor, stepped forward. “John, love, what’s got into you? You must have a reason for this?”
“A reason? Jen’s the reason! I—I love her with all my heart, but her? Smiling at everyone, shutting herself indoors—who’s in there with her?”
John stumbled off the porch, collapsing onto the garden bench. His voice was weak, whiny—unnerving to hear from a bloke his size.
Mrs. Taylor sighed. “You’re talking rubbish about your missus. She’s a good woman. Always has been.”
John just shook his head. “She don’t love me, Auntie Pat. I’m just a country bloke, and she’s city-born. Always looking past me.”
“You daft sod. A fool like you doesn’t come along often.”
But John didn’t hear. He was already slumped over, dead asleep. Mrs. Taylor nudged him gently, someone slipped a cap under his head, and there he lay, sprawled on the bench.
“Right, that’s that. He won’t be moving till he sobers up.”
***
Fifteen years earlier, John had gone to the city to train as a digger driver. Their village was growing, new houses going up. Folks said it wouldn’t be long before they could call it a proper town. Never mind the lack of high-rises and outdoor toilets—population was what mattered.
The village had its own builders—specialists’ cottages, and now a proper community centre. Not some run-down wooden hall, but a proper two-storey brick building with clubs and all.
They even had their own digger, but no one qualified to run it. So they picked John and Steve—two lads who never got along—and sent them off to the city.
From the start, they clashed, mostly over the same girls. A few bloody noses had been traded.
In the city, they were stuck sharing a room. No choice but to talk. Steve smirked. “I’ll find myself a city girl, settle here proper.”
John frowned. “The village paid for your training, and you’d just stay?”
Steve laughed. “Don’t be thick. Everyone does it. What’s back in the village?”
John just scoffed. “Good luck—they’ll be queueing up for you, I’m sure.”
Three days later, John saw Steve with a girl—and his stomach dropped. He fell for Jenny the moment he saw her.
That evening, he asked, “Who was that with you?”
“Jenny? City girl. Lives with her nan—place’ll be hers soon enough.”
“You sweet on her?”
Steve smirked. “Nah, too plain. I like ‘em curvier.”
John swung first. Then again. Steve wiped his nose. “Oh, so you’re the one sweet on her? Well, cry all you like when I marry her, then step out whenever I fancy. She’ll wait at home like a good little wife.”
Next day, John followed them. Saw Steve drape an arm around Jenny’s waist—and lost it.
He blurted everything to Jenny. She looked between them, stunned, then snapped, “Piss off,” and walked away.
John and Steve fought again. That same day, Steve moved out. And John started trailing Jenny like a shadow.
For weeks, she ignored him—until she stopped. “How long you gonna stalk me, then? Fancy the pictures?”
He took her back to the village—Jenny and her nan. Ten years later, her nan passed. By then, they had two sons.
John worked himself raw for them—built a house, put up the best fence in the village. His boys had the shiniest bikes. Jenny worked as a nurse. He worshipped the ground she walked on.
Then, a year ago, the unthinkable. Steve came back—tossed out by his city wife.
When John heard, he stormed home black with rage. Jenny frowned. “John, what’s wrong?”
He grabbed a bottle, took a swig. Jenny flinched. She’d never seen him drink like this.
“Steve’s back.”
“Steve?”
“That Steve. The one you—”
Jenny laughed. “Oh, him. Didn’t make it in the city, then?” Then she sobered. “So? What’s the fuss?”
“Jen, I swear—if I find out anything, I’ll kill him.”
“Find out what? John, you’re not making sense!”
“You’ll see!”
From that day, peace was gone. Sober, John would grovel—”I’m a fool, Jen, forgive me”—and she would. But every month, he’d drink, and it’d start again. Each row worse. He never laid a hand on her, but his words cut deep.
***
Morning. John woke in the shed—mosquitoes must’ve driven him there. Memory trickled back. He groaned.
“Bugger. Again.”
Peeking out—empty yard. Just past seven. He scurried inside.
Jenny sat at the table. The boys huddled, wide-eyed on the sofa. And in the middle—a huge suitcase, two sacks.
“Jen, what’s this?”
“Our things. Me and the boys—we’re leaving. Going back to the city. I won’t live like this anymore.”
The hangover vanished.
“Jen—don’t be daft! I had a drink, lost my head—”
“You’ve lost your head every month for a year. What about me? The boys? Their mates laugh at them after your scenes!”
“Jen, please—I’ll never—”
“You’ve said that. Every time. Jack’s thirteen—he’s ashamed of you in front of girls!”
She stood. “Bus won’t wait.”
John scrambled up. “Jenny, don’t—”
She didn’t look back. Hoisted the case, the boys grabbed smaller bags. They left.
John stood in the empty house. Then sank to the floor, weeping.
“John? You in there?”
Mrs. Taylor’s voice. He wiped his face.
“Blimey—what a state.” She eyed the empty bottles.
He rubbed his eyes. “What’s today?”
“Thirty-first of July.”
“July?”
“July. Look at you—a month in the gutter. We’ll mind the house, but your spuds are lost in weeds. Bloody mess.”
“Ain’t done nothing!”
“Shut it! Your mum’s gone—think I won’t sort you out? Remember the stinging nettles?”
John did. But now he was a grown man, and Mrs. Taylor an old woman.
He shoved on his shorts—too loose now—and bolted outside. She followed.
Before he knew it, she’d snapped off a nettle stalk and swung.
“Ow! Auntie Pat—what the—?”
“That’s for your filthy mouth!”
He dodged, but drink had wrecked his balance. She whacked his legs, his arms.
“Right. I’ll be back tomorrow—fresh nettles. These are too dry.”
An hour later, the sting still burning, he lit the sauna—only thing that ever helped as a lad.
By evening, scrubbed clean, he felt new. Inside, the stench hit him—bottles. He bagged them, scoured the floors, polished the dishes. At dawn, another sauna. Then bed.
“John? Still alive?”
He yanked the covers up. “Auntie Pat—I’m sober!”
She scanned the room. “So I see.” Sinking onto a chair, she smoothed the tablecloth.
“John, what now?”
He hesitated. “What d’you mean?”
“Get dressed. We’re going.”
“Where?”
“The clinic.”
“Why?”
“You drove Jenny off. Who’ll tend us old folks now? You did this—you fix it.”
He couldn’t meet her stare.
“You think I’m happy? I’m bloody miserable!”
“If it hurts so much, why sit here? When did you last see your boys?”
“Sod off, the lot of you!”
Mrs. Taylor stood. “Oh, I’ll go. My conscience is clear—yours isn’t.”
The door slammed. Something slipped from under his pillow—a crumpled drawing. Four stick figures, holding hands. Scrawled in childish letters: *Mum, Dad, Us…*
Jack’s handiworkJohn clutched the drawing to his chest, knowing he’d rather walk through fire than spend another day without them, so he grabbed his coat and ran to catch the next bus to the city, where his family waited—where he belonged.
