“Grey in the Beard. A Life Story”
“Freddie, Freddie? How was work today? Everything alright?”
“Fine. Same as always.”
“Freddie, love, come have dinner! I made steak and ale pie, just how you like it. Come on, eh?”
“Not hungry.”
“Freddie, please, I waited for youdidnt sit down without you.”
“For Gods sake, Lottie, why dyou cling like this? Like ivy on a wall! Suffocating, you are. Cant even eat without me? What, are you helpless?”
“Freddie, dont shout, please”
“Enough! Makes me sick hearing it! Dont you see, Lottie? All this fawningpressing, smothering me with your worry! I cant breathe around you. Im done. Im not living with you, just enduring. This Freddie, Freddie!how many times must I say it? I hear you the first time!”
“Freddie, love, have a whisky. Youre tired. You need rest.” Lottie twisted her apron in guilty hands, eyes pleading.
“Christ, are you daft or just pretending? Still in that bloody apron! Theres someone else, understand? Someone I lovethe air I breathe! Im leaving you, Lottie.”
“Leaving? Thought this through, have you? Dont mistake softness for weaknesswalk out that door, and its done. You know me. Think shell want you for long? Think its easy watching you drift away, sitting at the table knowing another womans got your heart? Look at me, Freddieis your love strong enough to wreck twenty years in a blink?”
“Wont be coming back. Dont wait.”
Freddie stomped to the bedroom, muddy boots staining the handwoven rugs. He yanked a duffel bag from the wardrobe, shoved in his sparse belongings, and left without a glance at Lottie. The village lane stretched before him, thoughts churning.
Was this right? Twenty years marrieda good son, military, though distant. Howd he take the news? Old enough to understand. Freddies love had burned out, not even respect left. That constant “Freddie, Freddie!”she knew. Knew and stayed silent, eyes full of quiet reproach. Another woman wouldve scratched his face raw. But Lottie? Just those sad, patient looks.
And that bloody *antique* obsession. Gone mad, she had. Perfectly sane once, till she ripped up the kitchen for oak beams, hunted down moth-eaten rugs, dragged in a tarnished samovar. Like some daft peasant revival.
Stella was different. Steel in her name, steel in her grip. Youngnear his sons age, couldve been his daughter-in-law. But no, shed chosen *him*. With her, Freddie felt alive again. No pies, no stews, no samovars. She spoke sharp, dressed sharper. Not like Lottiesoft, sagging, always underfoot, feeding him with those hopeful eyes. No, hed done right. Past time.
***
Lottie sat on the kitchen floor, staring at the mud tracks staining her rugs, weeping silently. Hed never understood. Not the beams, not the rugs, not the samovar. Shed hopedfool!that if she rebuilt their youth, hed return. But the stains spread like poison, trampling her heart.
She tore up the rugs, furious. Who needed them? He remembered nothing, cared for nothing! That *girl*Stellabarely older than their son. Swanned back to the village all lipstick and heels, wangled a council job. Two years, and shes senior accountant. The chairman fancied her, of coursemen always did. But hed kept his family. Freddie? Led like a lamb. And on a vets wage? Let him learn.
***
She remembered their first yearyoung, burning. No money? Who cared! They had potatoes. Nights by the bonfire, faces smudged with ash, eating them skin and all. The council house theyd gotan old widows placewas where shed found treasure: handwoven rugs in the attic, a samovar, solid oak furniture. Shed scrubbed floors, hauled rugs to the river with Freddie, built a home. Tea from that samovar after work.
Shed dreamed of a bigger houseoak kitchen, rugs, samovar. Carved wardrobes. Growing old together, remembering.
When Freddie strayed, shed thought*rebuild the past, and hell come back*. But no kitchen, no rug, no samovar could mend what broke.
The village whispered. *Her patience! Knowing, staying silent.* And Freddie? Shameful. That *child*his *love*!
***
Lottie never let on. Pretended the empty house didnt echo. Avoided her dream kitchen. At work, she smiled, even nodded at Freddie. As if twenty years meant nothing.
Hed dodged her at firstexpected screams, tears. But shed just moved on. It unsettled him.
He delayed the divorce, wavering. Then slumped when she handed him the papers at work.
*Shed* filed? No begging? No tears? Just signed. Was there someone else? Novillage gossip wouldve spread.
***
“Lottie. The house. Its ours, but youre living there alonelike royaltywhile were crammed in a flat.”
“What, want to move in? Bit awkward, all three of us”
“Dont play clever. Youre not this sharp. Just lets divide it.”
“How? Saw it in half?”
“Stella and I think we should sell.”
“Sell? The house you built? To strangers?”
“Got buyers lined up.”
“No. Not to strangers.”
“Have to. Courtll”
“No court. Buy my half.”
“Serious? Wherell you go?”
“Not your concern. Strangers fine, but *my* future worries you?”
***
Through the bus window, Lottie watched the village shrink. To town first, then nearer to her son. Vadim had flats lined up; a vet with experience wouldnt struggle for work. Sad, leaving half a life behindbut better than pitying stares and Freddies guilty face.
Autumn wedding, they said. Let him have it.
The house? No regret. It brought no joy. Let Freddie keep it.
***
Freddie stared at Stellas flatneon cupboards, plastic flowers, garish rugs. A glass table with pointless swirls.
*This* was a kitchen? How could anyone eat here?
He missed the oak, the samovar, the rugs. Missed Lottie bustling, trying to please him.
*Fool.* Traded a wifekind, gentle, loyalfor this? Pretty shell, hollow inside. Like these cupboardsnothing but instant noodles and microwave rice.
Empty. The flat, his heart, his soul.
On the step, he gripped his head. *Fool. Fool. Fool.* Threw away the best years for *what*?
Hed scraped together the money, cheered when Lottie signed. Watched Stella rip out the oak, dump the rugs where Lotties garden had been.
Lottie just walked past.
Shed taken something vitalpeace, comfort, hope. Nothing would be right again.
Just stains on clean rugs.
