Arthur stood before the familiar door, the brass plaque unchanging, his courage sinking. A cumbersome bag weighed down his arm, while the keys inside his trench coat pocket remained unclaimed, a metallic chorus silenced by hesitation.
Three nights prior, he’d slammed this same door during another row, shouting he’d never return. Margaret had hurled a slipper after him, shrieking he could bugger off for all she cared. Just another marital spat in their thirty years together.
This time felt different.
Arthur pressed the summoner button. Footsteps approached, then Margaret’s voice sliced through the wood:
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Arthur. Let me in.”
Silence ensued. Thick, uncomfortable silence.
“Margaret? Can you hear me?” he repeated.
“I hear you,” came the icy reply. “What do you want?”
“What do I want? I’ve come home.”
“This isn’t your home anymore.”
Arthur reeled. In three decades, Margaret had never gone this far, not even in their worst squabbles. “Margaret, stop being daft. Open up. Let’s talk properly.”
“No. And I won’t speak with you.”
“What’s got into you? What’s all the kerfuffle about?”
“You know perfectly well.”
Arthur did know. Three days ago, Margaret had discovered a phone number in his coat pocket, written in a woman’s hand. A tedious story – Beatrice Wilkins from accounts had given it for some meeting reminder. Explaining to a furious wife proved impossible.
“Margaret, I told you! It’s Beatrice Wilkins from Accounts! For work!”
“For work, my foot,” her voice cut from behind the door. “Phoning at ten in the evening?”
“What ten o’clock? I never phoned her!”
“Liar. I saw it on your phone.”
Arthur felt his insides clench. He *had* phoned Beatrice Wilkins, but for a different reason. Her daughter was applying to university where an old mate of his worked; he’d promised a word in the right ear. A simple favour, nothing more.
“Margaret, please. Let me in. I’ll explain calmly.”
“No. Explain from there.”
Arthur glanced about the landing; neighbours could materialise. He detested airing dirty linen in public.
“Alright, listen. I did call Beatrice Wilkins, true. But not why you think. Her daughter’s aiming for medical school; my chum’s a lecturer there. I promised to chat with him.”
“And you expect me to swallow that fairy tale?”
“It’s not a fairy tale! It’s true!”
“Truth? Then why keep mum? Why the secrecy?”
Arthur hesitated. He hadn’t told her about the colleague’s request. No ill intent, just didn’t think it warranted mention.
“I wasn’t hiding it. Just didn’t see why.”
“Oh, didn’t see why! Anything else you didn’t see? Care to explain why you were cosied up with her in the café after work?”
Arthur’s heart skipped. How could Margaret know that?
“How did you—”
“Doris Bishop spotted you. Says you were lovey-dovey, holding hands!”
“We weren’t holding hands!” Arthur spluttered. “Sat for half an hour! She bought me a coffee to say thanks for helping her daughter!”
“Of course she did,” Margaret sneered, venom lacing her words.
The fury in her voice told Arthur she wouldn’t relent. “Margaret, darling, be sensible. Why would I want anyone else? I’ve got you. Our family.”
“*Had* a family. Now it’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? What are you on about?”
“Just what I say. I’m done living with a cheater.”
“Cheater? I’ve done nothing!”
“Nothing? What were you doing then? Carrying on flirtations?”
Arthur leaned his forehead against the cool wood. This was going nowhere. “Margaret, let’s meet tomorrow, when you’ve settled. Talk like adults.”
“I won’t settle. And we won’t meet.”
“Margaret—”
“Go to your precious Beatrice Wilkins. Maybe she’ll let you in.”
“What rot? Beatrice Wilkins? I’m sixty! A grandad! What would I want with romance?”
“Then why mince about cafés with other women?”
“I explained! Once! Out of politeness!”
“Oh, once… or more?”
Arthur saw the trap. Whatever he said, Margaret would twist it. “Right,” he sighed, exhaustion heavy. “I’m going. But we *will* talk.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Arthur grabbed his bag and descended. Below, his son Oliver waited in the car, having fetched him from the station.
“Well, Dad? Let you in?” Oliver asked, seeing his father’s dejection.
“No.”
“Seriously?” Oliver frowned. “Has Mum gone absolutely barmy?”
“Don’t know, son. I just don’t understand her.”
They slid into the car. Oliver started the engine but didn’t drive. “Dad… what really happened? Mum was saying… well… things.”
“What things?”
“Something about… you taking up with a mistress. Being unfaithful.”
Arthur sighed deeply. “Ollie, I swear on anything – there’s no one. Never has been. Your mother’s inventing it.”
“So where did this… Beatrice… come from?”
“Beatrice Wilkins – colleague. Perfectly ordinary. Helped her daughter, she bought coffee. That’s it.”
Oliver scrutinised his father. “Dad, you telling me the straight truth?”
“The truth, son.”
“Then I don’t get why Mum blew her top. She usually cools off quick.”
“Nor me.”
The car pulled away. Oliver drove him to his own place for the night.
“Listen, Dad… maybe it’s not really about Beatrice?”
“What then?”
“Dunno. Maybe something else happened to Mum? Problems?”
Arthur pondered. Lately, Margaret had seemed nervy, irritable. Quick to snap. He’d put it down to her time of life – fifty-eight now, the change.
“Maybe you’re right. But why bar me? We could’ve talked it through.”
“Mum’s always been stubborn as a mule. Remember how she’d sulk for days?”
Arthur remembered. Weeks of silence over nothing much. But she’d always come round first.
At Oliver’s flat, Arthur slept fitfully. By morning, resolve hardened.
“Oliver, take me home.”
“Dad, perhaps leave it? Let Mum cool down properly.”
“No, son. Can’t just abandon her. Thirty years. Won’t wreck it over nonsense.”
Oliver reluctantly agreed. They drove back to the terraced house on Florin Street.
“Want me to come up?” Oliver offered.
“No. I’ll try.”
Arthur ascended to the fourth floor and pressed the bell once more.
“Margaret, it’s me.”
“Oh, I thought the plumber had come.”
“Margaret, we must talk. Settle this.”
“Nothing to discuss.”
“Nothing? We’re husband and husband!”
“*Were*.” The finality chilled him.
Irritation flared within Arthur. “Margaret, stop this nonsense! Open this door!”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to see you.”
“What for? What have I done?”
“You know what.”
Round in circles again. Arthur tried another tack. “Alright, say I was wrong. Forgive me. Won’t happen again.”
“Won’t it? What won’t? Lying? Or straying?”
“I
He stood alone in the torrential downpour, watching Alex’s car disappear down the once-familiar street, the door to his own life now just a cold, distant object he couldn’t reach.
