All the neighbors knew John was a bumbling oaf—sometimes a clod, sometimes a twit, sometimes a dithering fool. His nickname shifted with each fresh blunder. The scale of his missteps varied, and so did the heat of his wife Eleanor’s fury.
Yet to him, she remained his Bunny, Kitten, Sunshine, or Sparrow. Hearing her shrieks, folk wondered when this dolt might finally snap and give his “Bunny” a thrashing. But recalling he was but a harmless puddle of indifference, they sighed: Never. John would feign deafness, stone-faced against her tirades. This nettling calm, this utter apathy toward her rage, only stoked her fits until, spent from screaming, Eleanor stormed out. A knot of fury choked her throat; red blotches mottled her cheeks, hands trembled, voice rasped. She longed to weep, but tears wouldn’t come. And John, watching her leave, would murmur, “Where off to, Bunny?”
In their early wedded years, life felt tranquil and loving. Had anyone whispered their peace would curdle into bickering strife, Eleanor would’ve scoffed. She’d married her soul’s desire, not some layabout nincompoop. John was a welder—never touched a drop, never smoked, placid as a badger in its sett. Contentment was his creed. Wives of drunkards or gadabouts held him up as a model husband, so Eleanor swelled with pride. They’d agreed: children could wait. First came building the wash-house, the garage, buying a motorcar. The parish council provided a cottage, and Eleanor dreamed of making it perfect.
John dawdled—or was it pure idleness? Chores piled up while he’d chuckle, “Work’s a bottomless pit. Better to bide our time—some jobs sort themselves. Why rush? If the heart’s not in it, best leave it be. Else it’s not toil—it’s self-torment!” Leading came unnaturally to him. Eleanor tackled tasks head-on, matching John skill for skill: spading the garden, painting clapboards, scything the lawn, chopping wood for the wash-house. Thank heavens the cottage had modern comforts—no hauling water from a well! She’d rather do a job herself than chivvy John. One night, a thunderous crash from the kitchen woke them: tiles John had laid slithered clean off the wall. She called him a bungler and hired a mason next day.
Another evening, she returned from work to find her flowerbeds trampled, blooms crushed—the neighbor’s cow had wandered in because John left the gate unlatched. Each day, his sloth, his apathy, grated more.
Beside their plot stood a derelict cottage. The old couple had died years back; heirs occasionally scythed the weeds before abandoning the place. Until one day, a sleeked-up motorcar pulled up. Old Peter’s grandson, David, had returned with his family—settling down after years in Manchester, where he’d wed. Manchester was for earning; home soil was for living. David set to rebuilding the ruin. And then Eleanor saw how work ought to be gripped: David was a master carpenter, electrician, welder—no wife at his elbow. His Vicky minded home and child.
Watching David, Eleanor festered with resentment toward John. Tired of strength, she craved softness. She goaded him toward tasks proper to a man, yet John hadn’t a leader’s bone. He relished the back seat. Exhausted, her temper frayed; insults flew. Neighbors branded her a nag and pitied “poor John.” Divorce began to tempt her—she couldn’t shoulder the load forever. She held their neighbor as a lantern. John just smiled: “A stranger’s sheep wears finer wool.”
He couldn’t grasp what her hints meant. Women suffered drunken louts! Yet she was cherished, unharmed—and threatening divorce! He’d never raised his voice, denied her nothing—money, outings, her whims. “So I’m slow? What’s the hurry? Why fuss over trifles? Why tell my wife her business? She’s mistress here. So I botched the tiles—my wages pay a craftsman. So I crave rest—she should too, not hunt chores like lost treasure. Must we gawp at others’ windows? Folk have different speets. Why’s Bunny want divorce?” John sighed by the wireless, scratched his head, and settled.
Evenings, Eleanor delivered milk for the neighbors’ baby. Vicky invited her to supper, uncorking wine. David lorded the table: “Pass the salt! This is under-peppered! You know I like it crisp! This wine deserves better! Where’s the corkscrew? Cold! Over-hot! Bring it! Fetch that! Enough chatter—I need no advice!” This!”
Nicky wailed, and Vicky slipped away. Floundering for talk, Eleanor mentioned new furniture Vicky had wished for. Vicky returned, murmuring preferences—
“What I buy stands! Easy to spend—harder to earn!” Eleanor’s spirits sank. Seeing meek Vicky so trodden down, she cursed David silently—to speak would poison them forever.
Gazing at that “happy pair,” Eleanor trudged home, wretched.
“Bunny, where’ve you been? Fancy a cuppa? Brewed it proper, just how you like.”
She hugged John. He gaped, bewildered.
“Bunny, take a breath—gave them milk, did they give you something stronger? That’d explain this sweetness.”
Suddenly, Eleanor longed to spit on his flaws, forget divorce, and quit peering through others’ panes. Better to polish her own.
“Johnny, what should I cook tomorrow?”
“Suits yourself. So long as it’s no trouble.”
“Johnny! Fancy new furniture?”
“Want it? Buy it. You know best. Could watch the telly on a crate.”
“Johnny! What about a new leather coat?”
“Why? This one’s barely seven! You need a fur!”
All evening they whispered “Bunny” and “Johnny,” happy as in their vanished youth.
“Johnny, that divorce talk… I joked.”
“Thought as much. Never rush. Splitting can always wait.”
Eleanor studied him. “More haste, less speed,” she mused. “Lord spare me a man like our neighbor! Better this slow-footed soul who serves than plays the king.”
Her sharp names for John dwindled; her private rejoicing grew. Why seek “better” when you have good? And what manner was John? Eleanor chuckled silently: “Exactly as he is! Thank heaven—and nothing like the rest.”
