Oh, this one’s a proper neighborhood drama—listen to this!
“Margaret! Margaret, wait up!” Old Mr. Thompson from next door was practically jogging down the pavement, waving his arms like a madman. “Blimey, where’s the fire? We need to talk!”
“I’ve got to pick up my granddaughter from nursery, Mr. Thompson,” Margaret said, trying to sidestep him, but he blocked her path like a stubborn mule.
“Just a minute, love. This is serious. It’s about your husband, Arthur.” His eyes gleamed with that nosy-busybody spark. “Do you know where your old man was yesterday afternoon?”
Margaret froze. Her chest tightened, but she kept her voice steady. “Course I do. At the allotment, tending the veg.”
“Allotment?” Mr. Thompson smirked. “Funny that. ‘Cause I spotted him near Boots on High Street around three. With a woman. Very cosy, they were.”
The words hit her like a ton of bricks. Arthur *had* left early that morning, saying he’d be back by supper. And he *had* returned, muddy and knackered, moaning about his back from all the digging.
“You’ve made a mistake,” she muttered.
“Mistake?” He whipped out his phone. “Got a photo. Bit blurry—took it from across the road—but that’s definitely your Arthur.”
She didn’t *want* to look, but her eyes betrayed her. Same hunched shoulders, same habit of shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Who is she?” Margaret whispered.
“Ah, now *that* I don’t know—*yet*. But I’ll find out. Got mates in all sorts of places, love.” He pocketed his phone, all fake sympathy. “Don’t take it too hard. Men, eh? Weak as water, some of ‘em. Probably nowt serious.”
Margaret turned on her heel, legs trembling. Behind her, Mr. Thompson called cheerily, “I’ll keep you posted! Neighbours ought to look out for each other!”
At home, she sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window. Forty-three years married. Two kids grown, two grandkids they doted on. Was Arthur *really* carrying on like some lovesick teenager at their age?
Arthur came home at his usual time, pecked her cheek, washed his hands, and sat down to eat.
“How’s the allotment?” she asked casually.
“Alright. Got the potatoes earthed up, thinned the onions. Knackered, though—back’s killing me.” He stretched, his spine cracking. “Gotta go back tomorrow, weed the beds.”
“Did you pop into town? Maybe grab some ointment for your back?”
He blinked at her. “What for? Brought everything I needed. Why, d’you need something?”
She turned to the stove. Either he was a brilliant liar, or Mr. Thompson had it all wrong. But that *photo*…
“Arthur, did you see Mr. Thompson today?”
“Him? Yeah, bumped into him in the lift this morning. Nosey git, asking where I was off to. Like I’m under surveillance.” Arthur frowned. “Why? What’s he been saying?”
“Nothing important. Just chit-chat.”
That night, Margaret barely slept. Tossing and turning, listening to Arthur’s steady breathing. Forty-three years sharing a bed, and now this doubt gnawing at her. Another woman? At *their* age?
Next morning, Arthur kissed her goodbye, grabbed his thermos and lunchbox, and headed off. “Back by tea-time. Might stop at the fishmonger’s if there’s anything fresh.”
Margaret waited half an hour, then left too. She’d made up her mind—she *needed* to know.
St. Mary’s Surgery was easy enough to find. She sat on a bench opposite, hiding behind a newspaper like some cheap detective. Felt ridiculous.
Arthur showed up just past eleven. Popped into the chemist’s, then headed into the surgery. A woman in a nurse’s uniform greeted him—short, round-faced. They exchanged words before she led him inside.
Margaret’s heart hammered. *Mr. Thompson wasn’t lying.*
An hour later, Arthur reappeared with the nurse. She scribbled something in a notepad, handed him a slip of paper, and they shook hands.
Once Arthur was out of sight, Margaret approached the security guard. “Excuse me—that nurse who just left, is that Lydia, by any chance?”
“Lydia Harper? Yeah, that’s her.”
“Which doctor does she work with?”
“Dr. Carter, the cardiologist. Top bloke.”
Margaret walked home in a daze. So Arthur *was* seeing a doctor. And keeping it from her. *Why?*
She paced the flat like a caged animal until Arthur returned, looking every bit the tired gardener.
“How was your day?” he asked, kissing her forehead.
“Fine. Yours? Get much done?”
“Yeah, cleared all the weeds. Shattered.” He headed for the shower.
At dinner, Margaret finally blurted it out. “Mr. Thompson told me he saw you in town. Near the surgery.”
Arthur put his fork down. Silence. Then a heavy sigh.
“Alright. It’s my heart.” His voice was quiet. “Three months back, had a nasty turn at the allotment. Thought that was it. Saw Dr. Carter—he says it’s serious. Might need surgery.”
“*Arthur!* Why didn’t you *tell* me?”
“Didn’t want you fussing. Thought I’d get sorted first, then—”
She grabbed his hand. “You daft old sod! We’re a *team*! What else has Mr. Thompson been saying?”
“That you’re having an affair with the nurse.”
Arthur snorted. “*Lydia?!* She’s old enough to be my mum! Just a good sort—explains my meds, checks I’m eating right.”
“I believed him. Even *followed* you today.”
“*Did* you?” He chuckled, then pulled a slip from his pocket. “Diet plan. Less salt, more veg. See?”
Margaret studied it. Standard heart-healthy advice. “I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you.”
“S’alright. Looked shady, I suppose. But we need to sort Mr. Thompson out. Man’s got too much time on his hands.”
A week later, Mr. Thompson arrived, smug as ever. “Well? Get to the bottom of things?”
“We did. You were right—Arthur *was* seeing that woman.”
“*Ha!* Knew it!” He rubbed his hands gleefully.
“She’s his *nurse*. He’s got heart trouble, you interfering old busybody!”
Mr. Thompson’s face fell. “*Heart* trouble?”
“Yes. And you nearly gave *me* a heart attack with your gossip! Next time, get your facts *straight* before you go upsetting people!”
After he slunk off, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, smiling. Lesson learned—don’t jump at shadows.
That evening, Arthur grinned. “Bet that shut him up.”
“Ought to move, really. Away from all these nosey parkers.”
“Bollocks to that. Why should *we* run? Let him mind his own business.”
And he did. Mr. Thompson kept his head down after that, offering polite nods instead of prying questions. Arthur stuck to his diet, took his meds, and six months later, Dr. Carter said surgery could wait. Lydia even became a family friend—always asking after him, giving tips.
Margaret realised something: people might see *too* much, but they rarely understand what’s *really* going on. And some secrets—the important ones—belong to the family, no one else.
