All the neighbours know John’s a hopeless incompetent – sometimes called a useless clot, sometimes a clumsy oaf, sometimes a daft mutt. The insults vary in proportion to his latest blunder, matching the intensity of his wife’s fury accordingly. Eleanor, to her husband, remains Bunny, Little Fox, Sunshine, or Swallow. Hearing her shrieks, folks wonder when this bloody fool will finally give Bunny her due, but recalling he lacks any backbone, they conclude: never. John might play deaf and dumb, utterly indifferent to her raging insults. This calm disregard fuels Eleanor’s prolonged fits of temper. Exhausted from shouting, Ellie storms out. A lump of rage tightens her throat, choking her. Red blotches stain her face, her hands tremble, her voice rasps. She longs to weep, but tears won’t come. John, watching her leave, murmurs softly: “Where you off to, Bun?”
The early years after marrying were harmonious, quiet, peaceful. Had anyone claimed this serenity would twist into constant bickering and scandal within a few years, Ellie would’ve dismissed it. She’d married her beloved, her soulmate, not some useless layabout. John worked as a welder, never drank or smoked, calm as a hibernating bear, perpetually upbeat and content. Wives of drunken, straying husbands held him up as an example, so Ellie felt proud. They postponed children, aiming to build a garage, add a garden room, buy a car. The council allocated them a house, and Ellie dreamed of making it perfect.
John was dreadfully slow, perhaps outright lazy. Work always waited; laughing, he’d say: “Can’t finish every chore. Best let things sort themselves sometimes. Why rush? If I’m not keen, best not start—that’s not work, it’s self-torture.” He’d no urge to lead in tasks. Ellie tackled anything herself, matching John’s competence: digging the vegetable patch, painting the house, mowing lawns, chopping wood for the garden room.
Thankfully, the house had all mod cons, so she no longer hauled water. It proved quicker doing jobs herself than rousing her husband. One night, a terrible crash woke them—kitchen tiles John laid had slid clean off the wall. Ellie called him hopelessly clumsy, hiring a proper handyman the next day.
One evening, returning from work, she barely recognised her cherished flowerbed: trampled by the neighbour’s cow hooves, blooms crushed because John hadn’t shut the gate. Daily, John’s slowness, laziness, and apathy grated more upon Eleanor.
Beside their home stood a derelict house. The elderly owners died long ago; heirs occasionally cut weeds before abandoning the plot. Then, one day, a pricey Jaguar pulled up. It was Peter’s grandson, Dennis Harris, moving back permanently with his family.
He’d found lucrative work in London, where he’d married; now, he sought roots in his home village. Dennis began renovating the crumbling property. Seeing him tirelessly graft—skilled builder, welder, electrician—without his wife lifting a tool stirred Ellie deeply. His spouse managed home and children only.
Observing Dennis, Ellie grew increasingly furious with John. She wearied of being strong, yearning to feel delicate and cherished. Repeatedly, she nudged John towards tasks any decent bloke should handle. But John felt no drive to lead; comfortable in supporting roles, he thrived domestically. Worn-out Ellie snapped more often, hurling insults. Neighbours labelled her a nagging shrew, him a luckless sod. Divorce crossed her mind; she couldn’t shoulder the household burden forever. Holding Dennis up as an example, John merely smiled, replying: “Grass is greener elsewhere.”
John couldn’t grasp his wife’s hints about divorce. Many wives suffered drunken, unfaithful husbands, yet here Ellie was, pampered, loved—and wanting separation? He never hurt her, let her do as she pleased, never questioned her spending. “So I’m slow? Why rush? Why flap over nothing? And why boss my wife about? She’s the homemaker. True, I’m no master tiler, but I earn decently—hire experts. Naturally, I want rest weekends; she should too, not hunt hidden chores. Why spy on neighbours? Folk differ in temper and work pace. Why does Bun want out?” John sighed before the telly, scratched his head, and settled.
Each evening, Ellie delivered milk for Nicky, Dennis’s toddler. Victoria invited her for supper, cracking open a nice bottle. Dennis lorded the table while Victoria scurried: “Pass salt! Your cooking’s bland—where’s the pepper? I like crispier! This wine deserved better. Napkins? Corkscrew? Overcooked! Fetch! Clear! Hush—I know best!” It went on all night.
When Nicky cried, Victoria slipped away. Struggling for conversation, Ellie asked about furniture Victoria mentioned wanting. Victoria returned mid-discussion, voicing her choice. Dennis barked: “What I buy stands! Fancy taste? Easy spending—harder earning!” Ellie’s mood soured witnessing this meek, timid wife endure such scorn. Silently branding Dennis vile names, she dare not utter them aloud—making enemies wasn’t wise. Glancing at the “happy couple,” Ellie trudged home miserable.
“Bun? Where you been? Fancy tea? Brewed it your favourite way.” Ellie hugged her husband; his bewildered gaze embarrassed her. “Now Bun, breathe out—gave ’em milk, did they spike yours? That’s why you’re soft and cheerful.”
Suddenly, Ellie’s urge grew to overlook John’s flaws, forget divorce, stop eyeing neighbours’ lives, and simply polish her own windows clean. “Johnny, what should I cook tomorrow?” “Your call, love. Just don’t strain yourself.” “Oh, Johnny? I fancy new furniture.” “Want it? Get it then. Don’t care what we sit on watching telly.” “Johnny, what about a new suede jacket?” “Why? This one’
Emily sighs contentedly, thinking how Oliver’s steady calm amidst life’s little storms is far better than a tempest of haste.
