Everyone on Cherry Blossom Lane knew Nigel as a hopeless case – sometimes a clumsy oaf like a sheep, sometimes as stubborn as a mule, sometimes a lazy old dog. The unflattering nickname changed based on the latest blunder. The scale of his mistakes varied wildly, as did the intensity of his wife Sophie’s wrath. To Nigel, however, Sophie was always his ‘Poppet’, ‘Sweetpea’, ‘Sunshine’, or ‘Little Bird’. Hearing her shrieks, neighbours might wonder why this woolly-headed chap didn’t bop his ‘Sweetpea’ one, but remembering he was also sometimes called a useless mule, they decided: never. Nigel could pretend to be stone deaf, completely unfazed by her shouting and insults. This maddening calm, this indifference to her fury, only prolonged her fits. Exhausted from yelling, Sophie would stomp out. Her throat constricted, her face blotched crimson, hands trembling, voice hoarse. She wanted to break down and weep, but the tears wouldn’t come. As she left, Nigel would murmur softly, “Off out, Poppet?”.
Their first married years in Chipping Norton were peaceful, quiet, and harmonious. If anyone had predicted then that their tranquil existence would become a battleground of squabbles and rows, Sophie would have scoffed. She’d married her beloved, the man she utterly adored, not some useless blockhead. Nigel the welder never drank, never smoked, possessed a bear-like calm, was perpetually upbeat, and found life splendid. Wives with feckless or philandering husbands often held him up as a model, making Sophie proud. They decided against children right away. First, they needed to build a garden shed, a garage, and buy a car. The council allocated them the house, and Sophie dreamt of doing it up perfectly.
Nigel was glacially slow, perhaps just bone idle. Work always waited for him. Chuckling, he’d say, “Can’t do the lot, love. Best leave some things be; jobs sort themselves out sometimes. What’s the rush? Honestly, I reckon if you don’t fancy doing something, best leave it alone. Making yourself do it? That’s not work, that’s self-exploitation.” He felt no particular urge to lead the charge. Sophie tackled anything and everything – digging the veg patch, painting the house, mowing the lawn, chopping firewood for the shed – doing everything as well as Nigel might, if not faster.
Thankfully the house had modern conveniences; she didn’t have to lug buckets of water anymore. It was quicker often to do things herself than try budging Nigel. One night, a dreadful crash woke them. The kitchen tiles Nigel had laid had slid right off the wall from top to bottom. Sophie declared him hopelessly useless and hired a proper builder the next day.
She came home another evening to find her flowerbeds wrecked – dug up by hooves, blossoms broken – because Nigel had left the garden gate open. Day by day, his sloth, indifference, and slowness grated on Sophie more.
Next to them stood a dilapidated, orphaned house. The old owners were long gone; the heirs occasionally hacked back the weeds before abandoning it entirely. Then one day, a sleek Jaguar pulled up. It was the grandson, Richard, returning with his family to put down roots. He’d worked in Aberdeen, married there, but now craved the peace of home. Aberdeen was for making money; home was for living. Richard set about rebuilding the ancient property. That’s when he showed Sophie what it meant to always have a job on the go. He proved himself a master builder, welder, and electrician, doing it all with no wife helping. His wife Emily kept house and minded their toddler.
Watching Richard, Sophie simmered with resentment towards Nigel. She was tired of being the capable one. She longed to be soft and looked after. Countless times she nudged, steered, urged her husband towards tasks any bloke should tackle. But Nigel was no leader, content as the second fiddle in their domestic orchestra. Worn-out Sophie snapped more often, her barbs sharper. Folks started seeing her as the village shrew, him the poor henpecked soul. She began considering divorce; she couldn’t pull the household cart alone forever. Increasingly, she held the neighbour up as a model. Nigel would just smile and say, “The grass is always greener, Poppet.”
He utterly missed his wife’s hints about divorce. Plenty of women suffered with drunks or bounders – here *he* was, un-cursed, un-hit, adored… and she wanted divorce? He’d never been unkind, she did what she liked, went where she pleased, and he hadn’t a clue where the money went. “So I’m slow,” he thought, settled before the telly, scratching his head. “Why the hurry? What’s the point of tearing your hair out over nothing? And why would I tell the wife what to do? She’s the mistress of the house. Right, I’m hopeless at tiling, but I earn well enough to hire a man. Right, I want a proper rest on my day off, she should too, not hunt for jobs hiding in cupboards. Why peep at other folks’ lives? Everyone’s different. Can’t fathom why my Poppet wants a split.” He sighed, settling deeper into the sofa.
Sophie took fresh milk round to the neighbours’ little boy, Charlie. Emily invited her to stay for supper and open a bottle of wine. Dinner revealed Richard acting like a lord, Emily his skivvy: “Pass the salt! You never season enough – hardly any pepper either! You know I like things crisp! This wine’s too good for *this*. Where’s the corkscrew? Where’s my napkin? It’s cold now! Why did you overheat it? Bring it! Fetch it! Take it! Be quiet, I know best! Nobody asked you!” – and so the meal went.
Charlie started crying. Emily left the table. Awkward, Sophie asked about the new furniture Emily had mentioned wanting. Emily returned, grasped the topic, and tried to explain her preference. “I’ll buy *what* I choose!” Richard cut in. “What you want matters little! Spending’s easy, earning less so!” Sophie’s good mood vanished. Seeing Richard bully his meek wife, Sophie mentally cursed him, outraged, but saying it aloud would make her his enemy forever.
Looking at the “happy couple,” a miserable Sophie went home.
“Poppet! Where’ve you been? Fancy a cuppa? Made it just how you like.”
Sophie hugged her husband. He looked so startled she felt awkward.
“Sweetpea! Oi, breathe out! Bet they gave you something stronger after you brought the milk. That’s why you’re all cuddly and bright.”
Suddenly, Sophie wanted to say hang the flaws, hang Nigel’s drawbacks, forget divorce and gazing through others’ windows. She needed to clean her own panes properly.
“Nigel, what shall I cook tomorrow?”
“Up to you, love. Whatever’s easiest for you.”
“Oh! Nigel? I fancy some new furniture.”
“Fancy it? Get it then. Suit yourself. Couldn’t care less what I sit on watching the telly.”
“Nigel? Let’s get you a new leather jacket?”
“Why? This one’s only seven years old. *You* need a fur coat!”
They ‘Poppet-ed’ and ‘Nigel-ed’ into the night, as happy as newlyweds.
“Nigel? The divorce talk… it was just a joke.”
“Thought as much. No
She realised with a chuckle that she’d much rather put up with her slow, steady Nigel than trade him for a bossy bulldozer of a neighbour any day of the week.
