Margaret mechanically stirs a pot of beef stew, not lifting her eyes from the hob. Outside, Anthony Stewart from number seven is tenderly planting tomato seedlings while a bouquet of crimson roses lies on the nearby bench. “Ellen, give it a rest,” Margaret says wearily. “Everyone lives differently.”
Ellen snorts. “Differently? Look at him! His lawn could be in Chelsea Flower Show, worships his wife, takes his grandchildren cycling every weekend. And Charlotte’s so happy! Yesterday at Tesco, she told me for ages how Tony massages her feet evenings.”
Margaret frowns. Anthony Stewart is indeed the model husband all the neighbours admire. He shovels snow for elderly neighbours, helps mend fences, loans out tools, never raises his voice.
“What’s it to me?” Margaret switches off the burner. “My William is decent too.”
“Decent! Blasted his music at eleven last night, woke my granddaughter. Parked his car blocking the whole lane yesterday.”
“He was upset,” Margaret defends, though knowing it sounds weak.
William forgets anniversaries, leaves dirty dishes for days, spends half his wages on fishing tackle. Yet Margaret loves him—his clumsy breakfast attempts when she’s ill, his snoring, even his socks scattered over their bedroom.
After Ellen leaves, Margaret waters the cucumber plants. Over the fence drift Anthony
Catherine smiled at Peter as he snored lightly beside her on the sofa, his fishing rod leaning forgotten by the door and a spilt packet of crisps at his feet, finally content that this messy, comfortable love was perfectly hers.
