**Tuesday, 15th May, Overcast**
Valentine from next door leaned in, whispering across the hedge. “Mary, just look at him!” She nodded towards the opposite plot. “Now *that’s* a proper husband! Buys his wife flowers every week, washed the motor car first thing to drive Margaret to work. Where’s yours?”
I stirred the cottage pie mechanically, not lifting my gaze from the hob. Outside, indeed, was Anthony Bloomfield from number seven, tenderly planting tomato seedlings. A bunch of scarlet roses lay on the bench beside him.
“Val, leave off,” I sighed. “Everyone has their own life.”
“What life?” Val huffed, settling at the kitchen table. “Look at him properly! Plot like something from a magazine, worships his wife, takes the grandkids cycling every weekend. And Margaret! Radiant, she is. Ran into her at the Co-op yesterday, nattered on for half an hour about how Tony gives her foot rubs evenings.”
I winced. Anthony Bloomfield truly was the model husband. All the neighbours said so; the whole street knew it. He’d clear snow from his drive and the pensioners’ paths first. Helped mend fences, lent out tools, never once raised his voice at Margaret.
“What’s it to me?” I clicked off the hob and turned. “My Robert’s a decent man.”
Val snorted. “Decent! Had his music blaring last night near eleven – my little Lily woke screaming. Day before, his car blocked the lane completely, poor old Mr. Higgins could barely squeeze past.”
“Just in a foul mood,” I defended, though the excuse sounded flimsy even to me. Robert was far from perfect. He’d forget birthdays, leave dirty dishes in the sink for a week, blow half his wages on fishing tackle. But I loved him as he was. Loved his clumsy attempts at breakfast when I was poorly. Loved his gentle snoring. Even loved his habit of leaving socks strewn about the bedroom.
After Val left, I went to water the runner beans. Over the fence drifted the quiet murmur of Anthony and Margaret.
“Margaret, love, shall I fetch you a chair? Don’t kneel there, you’ll strain your back.”
“No need, Tony, just checking the strawberries.”
“Right, I’ll put the kettle on then. Lemon or jam with your tea?”
“Jam, darling.”
I couldn’t help but contrast it with that morning’s exchange with Robert.
“Robert, breakfast’s on!”
“Coming!” he’d yelled from the loo. “Coffee made?”
“Instant in the jar. You’ll find it.”
“But where is it?”
He’d left for work after only tea, too idle to hunt the coffee. I’d berated myself all day for not setting out a mug.
Later, tucking in my granddaughter Daisy, staying for half-term, I heard her sigh.
“What’s wrong, petal?”
“Nan, why does Grandad Tony give Aunty Margaret flowers every day? My Grandad Robert never gives you any.”
I perched on the bed edge, smoothing her blanket.
“You’d like him to give me flowers?”
“Yes! You’re lovely. You read me stories and bake me treats. Why doesn’t he give you anything?”
Truth from a child cuts deepest. I didn’t know what to say, just kissed her forehead and whispered, “Sleep now, my sweet.”
Next day at the shops, encountering Margaret Bloomfield, I studied her unwittingly. She looked genuinely happy. Well-turned-out in a pretty summer frock, hair neatly styled.
“Mary, hello! How are things?” she smiled, selecting tomatoes.
“Fair to middling. You?”
“Lovely! Tony decided to make shepherd’s pie today, said ‘give the wife a rest’. Imagine?” Margaret laughed. “Though I’ll be hovering – he’ll likely mix up salt and sugar.”
“Lucky with your husband,” I said, envy creeping into my voice.
“I am,” Margaret agreed, but her expression grew thoughtful. “How’s your Robert? Heard he bought a new rod?”
“Did. Down the canal every weekend now.”
Walking home, I mused how grand it would be if Robert offered help or cooked occasionally. Home offered the usual scene: Robert sat before the telly with a pint, his work boots kicked off in the hall, a dirty eggy plate in the kitchen sink.
“Mary, what’s for tea?” he asked, eyes glued to the screen.
“Heating yesterday’s shepherd’s pie,” I replied, moving his boots.
“Any meat?”
“Bangers in the freezer.”
“Fetch ’em out then, starving I am.”
As I cooked, thoughts returned to Anthony Bloomfield. He’d be helping Margaret, setting the table, asking if she was tired. Over tea, Robert rattled on about work, moaning about his foreman, planning his next fishing trip. I tuned out, nodding vaguely, then blurted:
“Rob, fancy the pictures tomorrow? Or just a wander round town?”
He looked up, surprised. “Pictures? Summat good on?”
“Dunno. Could see what’s playing. Just spend time together.”
“Got plans with Dave tomorrow. New spot for pike, he reckons. Another time, eh?”
‘Another time’ never came. Robert always had something more pressing.
One evening, sat on the porch steps with Val and other neighbours, Val sighed over the Bloomfields.
“Girls, see? Tony got Margaret a posh new washing machine! Tumble dryer and all. Ordered new double-glazing too, said so his missus doesn’t get chilled.”
“Envious,” sighed Tamara Higgins. “My Stan just makes promises. Roof’s needed fixing half a year, rain drips right into the bucket.”
“Remember the Bloomfields’ ruby wedding last week?” piped up Gail. “Tony hired the function room at The King’s Head, thirty guests at least! Margaret looked a princess, new frock, salon-set hair. And his speech! Half the room wept.”
I stayed quiet, recalling my last birthday. Robert gave me a new set of saucepans. “Practical,” he’d said. No night out, no effort. He watched footie with mates while I washed those very pans.
“Listen,” Val proposed, “what if we all retrain our husbands? Take a leaf from Anthony Bloomfield! Proof it can be done!”
“Retrain at fifty?” Tamara scoffed. “Set in their ways like concrete.”
But the idea stuck. Maybe explain to Robert how I craved a bit of caring? Later, I found my courage.
“Rob? Mind a chat?”
“‘Course,” he put down his phone game. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up. Only… sometimes I wish you’d be more… attentive.”
“How d’you mean?” Robert frowned.
“Well… flowers sometimes. Lend a hand. Go out together. Like proper marrieds do.”
“Mary, we’re fine as we are! Why rock the boat?” He looked baffled. “I don’t drink meself daft, don’t chase skirts, bring me wage home.”
“It’s not that. I want to feel like your loved wife, not the charlady.”
Robert sighed, set his phone aside.
“Mary, we’re not kids now. Flowers and such? We’re steady.”
“But the Bloomfields are steady, and different.”
“What Bloomfields?”
“Anthony. Buys Margaret flowers weekly, does his share, makes her feel special.”
Robert grimaced. “Oh, him. Just putting on a show. All for appearances.”
“Why? Maybe he just loves her?”
“Mary, let’s not gossip about other folks. We suit ourselves.”
The chat went nowhere. Robert returned to his game. I washed up, feeling even lonelier.
Next morning, bumping into Anthony at the gate, he greeted politely.
“Morning, Mary. Keeping well?”
“Alright, thanks. You?”
“Can’t complain. Off to the shops for Margaret. She likes the currant scones from Tesco’s bakery – ours rarely has ’em.”
“Long walk?”
“Down the high street. No
The sunset painted the kitchen gold as Jack pushed a steaming mug towards Emma, his tools still on the hall floor where he’d kicked them off, and she finally understood contentment wasn’t the neighbour’s meticulously polished car or weekly roses, but the warmth of this exact tea and this quietly steadfast man simply being his own, imperfect self. The perfect husband, perhaps, just for her.
She now cherished Jack’s spontaneous, slightly crooked grin when recounting his disastrous attempt at fixing the neighbour’s shed far more than the carefully curated performances next door ever garnered. Their mornings held the comfortable silence of shared newspapers instead of scripted pleasantries, and Emma found Jack’s absentminded humming while searching for his keys infinitely dearer than any orchestrated serenade. His thoughtfulness arrived not on schedule but in moments like finding her favourite biscuits waiting after a long day, a small, genuine gesture that spoke louder than any grand, pre-planned flourish ever could, proving that love’s truest currency was authenticity, freely given and gratefully received. She realised, as he squeezed her hand while passing her the milk without prompt, that her ideal was not a universal standard of perfection, but this profoundly ordinary, occasionally frustrating, deeply devoted man who, in his stubborn refusal to be anyone else, finally felt like her perfect fit. The world could keep its shining examples; she had Jack, simple, steadfast, and imperfectly perfect for her alone.
