Mrs Bennett leans close, nodding towards the opposite garden. “Jane, just look at him! What a husband! Flowers for his wife every week, car washed by dawn to drive Eleanor to work. Yours is that?”
Jane stirs her vegetable soup mechanically, eyes fixed on the stove. Beyond the window, Arthur from number seven carefully plants tomato seedlings while crimson roses lie on the bench nearby.
“Leave it be,” Jane sighs. “Everyone lives differently.”
“Differently?” Mrs Bennett huffs, settling at the kitchen table. “Look properly! Garden like a postcard, worships his wife, cycles with their grandchildren every weekend. Eleanor practically glows with happiness! She nattered on for half an hour yesterday about Arthur giving her foot masshes evenings.”
Jane winces. Arthur Smith truly embodies the model husband. Every neighbour remarks on it, the whole street knows. He’s first to clear snow from pensioners’ drives, fixes fences, lends tools, never raises his voice at Eleanor.
“What’s that to me?” Jane switches off the hob, turning. “My Robert’s a good man too.”
Mrs Bennett snorts. “Good! Blasted music full volume at eleven last night, woke my granddaughter who cried till dawn. Blocked the lane completely the day before, Mr Davies could barely squeeze past.”
“He was just in low spirits,” Jane defends, though knowing her excuses sound feeble.
Truly, Robert wasn’t perfect. He forgot birthdays, left dirty dishes piled for a week, blew half his wages on fishing tackle. But Jane cherished him regardless. Loved his clumsy breakfast attempts when she felt poorly, his snuffling sleep sounds, even his habit of scattering socks across their bedroom.
After Mrs Bennett leaves, Jane waters the cucumbers, hearing low murmurs through the hedge from Arthur and Eleanor.
“Eleanor, let me fetch a chair? Don’t kneel, you’ll strain your back.”
“It’s fine, Arthur, just checking the strawberries.”
“I’ll make tea then. Lemon or jam?”
“Jam, darling.”
Jane contrasts this with her own morning exchange.
“Robert, breakfast!”
“Coming!” he shouts from the bathroom, adding, “Any coffee?”
“Instant’s in the jar, find it yourself.”
“Where though…”
Robert left for work having only tea, too lazy to hunt the coffee. Jane scolded herself all day for not placing a mug ready.
That evening, tucking in her visiting granddaughter Emily, Jane hears the child sigh.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Grandma, why does Uncle Arthur buy Auntie Eleanor flowers every day? Grandpa Robert never buys you any.”
Jane perches on the bed, smoothing Emily’s blanket.
“You’d like him to buy me flowers?”
“Yes! You’re ever so kind; you read me stories and bake scones. Why doesn’t he?”
Truth stings sharply from young lips. Jane kisses Emily’s forehead, whispering, “Sleep well, my treasure.”
Next day, meeting Eleanor Smith at the shop, Jane studies her. Eleanor radiates contentment – manicured, in a lovely summer frock, hair perfectly styled.
“Jane! How are things?” Eleanor beams while picking tomatoes.
“Well enough. You?”
“Marvellous! Arthur’s making vegetable soup today – ‘Give the wife a rest,’ he says! Though I’ll hover nearby; he’ll confuse sugar with salt.”
“You’re fortunate with your husband,” Jane says, an edge of envy in her voice.
“Fortunate,” Eleanor agrees, her expression turning pensive. “Robert alright? Heard he got a new rod?”
“He did. Off to the riverbank every weekend now.”
Homeward, Jane dwells on how lovely it would be if Robert occasionally offered rest or cooked a meal. Instead, the usual scene greets her: Robert lounges before the telly with a lager, his work boots discarded on the floor, a dirty frying pan in the sink.
“Jane, what’s for supper?” Robert asks, eyes glued to the screen.
“Heating yesterday’s soup,” she replies, stowing the boots.
“Any meat?”
“Pork pies in the freezer.”
“Fetch one then; I’m famished.”
As Jane prepares dinner, thoughts linger on neighbour Arthur. Doubtlessly he’s helping his wife, laying the table, asking if she’s weary.
Over supper Robert grumbles about his boss, plans fishing trips. Jane listens absently. Suddenly she breaks.
“Robert, let’s catch a film tomorrow? Or just stroll through town?”
He glances up, startled. “A film? Anything decent showing?”
“Not sure. Just spend time together.”
“I’m heading to the Thames with Dave tomorrow. He knows a prime pike spot. Another time?”
“Another time” never arrived. Robert always prioritised other plans.
One twilight on the neighbours’ bench, Mrs Bennett extols the Smiths again.
“Girls, seen? Arthur bought Eleanor a brand-new washer-dryer! Plus double-glazing – ‘So the wife doesn’t freeze,’ he said.”
“Envious,” sighs Mrs Davies. “My Stephen only makes promises. Roof’s leaked into a bucket half a year.”
“Remember the Smiths’ anniversary last week?” chimes Mrs Taylor. “Arthur booked The White Hart, thirty guests! Eleanor was a princess, new gown, salon hair. His speech had half in tears!”
Jane stays silent, recalling her own birthday. Robert gifted her saucepan set
Heather adjusted her glasses on the end of her nose, leaning closer to Margaret, her whisper carrying on the gentle Greenwich breeze. “David was tending his begonias again this morning before heading into the City, Heather dear; brought Vanessa a whole crate of those fancy peaches from Fortnum’s yesterday,” she murmured, nodding towards the meticulously kept property across the leafy avenue. “Now there’s a proper husband. Unlike your Brian, bless him.”
Margaret mechanically stirred the beef stew simmering at a low bubble, her gaze fixed on the hob rather than the tidy scene outside. David from number seven was indeed visible, carefully staking some young tomato plants while a bouquet of crimson roses lay on the garden bench beside him. Her reply was weary. “Honestly, Heather, leave it. Different strokes for different folks.”
“Different folks indeed! Just look at that garden, Margaret, honestly look,” Heather persisted, settling herself at the kitchen table, undeterred. “Immaculate! Dotes on Vanessa, takes the grandkids cycling every single weekend. And Vanessa always looks so frightfully well turned out! Ran into her at Waitrose yesterday; she went on for ages about how David gives her foot rubs every evening.”
Margaret winced. David Langley truly seemed the very model of a modern English husband. All the neighbours said so; it was practically common knowledge on their avenue. He’d be the first out brushing snow from his own drive *and* the elderly McCullochs’ next door, lend tools without hesitation, mend fences, and never raised his voice to Vanessa.
“Well, what of it?” Margaret snapped the hob off and turned around, hands resting on her hips. “Brian’s a good man too.”
Heather gave a dismissive sniff. “Good? He had that dreadful rock music on full volume past eleven last Wednesday – woke young Emily and she sobbed half the night! And Tuesday, his blessed Volvo blocked the entire street; poor George Davies could barely get his Skoda through.”
Mercifully, Heather departed soon after. Margaret went out to water the runner beans, the quiet conversation drifting over the fence stopping her in her tracks.
“Vanessa, darling, fetch a stool? Don’t kneel on the gravel, you’ll ruin your skirt,” David’s voice was low, concerned.
“I’m fine, David, just checking these strawberries. Won’t be a tick.”
“Right, I’ll pop the kettle on. Earl Grey? Or perhaps a coffee?”
“Oh, Earl Grey would be lovely. Thank you, David.”
The contrast with her own morning exchange echoed painfully in her mind.
“Brian, breakfast is up!”
“Righto!” echoed from the ensuite shower, followed by, “Is there any coffee?”
“The instant jar’s in the cupboard, love. You’ll find it.”
“Where the blinking heck is it…?”
Brian had dashed off to Canary Wharf having only grabbed a slice of toast, while Margaret spent the whole day regretting not just making his cup for him.
Later, tucking her visiting granddaughter Sophie into bed, Margaret was taken aback.
“Granny?”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Why does Granddad David from number seven give Granny Vanessa roses all the time? My Granddad Brian never brings you flowers.”
The child’s innocent observation stung. Margaret smoothed Sophie’s duvet, struggling for words. “Do you wish he did, sweet pea?”
“Yes! Because you’re lovely! You read me stories and make jam tarts. Why doesn’t he give you anything?”
Honesty from such a small voice was piercing. Margaret kissed her forehead. “Time for sleep now, poppet.”
A handful of days later, bumping into Vanessa Langley in the queue at Tesco, Margaret couldn’t help but scrutinise her neighbour. Vanessa was the picture of elegance: crisp summer dress, flawless caramel highlights expertly set. She genuinely radiated contentment.
“Margaret! Morning! How’s things?”
“Not bad, thanks, Vanessa. Yourself?”
“Marvellous! David decided he’d cook tonight. Said, ‘Let the boss have a night off!'” Vanessa chuckled. “Course, I’ll probably have to supervise – you know men, salt instead of sugar! Still, bless him.” Her smile was warm.
“You’re lucky, having David,” Margaret replied, a faint but unmistakable thread of envy in her tone.
“I am,” Vanessa conceded readily, though her thoughtful expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “How’s Brian? Heard he bought a new fly rod?”
“Did. Off to fish the Thames every weekend now.”
Thoughts of Vanessa, David, and Brian’s predictable routine occupied Margaret all the way home. Predictably, Brian was ensconced before the telly, a can of Stella Artois in hand, muddy work boots discarded near the sofa, and the frying pan from his breakfast bacon resting unrinsed in the sink.
“Margaret, what’s for tea?”
“Last night’s stew?”
“Any meat in it?”
“Got some mince pies in the freezer I could heat up.”
“Right you are, get them on then. Starving I am.”
As Margaret prepared the meal, images of David likely helping Vanessa lay the table flickered unwanted in her mind. Over the reheated stew, Brian recounted his day – gripes about his boss at the construction firm, plans for the weekend’s fishing trip. Margaret listened half-heartedly, nodding along until she finally interrupted.
“Brian… fancy the pictures tomorrow night? Or maybe a walk down by the river?”
He looked up, surprised. “The flicks? Anything decent on?”
“Not sure… we could see. Just… spend some time together?”
He looked hesitant. “Got plans with Pete down the angling club tomorrow. He knows a new spot near Henley, reckons the perch are biting. Another time, eh?”
That “another time” seemed perpetually elusive. Brian always had something more important than time with his wife.
On a pleasant evening, sitting on the park bench with the other local wives – Heather, Maureen, and Tessa – Margaret endured the usual hymn to the Langleys.
“Did you see, girls?” Heather started, eyes wide. “David’s only gone and bought Vanessa one of those newfangled washing machines! A Bosch, with the steam refresh! And he’s booked new double-glazing! Said he wouldn’t have her getting a chill come winter.”
“Lucky mare,” sighed Maureen. “My Norman’s still promising to fix the shed roof… the bucket’s overflowing whenever it rains.”
“And their silver wedding anniversary at The Ivy last month?” Tessa chimed in. “Must have been forty guests? Vanessa looked radiant, proper blow-dry and that new indigo dress. And David’s speech! Had half us weeping into our wine!”
Margaret stayed quiet, remembering her own recent birthday. Brian had presented her with a set of Le Creuset saucepans. “Practical,” he’d said. “You’ll get the use.” No dinner out. No fuss. He’d watched the Arsenal match with his mates while she’d cleaned the new pans in the sink.
The seed Heather planted about reforming their husbands took root. *Could* Brian learn? Could he be nudged towards being a bit more… David-like?
Summoning her courage that evening, she approached Brian as he tapped away on his phone. “Brian? Got a minute?”
“Course, Margot. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s *up*. Just… sometimes I wish… you could be a bit more attentive, I suppose.”
He frowned, genuinely perplexed. “Attentive? How d’you mean?”
“Well… flowers occasionally. Help around here. Doing things together. Like… normal couples.”
“Margaret,” he said, sounding almost affronted, “we’re fine! Why fiddle? I don’t drink myself silly, don’t mess about, bring my wages home.”
“It’s not about that. I want to feel… loved. Like a woman, Brian. Not like the hired help.”
Brian sighed heavily, putting his phone down. “Margaret, love, we’re not youngsters anymore. Flowers and candy? Bit daft at our age.”
“Our neighbours next door aren’t youngsters. David and Vanessa. He gets her flowers every Friday, mucks in, pays attention.”
Brian’s face scrunched up faintly. “Ah, *Langley*. All for show, that one. Putting on an act.”
The discussion fizzled unsatisfactorily. Brian retreated to his phone game, Margaret to the washing-up, feeling profoundly isolated.
The next morning, encountering David at their gates, his courtesy was
Margaret smiled and leaned her head against William’s shoulder, softly adding, “And all the while he’d been her perfectly imperfect husband all along, socks scattered across the bedroom floor and all.”
