The Tale of a Man with Many Labels: A Neighbors’ Perspective on Flaws and Consequences

All the neighbours knew Arthur was a useless as a chocolate teapot, sometimes a complete nincompoop, other times a silly git, occasionally a daft dog. The particular insult was directly proportional to his latest blunder. Each mistake varied in scale, so Emma’s anger flared with different intensity.
For her husband, Emma was Bunny, Foxy, Sunshine, or Swallow. Hearing her shrieks, people wondered when the nincompoop would finally stand up to his bunny, but recalling he was also useless as a chocolate teapot, concluded: never. Arthur might pretend to be deaf and dumb, utterly ignoring her shouts and insults. This quiet indifference to her fury caused her rages to last even longer. Exhausted from shouting, Emma stormed out. A knot of tension choked her throat. Red blotches covered her face, her hands shook, her voice rasped. She wanted to howl, but no tears came. Arthur, watching her leave, softly asked, “Going somewhere, Bunny?”
The first years after marrying were peaceful. If anyone had said their quiet life would become a constant quarrel, Emma wouldn’t have believed it. She’d married a man she adored, not a silly git. Arthur worked as a welder, no drinking or smoking, calm as a bear hibernating, always content. Wives of drunken layabouts held him up as an example, so Emma felt proud. They delayed children to build a conservatory, a garage, buy a car. Their housing association house needed doing up properly.
Arthur was slow, perhaps lazy. Work always waited; he’d laugh, “Can’t do everything. Best let things sort themselves sometimes. Why rush? Forcing yourself makes it forced labour.” He’d no ambition to be top dog. Emma tackled any job herself, just as well as Arthur: digging the garden, painting the house, mowing the lawn, chopping logs for their wood burner.
Thankfully the house had modern plumbing; no water hauling like the past. It was quicker doing jobs herself than rousing Arthur. One night, a dreadful crash woke them. Wallpaper Arthur hung days earlier was peeling off the walls in sheets. Emma called him clumsy and got a decorator the next day.
Another evening, she got home to find her flowerbeds trampled, blooms wrecked by a neighbour’s wandering cow because Arthur left the gate unlatched. Day by day, his slowness, laziness, and indifference grated more.
Beside them stood a derelict house. The old owners died long ago; their relatives briefly cut the weeds occasionally, then abandoned it. Until a flash car pulled up one day. It was the grandson, Oliver, moving back permanently with his family.
He’d worked up in Leeds, married there, but now returned home. Leeds was for earning; this was for living. Oliver began renovating the old place. Watching him work steadily showed Emma what keeping busy truly meant. His skill as a builder, welder, and electrician was clear, his wife Sophie nowhere near the tools. She looked after home and child.
Seeing their neighbour, Emma grew angrier with Arthur. She was tired of being strong; she longed to be delicate. She often nudged Arthur toward jobs any man should handle, but he wasn’t cut out for bossing tasks; he was comfortable as second fiddle. Worn out, Emma snapped more, increasingly resorting to insults. Folks thought her a nagging wife, him a poor sod. She thought of divorce, unsure she could steer the household solo forever. More often, she held Oliver up as an example. Arthur just smiled, saying, “Always greener grass on the other side, eh?”
Arthur couldn’t grasp Emma’s hints about divorce. Many women suffered drunken, cheating husbands, yet here she was – loved, unbruised, wanting out? He’d never hurt her, she did as she pleased, went where she wanted, spent the money however she liked – he hadn’t a clue. “So I’m slow? Why rush? Why fret over nothing? And why should I tell her what to do? She knows best; she runs the house. Okay, I’m no decorator, but I earn decent money, we can hire experts. Sure, I want to rest weekends, so should she, instead of inventing chores. Why peer through others’ curtains? Folk are different. Why does Bunny want a divorce?” Arthur sighed by the telly, scratched his head, and calmed down.
Emma often took milk over for Oliver’s little boy, Ollie. Sophie invited her for dinner and a bottle of wine. Oliver sat like lord of the manor; Sophie waited on him: “Pass the salt! You never season right! Needs more pepper! You know I like it crisper! This wine deserved better! Where are the napkins? Where’s the corkscrew? It’s cold now! Why’d you overheat it?! Fetch this! Bring that! Clear away! Shut it, I know best! No one asked you!” And so it went.
Ollie cried; Sophie left the table. Emma struggled for chat, asking about the new furniture Sophie mentioned. Sophie returned, joined in, started explaining her preference. “What I buy is what you get! Who cares what you want! Spending money’s easy, earning it ain’t!” Emma felt wretched, seeing shy, modest Sophie treated so poorly. She cursed Oliver silently but dared not speak, fearing permanent enmity. Seeing the ‘happy couple’, miserable Emma went home.
“Bunny, where’ve you been? Fancy a cuppa? Made it just how you like.”
Emma hugged him. His astonished look made her feel awkward.
“Bunny, let’s have a sniff. Bet they gave you something stronger than milk. Explains you being all soft and cheerful.”
Suddenly, Emma wanted to forget Arthur’s flaws, forget divorce, stop looking elsewhere, and polish her own windows clean.
“Arthur love, what shall I cook tomorrow?”
“Up to you, love. Whatever’s easy for you.”
“Arthur? Fancy new furniture?”
“Want it, get it. Suits me. Don’t care what I sit on watching telly.”
“Arthur? Maybe a new wool coat for you?”
“Why? This one’s barely seven years old. *You* need the fur coat!”
They ‘bunnied’ and ‘Arthured’ late into the night, happy like the old days.
“Arthur? That divorce talk… it was a joke.”
“Thought so. No need to rush. We can always split up later.”
Emma looked at him, thinking, “More haste, less speed. God forbid a ‘go-getter’ like my neighbour! Better a slow coach ready to help, not play king.”
Emma called Arthur names less often, feeling happier with her choice. Why fix what ain’t broke? Let him be Arthur. What was he? Emma laughed to herself: “Exactly this! And thank heavens he’s not like the others!”