**The Last Straw**
“Bloody hell, I’ll kill her!”
Nigel was hammering his fists against the front door while the gathered crowd tried to calm him down.
“Nigel, what’s got into you? You’ll be grovelling for forgiveness tomorrow! Aren’t you ashamed? You’ve got two kids, your Jenny’s never given you any reason to doubt her, and here you are making a spectacle!”
Nigel spun around towards the garden gate.
“What’s this, then? A circus? Clear off, the lot of you!”
The crowd didn’t budge. Mrs. Thompson from next door crossed her arms.
“Nigel, love, what’s all this about? There must be a reason?”
“A reason? Jenny’s the bloody reason! I… I’d give her the world, and what does she do? Smiles at everyone, locks herself indoors—who’s she hiding in there with?”
Nigel slumped onto the garden bench, his voice cracking like a man half his size.
Mrs. Thompson softened. “You’re wrong about your missus. She’s a good woman. Honest.”
Nigel’s reply was barely a whisper. “She don’t love me, Mrs. T. I’m just a country lad, and she’s got her head turned by city folk.”
“Oh, you daft sod. You’d have to search high and low to find a bigger fool.”
But Nigel was already out cold, chin on his chest. Mrs. Thompson gave him a nudge, someone tucked a cap under his head, and that was that—he was sprawled on the bench, snoring away.
“Right. He won’t be moving till he’s slept it off.”
***
Fifteen years ago, Nigel had gone to Manchester to train as a digger driver. Back then, their village was booming—houses going up left and right. Folks joked it wouldn’t be long before they could call it a proper town. No skyscrapers, mind, and the loo was still out back, but population-wise? Progress.
The village had its own building crew, putting up homes for specialists. Then they got ambitious—a proper community centre, not some shoddy wooden shed. Brick, two floors, clubs and all.
They even had their own digger, but no one to operate it. So they picked Nigel and Steve from across the river and packed them off to the city.
Nigel and Steve had never got on. Quite the opposite, in fact. Blame it on fancying the same girls. They’d even traded punches a time or two.
In Manchester, they were shoved into the same digs—no choice but to talk. Steve smirked on day one.
“Reckon I’ll find a city girl, settle down here. Why bother going back?”
Nigel stared. “The village paid for your training, and you’re just gonna bail?”
Steve laughed. “Mate, everyone does it. What’s out there for us?”
Nigel scoffed. “Aye, they’ll be queuing up for you.”
Three days later, Nigel saw Steve with a girl—and nearly lost his mind. One look at Jenny, and he was smitten.
That evening, he cornered Steve. “Who was that with you?”
“Oh, Jenny? Proper city lass. Lives with her nan, so the house’ll be free soon.”
“You sweet on her or something?”
Steve snorted. “Her? Flat as a board. I like ‘em curvy.”
Nigel punched him. Twice. Steve wiped his nose and grinned.
“Ah, so you’re the one smitten. Watch me marry her, then stroll out whenever I fancy. She’ll wait at home, forgiving as anything.”
Next day, Nigel followed them. Saw Steve drape an arm round Jenny’s waist—and lunged.
He blurted everything to Jenny. She stared between them, baffled, then snapped, “Piss off,” and walked away.
They brawled again. Steve moved out that same day. Meanwhile, Nigel haunted Jenny’s every step.
She ignored him for weeks—then one day stopped.
“How long will you stalk me like a bad smell? Fancy the pictures or what?”
He took Jenny—and her ageing nan—back to the village. The nan passed a decade later, by which time they had two sons.
Nigel would’ve moved mountains for his family. Built them the finest house, the sturdiest fence. His boys had the flashiest bikes. Jenny worked as a nurse. He worshipped the ground she walked on.
Then, a year ago, the unthinkable. Steve came back. His city wife had finally had enough—packed his bags for him.
Nigel stormed home black as thunder. Jenny frowned.
“Love, what’s wrong?”
He grabbed a bottle, downed a shot. Jenny paled. She’d never seen him like this—he only drank once a year, at Christmas.
Nigel’s voice was ice. “Steve’s back.”
Jenny blinked. “Steve who?”
“The Steve. The one you—”
She burst out laughing. “Oh, him! Didn’t stick in the city, then?” Then sobered. “So? What’s that to you?”
Nigel’s grip tightened. “Jenny, I swear—if I find out anything—”
“Find out what? You’re not making sense!”
“You’ll see!”
Peace vanished that day. Sober, Nigel grovelled. “I’m a prat, Jenny, forgive me…”
She did. But within weeks, he’d be drunk again, hurling accusations. The rows grew louder, uglier—yet he never laid a finger on her.
***
Morning. Nigel woke in the shed—mosquitoes must’ve driven him there. He rubbed his temples, remembering last night.
“Bollocks… Not again.”
Peering out—empty yard. Just past seven. He bolted for the house.
Jenny sat at the table. The boys, wide-eyed, huddled on the sofa. A suitcase and two duffel bags sat in the middle of the room.
“Jen, what’s all this?”
“My things. Mick and Alfie’s too. I won’t live like this anymore. We’re leaving. Manchester. Fix up Nan’s old place.”
The hangover vanished like magic.
“Jen, don’t be daft! I had a few, lost my head—”
“You’ve been losing it for a year. What about me? The boys? Their mates laugh at them after your performances!”
“Jenny, I swear—”
“You’ve sworn. Every single time. I’m done, Nigel. Alfie’s thirteen—he’s ashamed of you in front of girls!”
She stood. “Bus is due.”
Nigel shot up. “Jenny, please—”
She didn’t look back. Shouldered the case, the boys grabbed their bags. The door clicked shut.
He stood in the empty house, then crumpled to the floor, sobbing into his sleeves.
“Nigel? You in there?”
He looked up. Mrs. Thompson in the doorway.
“Blimey. What’s all this?” Her eyes swept the bottles.
Nigel scrubbed his face. “What’s today?”
“Thirtieth of July, last I checked.”
“What?”
“What? You’ve been on a month-long bender! We’ll mind the animals, but your potatoes? Lost in the weeds!”
“I ain’t done nowt!”
“Shut it! Think I won’t tan you just ‘cause your mum’s gone? Or forgot how I stung you with nettles as a lad?”
Nigel hadn’t forgotten. But he was a grown man now, and Mrs. T a pensioner.
He yanked up his shorts—he’d shed weight—and marched outside. She followed.
Before he knew it, she’d ripped up a monster nettle and was whipping his legs, his arms.
“Oy! Mrs. T!”
“Hold still! Ought to sting that lying tongue too!”
He dodged, but drink had wrecked his balance. Mrs. T, small and spry, didn’t stop till the nettle was pulp.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Young nettles sting sharper.”
An hour later, still itching, Nigel lit the sauna. Childhood cure. Hauled water, scrubbed the house. Dawn came. He collapsed into bed.
“Nigel? You alive?”
He yanked the blanket up. “I’m sober!”
Mrs. T eyed the tidy room. “So I see.” She smoothed the tablecloth.
“What now?”
“For who?”
“Who d’you think? Get dressed. We’re off.”
“Where?”
“To the clinic. You drove Jenny out—so you’ll be our nurse now.”
His stomach dropped.
“You think I’m happy? I’m bloody miserable!”
“Well then, stop moping and fetch them back! Seen your boys lately?”
“Bugger off, the lot of you!”
The door slammed. Something slipped from under his pillow—He clutched the crumpled drawing of their family in his fist, whispered, “Right, then,” and marched out the door—because a life without them wasn’t a life worth living.
