Everyone knew John was a useless git: thick as a plank one day, stubborn as a mule the next, lazy as a hound the day after. The insult always matched the scale of his blunder. His wife’s fury, consequently, varied in its heat.
While Emily might call him ‘Luv’ or ‘Duck’ in private, the neighbours, hearing her shrieks, wondered when he’d finally snap. But remembering he was often called a ‘wet lettuce’, they concluded: never. John could become stone-deaf, utterly unmoved by her torrent of abuse. This calm indifference only amplified her rages, making them last for hours. Exhausted, Emily would storm out of their Leeds terrace. Bile choked her, her face blotched crimson, hands trembling, voice a furious rasp. She longed to sob, but the tears wouldn’t come. And John, as she slammed the door, would pipe up softly, “Where you off to, Luv?”
The first years after their registry office wedding were quiet and peaceful. Had anyone suggested then that their life would decay into constant bickering, Emily would have laughed. She’d married her true love, the apple of her eye, not a useless lump. John welded for a living. He never touched a drop, didn’t smoke, was placid as a hibernating badger, perpetually satisfied. Wives of pub-crawlers and philanderers held him up as ideal; Emily had basked proud. They’d postponed children. Needed to build the conservatory, sort the garage, buy a car. The council had provided the house, and Emily dreamt of making it perfect.
John was slow as treacle. Perhaps bone idle. Work could wait. “No rush,” he’d chuckle. “Some jobs sort themselves if you leave ’em be. Why hurry? Without the proper urge, it feels like forced labour. It’s exploitation!” Leadership thrilled him not a jot. Emily tackled anything: digging the garden, painting window frames, mowing lawns, chopping firewood for the log burner. Thank heavens the house had plumbing; no hauling water. It was quicker doing it herself than rousing John. One night, a dreadful crash from the kitchen woke them. The tiles John had fixed had peeled off the wall like scales. Emily called him hopeless and hired a proper tiler the next day.
Returning home another evening, her heart sank. The flower bed was churned mud, prized blooms snapped. The neighbour’s cow had wandered in; John had forgotten the gate-latch. Daily, his lethargy, his indifference, grated on her nerves more.
Next door sat a derelict house, its owners long gone. Relatives had occasionally hacked back the weeds before abandoning it. Then, a Range Rover pulled up. It was old Mr. Higgins’s grandson, Simon, returning with his family. Worked in Sheffield, married there, but homesick for Yorkshire. Sheffield was for earning; home was for living. Simon began fixing the ruin. He showed Emily what it meant not to let go of a job. He was a demon – builder, sparky, welder – no wife helping. His wife, Sophie, only managed the house and their toddler.
Watching Simon, Emily’s resentment against John boiled harder. She was exhausted being the strong one; she yearned to be soft. She tried nudging, pushing him towards jobs any bloke should handle. But John was no leader; life in the slow lane suited him fine. Emily’s fury erupted more often into scalding insults. Locals saw her as a nag, him as pitiful. Divorce flickered in her mind – she couldn’t bear this drayman’s burden alone. She praised Simon. John just smiled: “Greenest grass is always over the fence, eh?”
He couldn’t grasp her hints. Other women suffered drunks and cheats; she was cherished, unhit, unshamed. Always let her do as she pleased, go where she pleased, spent the housekeeping without question. “So I’m slow? Why dash about? Why fret over nothing? Why boss her? She knows best. Not a tiler? Earning fine – hire one. Want Sunday rest? So should she! Stop hunting hidden chores. Why gawk at Simon’s windows? Different strokes. Why would my Luv want out?” John sighed before the telly, scratched his head, and settled.
Emily took milk next door for the baby. Sophie invited her for supper – a bottle of Rioja opened. Simon held court like a lord, Sophie his skivvy: “Pass salt! Underseasoned, again! Needs pepper! Underdone! Wrong wine! Where’s the corkscrew?! Cold! Why did you reheat it?! Fetch! Clear! Pipe down! I decide!” On it went. The baby cried; Sophie fled. Emily, floundering, asked about the new furniture Sophie had mentioned. Sophie returned, trying to explain her preference. Simon sneered, “I buy it? I pick what we get! Always spending, never earning!” Emily’s spirits plunged. Witnessing this bullying of the meek Sophie, she cursed Simon inwardly but stayed silent, not wanting war.
She looked at the “happy couple” and trudged home miserable.
“Luv? Where’ve you been? Fancy a brew? Made it strong, like you like.” Emily hugged him. John stared, startled. Embarrassed, she pulled back. “Duck, ’ave a drink, did yer? Milk for them, sherry for you? Makes you sweet, eh?” Suddenly, all his faults seemed dust. Divorce vanished. Peeking at others? Clean your own windows!
“John?” she ventured. “Tea tomorrow?”
“Whatever’s easiest for you, Luv.”
“John… I fancy new furniture.”
“Fine by me. Your call. Don’t mind what I sit on for telly.”
“John… how about a new Barbour for you?”
“Why? This ’un’s only eight! You need a proper coat!”
They ‘Luv’d’ and ‘John’d’ each other till late, happy like the old days. “John… I was joking. About the divorce.” “Thought so, Luv. No rush. Plenty time for that later.” Emily watched him. ‘More haste, less speed,’ she thought. ‘Thank heaven he’s not some sharp tyrant like Simon. Better this slow soul, ready to be the footman, never the king.’
Emily called John fewer names. Relief welled stronger. Truly, better the devil you know. What was he, really? Emily laughed softly. “Just John. And thank God he’s no one else!”
The Curious Case of the Incompetent Neighbor: Tales of Blunders and Growing Wrath
