William stood before the familiar front door, hovering over the bell. A large bag slumped at his feet, and the keys to the flat jingled in his jacket pocket, stubbornly unretrieved.
Three days ago, he’d stormed out after another blazing row, slamming the door and shouting at Barbara that he wasn’t coming back. She’d chucked a slipper after him and screamed at him to hop it. The usual matrimonial spat, one of many over thirty years of marriage.
But this time felt different.
He pressed the bell. Footsteps shuffled behind the door, then Barbara’s voice:
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Barb. Open up.”
Silence. A long, uncomfortable silence.
“Barbara, can you hear me?” William repeated.
“I hear you,” came his wife’s icy reply. “What do you want?”
“What do you mean? I’ve come home.”
“This isn’t your home anymore.”
William was gobsmacked. In three decades, Barbara had never taken it this far, even during the worst rows.
“Barbara, stop being daft. Open the door, let’s talk properly.”
“I won’t open it. And I won’t talk.”
“What’s got your goat? What’s all the fuss about?”
“You know perfectly well.”
William did know. Three days ago, Barbara had found a phone number in his coat pocket, written in a woman’s hand. The tired old story – a colleague had given him her number at work, asked him to ring back about some meeting. Explaining that to his furious wife had been impossible.
“Barbara, I explained! It’s Diane Richardson from Accounts. It was work.”
“Work, my foot,” her voice drifted through the door. “Phoning about work at ten at night?”
“What ten at night? I didn’t call her at all!”
“Liar. I saw it on your phone.”
William felt his insides clench. He *had* called Diane Richardson, but for a completely different reason. His colleague’s daughter was applying to university where a friend of his worked, and he’d offered to put in a good word. A pure favour, nothing dodgy.
“Barbara, darling, let me in and we’ll talk it through calmly.”
“No. Explain it from there.”
William glanced around. Neighbours could pop out onto the landing any second, and he hated airing dirty laundry in public.
“Alright, listen. I did call Diane. That’s true. But not for the reason you think. Her daughter’s applying to med school, and my mate works there. I promised to have a word with him.”
“And you think I’d believe that fairy tale?”
“It’s not a fairy tale, it’s the truth!”
“Truth? Then why didn’t you tell me? Why keep it quiet?”
William hesitated. He genuinely hadn’t mentioned the colleague’s favour. Not for any shady reason, he just hadn’t thought it worth mentioning work trivia.
“I wasn’t keeping quiet. I just didn’t see it as important.”
“Uh-huh, didn’t see it as important. What else didn’t you see as important? Maybe tell me why you were sitting in a café with her after work?”
William’s heart lurched. How on earth did Barbara know?
“How did you–”
“Mavis Perkins saw you. Says you were like lovebirds, holding hands.”
“We weren’t holding hands!” William protested hotly. “And we sat for half an hour! She bought me coffee to thank me for helping with her daughter.”
“Of course she did. Very generous, they are nowadays.”
The raw fury in Barbara’s voice told William she wouldn’t let him in without a fight.
“Barbara, sweetheart, think about it. Why would I want other women? I’ve got you, I’ve got our family.”
“*Had* a family. Haven’t now.”
“Haven’t? What are you talking about?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m fed up living with a two-timer.”
“Two-timer? I never did anything of the sort!”
“Didn’t? What were you doing then? Conducting a romance?”
William rested his forehead against the cool wood. This was getting nowhere.
“Barbara, let’s meet tomorrow when things have cooled down. Talk like sensible people.”
“I won’t cool down. And I won’t meet you.”
“Barbara…”
“Pester your Diane Richardson. Maybe she’ll let you in.”
“What absolute rot? Diane Richardson? I’m sixty, I’m a granddad! Why would I want some fling?”
“Then why are you swanning around cafés with other women?”
“I’ve explained! Went once, out of courtesy.”
“Once… Or maybe not just once?”
William realised he was trapped. Whatever he said, Barbara would find fault.
“Alright,” he said wearily. “I’ll go. But we *will* talk.”
“No we won’t.”
William grabbed his bag and trudged downstairs. Outside, his son Simon was waiting by the car, having picked him up from the station.
“Well, Dad? Let you in?” Simon asked, seeing his father’s crestfallen face.
“No.”
“Seriously?” Simon was stunned. “Has Mum lost the plot completely?”
“Dunno, son. Can’t fathom it.”
They got into the car. Simon started the engine but didn’t drive.
“Dad, what actually happened? Mum was saying some mad things over the phone…”
“Like what?”
“Well… That you’ve got a bit on the side. That you’re cheating.”
William sighed heavily.
“Simon, I swear on anything – there’s no one else. Never has been. Your mother’s dreaming it all up.”
“Then where did this Diane woman come from?”
“Diane Richardson is a colleague. Perfectly ordinary woman, nothing special. Helped her with her daughter, she bought a coffee. That’s it.”
Simon studied his father’s face.
“Dad, truth?”
“Truth, son.”
“Then I don’t get why Mum’s blowing her top. She usually calms down quick.”
“Me neither.”
The car pulled away. Simon drove his Dad to his own house for the night.
“Listen, Dad, maybe it’s not about Diane at all?”
“What then?”
“Dunno. Maybe something else happened to Mum? Some other problem?”
William pondered. Barbara *had* been nervy and snappy lately. He’d put it down to her age – she’d turned fifty-eight, probably cranky from the change.
“Maybe you’re right. But why kick me out? We could have talked it over.”
“Mum was always stubborn. Remember when she’d sulk for weeks when I was little, even over nothing?”
William remembered. Barbara could give him the silent treatment for ages, even over trifles. But she always cracked first.
At Simon’s house, William had a sleepless night. By morning, he decided to try again.
“Simon, take me home.”
“Dad, maybe give her more time? Let her simmer down.”
“No, son. Can’t duck this. Lived thirty years together, can’t wreck it over some silly misunderstanding.”
Simon reluctantly agreed. They drove to William and Barbara’s house.
“Want me to come up?” Simon offered.
“No, I’ll try on my own.”
William climbed to the fourth floor and rang the bell again.
“Barbara, it’s me.”
“Thought it might be the plumber,” came the cold reply.
“Barbara, let’s talk. We need to sort this.”
“Nothing to sort with you.”
“Nothing? We’re husband and wife!”
“*Were* husband and wife.
Walter stood on the rain-slicked pavement outside Bramble Cottage, Chipping Norton, watching their bedroom light click off, scratched his head at the nettles his marriage had inexplicably sprouted, and trundled wearily back towards Timothy’s borrowed hatchback, utterly baffled at how thirty years of wedded bliss over baked beans and football schedules had unravelled faster than one of Barbara’s questionable jumpers. He wondered if the vicar did consoling tea for bewildered husbands potentially booted out over an innocent cuppa and Victoria sponge with Eleanor from Accounts. His stomach grumbled, mourning dinner, as much as his heart mourned the familiar worn armchair by the telly, as Timothy suggested witheringly that perhaps Fish and Chips held more immediate appeal than flogging a dead horse currently barricaded in Bramble Cottage with his favourite pipe and a grudge the size of Yorkshire. Frankly, dodging Barbara’s flying slipper felt simpler than navigating this particular domestic minefield seeded with imagined assignations and rogue teacups. He sighed, climbed into the car, and instructed Timothy to drive, wondering if Barbara would notice he’d accidentally packed her favourite chutney with his vests and whether, perhaps, stubbornness was quite as filling as a decent cottage pie made for two. The cottage window remained dark.
