He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife When living together, Dudley revealed himself as an indecisive and weak-willed man. Each of his days depended entirely on his morning mood. Occasionally, he awoke cheerful and lively, cracking jokes and laughing all day. But more often, he languished in gloomy thoughts, guzzled coffee, and stalked through the house as moody as only a frustrated artist can. Indeed, Victor Dudley taught art, woodwork, and sometimes music at the local village school – when the regular music teacher was off sick. Drawn to the arts, Victor never found an outlet for his creative aspirations at school, so he took it out on his home: he set up a studio in the largest, sunniest room – originally earmarked by his wife Sophia as a future nursery for their would-be children. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophia didn’t argue. Dudley filled the room with easels and tripods, packed every inch with tubes of paint and lumps of clay, and then began to create: drawing, sculpting, moulding at all hours. He would spend all night painting odd still-lifes, or entire weekends shaping mysterious figurines. His “masterpieces” were never sold; everything remained in the house. The walls groaned under the weight of paintings – none of which Sophia liked; cupboards and shelves buckled with clay knick-knacks. If only they had been beautiful things – but they were not. The handful of artist friends who sometimes visited would sigh and avert their eyes, never offering praise. Only Lionel Petcher, whom everyone called “Old Leo,” after a whole bottle of rowanberry gin, declared, “Good lord, what a load of senseless scribbling! Not a decent piece in the whole house – except, naturally, for the beautiful hostess.” Victor took the criticism to heart, shrieking, stamping his feet, and ordering Sophia to throw out the rude guest. “Get out, you usurper! You aren’t the true artist – I am! I get it, you’re jealous because your hands are too shaky from drink to hold a brush!” Old Leo almost fell down the porch steps, and at the gate, Sophia caught up to apologise. “Don’t apologise for him, dear child,” the old man said kindly, “It’s you I pity. Such a lovely home, but those dreadful paintings and ugly statues spoil everything. With Victor, it cannot be easy. You know, artists’ creations are reflections of their souls – and his soul is as empty as his canvases.” He kissed her hand and left the unwelcoming home. Victor raged for weeks before finally calming down. Despite all this, Sophia never contradicted her husband. She thought, “When the children come, he’ll quit his childish hobbies, and the studio will become their nursery. Let him amuse himself for now.” Right after the wedding, Victor played the perfect husband – bringing home fresh fruit and his pay, doting on Sophia. It didn’t last. He grew cold, stopped sharing his wages, and Sophia was left to run house and husband, kitchen garden, henhouse, and even care for her mother-in-law. The news of a baby was met with joy – but ended in painful loss. Sophia came home from the hospital, weak as a ghost, only to find Victor wouldn’t open the door. “You were meant to carry my child, but you failed at that! Today, my mother landed in hospital too – it’s all your fault! I never want to see you again!” When she finally got in, she waited all night for husband to return. The next day, her mother-in-law passed away and Victor fell apart. He resigned from school, took to his bed, and told Sophia coldly: “I never loved you. I married at my mum’s insistence, for the grandchildren. You’ve ruined our lives. I’ll never forgive you.” Sophia was trapped – she had nowhere to go, as her own mother had remarried and sold the family home. They eventually divorced, but Sophia couldn’t leave. She scraped the last food from the cupboards, caring for a husband who wouldn’t even look at her. One day she told Victor, “I have to go to the village fair. I’ll try to sell our last chicken for food.” “Don’t sell it – make me broth. I’m sick of your porridge!” he snapped. She took the chicken and, at Victor’s command, also packed away a few clay trinkets and his beloved piggy bank to sell at the fair. There, she met Dennis – a cheerful young man who bought her chicken (for his mother’s coop, he promised) and, seeing her embarrassment, also bought the handmade figurines, asking if she had more at home. Returning with Dennis, the buyer peered at Victor’s paintings and exclaimed, “Incredible! You the artist?” “I am!” Victor bellowed, “Not just a scribbler – a true painter!” The guest smiled and, while Victor gushed about his work, his eyes stole to Sophia, quietly watching her soft smile. Dennis returned daily, buying more paintings and trinkets. When they ran out, Victor rushed to create more – never realising his art was just an excuse for Dennis to spend time with Sophia. In the end, Dennis took exactly what he wanted from the house – Victor’s former wife. Each time Dennis would burn a painting or toss a clay monstrosity in a sack, he remembered Sophia’s sweet face – he’d known at first sight that she was the one. When Dennis stopped returning, Victor realised too late what he’d lost: a caring, forgiving, gentle wife. But no one was left to bring him soft-boiled eggs or water. Finding a good wife isn’t easy – and a fool lets treasure slip away.

There once lived a man called Victor Dudley, a teacher in a small English village many years ago. When the world was gentler and people had time for idle musings, Victor lived in the great rambling house his father had left him, along with his wife, Lillian, who quietly tended to hearth and home.

Living with Victor revealed his naturea man easily swayed, lacking firmness. The course of his days was ruled by the whimsy of his mood. Now and then, Victor woke cheery, with a head full of jokes and laughter that rang through the house. Yet most often, he brooded, grew sullen, drank endless cups of tea, and prowled the rooms as if enveloped by storm clouds, just as creative souls are sometimes wont to do. For whatever else one might say about Victor, he fancied himself an artist, and at the local school, he taught painting, woodworking, and sometimes filled in for the music mistress if she took ill.

His longing for art found no fulfilment at school, so it was their home that suffered for it. He chose the largest, sunniest room for his studioone that Lillian had hoped would be the nursery for their future children. However, Victor was the master of the house, and Lillian, meek by nature, uttered not a word of protest.

Easels and tripods soon cluttered the space, every available corner brimming with tubes of oil paint, bits of clay, and tools for sculpting. Victor could spend his days painting odd still lifes or kneading at shapeless lumps of clay, pouring himself into feverish creations that quickly filled every shelf and hung from every wall.

None of these so-called masterpieces ever left the house. Lillian disliked themshe found the paintings overly morbid, the clay figures strange and ugly. Friends, mostly old fellow artists, visited from time to time, glanced at Victors handiwork, and said nothing, avoiding both his eye and the subject of his art. Not one offered genuine praise.

Only Leo Percival, a grizzled patriarch of the art circle and much older than the others, ever spoke plainlyand only after a generous bottle of sloe gin.

Good Lord, man, what is this pointless daub? Leo declared, gesturing at the paintings. Theres not a decent piece among them! Except, of course, your lovely wife.

Victor howled at the insult, stomping about and ordering Lillian to toss the guest out.

Get out, you knave! he roared. You claim to know art? Nonsense! Youre just bitter your old hands can no longer grasp a brush, so you take it out on me!

Leo hurried away, nearly stumbling down the stone path, as Lillian caught up with him, flustered.

Please, dont mind his words, she begged. You shouldn’t have spoken so harshly, and I shouldve warned you.

Dont make excuses for him, child, Leo said gently. Its a pity. Such an inviting house, but ruined by those dreadful pictures, those misshapen clay things. They ought to be hidden, not displayed with pride. Knowing Victor as I do, I dare say you have a hard lot. You see, in our trade, our works are mirrors of our soulsand his are as empty as his canvases.

With a kiss on her hand, Leo left the inhospitable house.

Victor took months to recover from that bruising rebuke. He raged, smashed his own sculptures, tore his paintings. But eventually, his fury turned to apathy.

Throughout it all, Lillian never reproached her husband. She hoped that, in time, children would brighten their home, and Victor would discard his fancies. But early kindness faded; after the wedding, he ceased to bring home his wages or fruit for Lillian. The burdens of keeping house, garden, hen-coop, and dealing with Victors peevish mother all fell to her.

When Lillian discovered she was expecting, Victor was overjoyeduntil misfortune befell them. Lillian fell ill, was taken to hospital, and, in a flash, lost the baby. Victor, upon hearing the news, became nearly hysterical with grief, descended into bitter recrimination, blamed Lillian for failing to bear his child, and even shut her out, refusing her entry into their home.

Despairing, Lillian pleaded on the doorstep as dusk fell, but he would not open.

Why, Victor Im suffering too. Open the door!

Still, he offered no word of comfort.

When finally he left the house, thin and sorrowful, Lillian crept inside and collapsed upon the bed. The next day, a neighbour brought news that Victors mother, struck by grief, had not survived her latest ailment. Victor, devastated, left his work at the school and confessed to Lillian that he had never married her for loveonly to please his mother, who had longed for grandchildren. Now, he told her she had stolen both his mother and his happiness, and swore never to forgive her.

Time slid by, marked by sorrow instead of healing. Victor languished in bed, refusing even tea and toast; his ulcers worsened, his apathy deepened, until Lillian learned hed started divorce proceedings. Lillian wept bitterly, but Victor, in his coldness, swatted away her attempts at comfort, murmuring that once he recovered, hed cast her out for good.

Lillian, however, had nowhere else to go. Her own mother, eager to see her married off, had soon after run off herself, across the country, to wed a widower by the sea. The old family home was sold without a second thought, leaving Lillian quite stranded.

Inevitably, the cupboards emptied. Lillian scraped together the last of the oats, boiled the final egg fetched from beneath her favourite hen, and made up thin gruel and mashed yolk for Victor. She thought, with pain, how she ought to be feeding a babe now, not a bitter husband who seemed not to value her at all.

Ill be gone a while, Victor, she said. Theres a country fair in the next village. Perhaps I can sell or trade the hen for some food.

Victor, still staring at the cracked ceiling above, croaked, Why sell it? Make a broth. Im tired of gruelbroth would be grand.

Lillians only nice dressa thin silk frock worn to her childhood leaving party, at her wedding, and now, for want of anything else, on summer daysrustled as she replied, I cant bear to. Shes my favourite, too gentle for the pot. Ill try for a fair trade, at least.

Victor sneered, Youve named the hens now? Foolish woman. Well, while youre off, take some of my figures or paintings. Maybe someone will want them.

With a sigh, Lillian bundled up two bird-shaped whistles and a fat, squat piggy-bank of Victors own making. She hurried out the door before he could insist she lug along a painting or twono one, she thought, would want those, and she was ashamed to offer them up.

It was a sweltering day. The villagers bustled about in holiday spirits; bright bunting fluttered, and scents of meat grilling, sweet honey, and sugared treats drifted through the air. Children scampered among stalls, music played, and everyone seemed wrapped in summer laughter.

Lillian, clutching her cloth bag with the hen inside, loitered near a trinket stall. It hurt her to think of parting with her favourite, a bird who limped ever since that first summer when shed nursed her back to health and who now followed Lillian, faithful as any dog.

The jewellery vendor called out, Fancy some chains, lovely? Silver, gold plate, whatever you like.

Polite, Lillian shook her head. Im hoping to sell this hena good layer, a bit lame, but healthy.

A young man at a neighbouring stall looked over with interest. Lets see her, then.

Lillian obliged; he took the bird gently and asked, How much do you want? Why so cheapis she truly well?

Shes a little lame, but shes strong. Truly, shes a dear.

All right, Ill buy her. And whats this youve got here? He gestured at the odd clay whistles.

Lillian explained, Just little ornaments. Need to sell them, toomoneys tight.

The man grinned, Ill take them all. Im fond of unusual things.

The jewellery seller, overhearing, scoffed, What do you want all that for, Daniel? Go help your brother with the barbecue!

Lillian, clutching the coins he gave her, paled. If youre the one roasting meat, I cant sell you my hen! Shes not for the barbecue!

She reached for the bird, but Daniel sidestepped, reassuring her, Calm down, I promise Ill give her to my mumshe keeps hens in her garden. Youre welcome to visit her whenever you like.

Was he lying? He smiled kindly. I swear. Come round anytimeyou might be surprised, hens like these are quite memorable.

Lillian made her way home with a lighter heart. As she neared, a motorcar pulled up and out leaned Daniel.

Excuse me, missmight you have more of those odd little figures? Id buy more for gifts. People love something different, you know.

Bemused by the sun and the unusual request, Lillian smiled. Truly, our house is full of them!

Back home, Victor, lying abed, groaned at the sound of voices. Whos there, Lill? Bring me some water, Im parched.

Daniel, at the threshold, glanced at Victor, then at the paintings on the wall. Extraordinary Who painted these? Was it you?

From his bed, Victor puffed up. I did! And not painted, but created. Children scrawl with chalkthese are works of art!

He rose, limping, and hobbled over. You fancy my paintings?

Theyre curious, Daniel offered, glancing again at Lillian and noting the flush on her cheeks as she passed him the drink.

Victor preened, displaying his art for Daniels inspection, while Daniel, careful and courteous, kept one eye on Lillian, and saw in her a spirit subdued.

It was soon a sort of miracleVictor, seemingly ill for months, sprang to life as Daniel took to visiting daily, buying up paintings, then the figures, as fast as Victor could create them. Lillian, meanwhile, found Daniel lingering on the porch, talking with her long after the last painting left. Affection grew, as naturally as a tree grows towards sunlight.

In time, Daniel took from Victors house not just the strange clay statues or garish paintings, but what he truly wished forLillian herself. The two married soon after, and Daniel would come home from his trips to the village, toss Victors paintings into the hearth, and heap the little clay beasts in sacks, not sure what to do with them, but glad he had her.

He often recalled the sight of her at the fair, dressed in her plain silk dress, with a hen in her bag, and knew at once she was his fate. He had learned quickly that Lillians life with Victor was misery, with no escape. So Daniel made excuse after excuse to come by, buy more foolish art, and offer an outstretched hand.

Victor never saw it coming. He mistook Daniels interest for admiration, never realising the man was courting his wife in plain sight. When Daniel stopped calling after winning Lillians heart, Victor grew bitter, for the world was not kind enough to grant him a second Lillian.

He wondered, too late, how it had come to thishow he, a fool, had managed to lose the finest woman he would ever meet. Lillian had not just borne with his caprice, but pitied, cared, and mothered him; a gentle treasure squandered without care.

He was tempted to fall once more into gloom and illness, but no one was left to bring him eggs mashed with a spoon, or to fetch him water, or to mind his rambling old house. The lesson, bitter as the tea he so often brooded over, was that a good woman, once lost, may not be found again.