A Spotless Cooker
Jane, come here.
No please. No when youve finished. Just come here, the same way youd call for a dog.
She leaned the mop against the wall and stepped into the kitchen. Mark was sitting at the table, eyes glued to his phone. At her usual spot by the window sat Mrs Edith Walsh, sipping her tea. The air reeked of boiled cabbage and the odd medicinal tang from pills her mother-in-law swallowed by the handful, dawn till dusk.
Mum says you havent cleaned the cooker properly again, Mark said, not looking up from his screen.
I did it last night.
Not good enough.
Edith set her cup on the saucer with a delicate clink.
I simply cannot abide mess in my house, she said, in the bland tone of someone stating a law of physics. I kept this place spotless for twenty years on my own, and I never let it get like this.
Jane was fifty-three. She stood in the kitchen, rubber gloves on, hands still damp, listening to the same old lecture again.
Show me where its dirty, she replied. Ill clean it.
Show you? Cant you see for yourself? Mark piped up. Or do you need me to get on my knees and point?
He said it quietly, almost politely. He always spoke like that no shouting, but with a cold, targeted tone that cut deeper than any yell.
Jane looked at the cooker. It shone. Shed scrubbed it after dinner last night, peeling off grease from the rings for half an hour. The cooker was spotless.
And somehow, something changed inside her.
It wasnt an explosion, nor tears. She just glanced at the scrubbed cooker, at Mark with his phone, at Edith and her cup of tea. Silence filled her, the utter calm before something finally snaps.
She peeled off the gloves. Set them on the table.
Ive been listening to this for twenty-eight years, she said. Enough.
Mark finally looked up.
What did you say? he asked.
I said: enough.
She walked straight out. She went to the bedroom, pulled out a big Sainsburys bag from the wardrobe, and began packing. Not much: her documents, a couple of jumpers, knickers, phone charger. Her hands didnt even tremble which surprised her. She was completely calm, as though shed at last made the decision that had been building for years.
Voices trickled down the hall from the kitchen. At first hushed, then growing sharper.
Mark, are you not listening? Go stop her!
You go yourself if you care so much.
Jane zipped her coat, picked up her bag, stepped into the hall. Put on her shoes. Opened the front door.
Jane! Edith shouted from the kitchen. Do you realise what youre doing? Where will you go? Youll be nothing without him! Nothing!
Jane closed the door quietly. No slam.
The stairwell stank of cat litter from the neighbours on the second floor, mingled now and then with the scent of fresh gloss paint from below. Jane went down and stepped into the chilly October street. Wet leaves clung to the pavement. She paused outside the building and got her phone out.
Sarah picked up on the second ring.
Sarah Jane said. Ive left.
A moments silence.
Left where?
Left Mark. For good. Ive nowhere to go.
Another pause, maybe three seconds. Then Sarah said, Remember my address? Be there in twenty Ill buzz you in.
***
Sarah lived in a one-bed flat on Lavender Road. Tiny, but hers alone, bought with years of hotel admin wages, every penny saved. She had filled the place with shelves, plants, a fridge covered in magnets from various towns. The kitchen always smelled of coffee and sweet cinnamon.
Jane sat on the sofa, clutching a mug of hot tea. Sarah, legs curled up opposite, watched her quietly didnt press, didnt interrupt.
So? Sarah said, gently.
Theres nothing more to say, Jane replied. Same as always. The cookers filthy. The stews undersalted. Floors badly done. They look at me as if Im as if Im a machine that breaks down too often.
Jane, nothings new. Why leave now?
Jane thought for a moment.
Because today, I looked at that clean cooker and knew if I didnt walk out, I never would. Id die in that house. Just keel over one day, and theyd say I hadnt looked after myself properly.
Sarah nodded. She offered more tea and quietly topped up the mug.
That night Jane lay awake under a soft throw on Sarahs sofa, listening to pure silence. Real silence, not the droning TV through a thin wall, not Ediths cough, not that gnawing feeling she should be up, doing something, anything.
She didnt sleep till nearly three not from nerves, but bewilderment. How odd to simply lie down, for no one, and nothing.
Eventually she slept.
***
Her phone stayed silent for two days. On the third, Mark finally texted: When are you coming back? Not sorry. Not can we talk. Just when are you coming back, as if shed only gone out for milk.
Jane read the message and slid the phone away.
Good, Sarah said, seeing this. Dont answer. Let him wonder.
He wont wonder, said Jane. He reckons Ill come grovelling home. Hes always thought that. Hasnt ever imagined I could just leave.
Are you going back?
Jane gazed through the window at the sodden, grey October courtyard; bare trees, dripping cars.
Im not, she said. But God knows where Im headed.
The first few weeks felt odd. Jane had no idea what to do with herself. For decades shed been up at seven, making breakfast, cleaning, washing, popping to the chemist for Edith’s pills, nipping to Tesco, cooking again, scrubbing again. All day, rinse and repeat. And no matter how hard she worked, it was never enough or done properly.
Now, she woke up and each day was empty and that emptiness was almost unbearable.
Sarah, she said one morning as Sarah was pulling on her coat for work. I need something to do. Ill go potty otherwise.
Get a job.
What as? Ive been a housewife for twenty-eight years.
Youre an artist.
Jane laughed, short but joylessly.
Was an artist. Once. I worked in a publisher for a bit, after art college. But then I married Mark. He said there was no need to work he earned for us. His mum called it proper: A good woman minds the home, not running about after jobs.
And you agreed?
I did. I was twenty-five. Thought that was love, I suppose. To be looked after.
Sarah paused as she grabbed her bag.
Ive got some old watercolours in my cupboard my niece left them. And a sketchpad. You should try.
Whats the point?
The point is, your hands remember. Try it. Honestly.
***
Jane found the paints at the bottom of the wardrobe, wrapped in a Waitrose bag. Cheap ones for kids really with a cartoon squirrel on the lid. The sketchpad was there too, thick paper for watercolours, half-finished.
Jane set up at the kitchen table and stared at the blank page.
Eventually, she picked up the brush.
At first it was hopeless. The paint wouldnt lie right, her hand trembled, everything ended up the wrong proportion she ruined three sheets. Then, slowly, she gave up trying to plan it; just painted for the sake of colour and shape.
An hour later, there it was: a small watercolour of the autumn yard outside Sarahs window. Wet trees, a grey sky with one pink smudge on the horizon.
She looked at it and thought, This. I did this.
Not stew. Not a clean cooker. This.
That evening, Sarah came home, saw the painting on the table, stopped.
Jane, did you do this?
I did.
Its lovely, honestly.
Its all wonky.
It feels alive, Sarah said. Ive seen loads just like that, but yours was real. I can feel it.
Jane said nothing, but she didnt throw away the picture.
***
Meanwhile, back at Mark Walshs flat on Brunswick Crescent, events took a turn he hadnt forseen.
Three days, he waited, convinced Jane would return. Where could she possibly go? She couldnt do anything, had no money, no job, no home. Shed be back.
She wasnt.
On the fourth day, he found the fridge was empty. Not metaphorically literally empty. Just a lone tub of Greek yoghurt. He went off to work without breakfast.
That evening, Edith sat in the kitchen, her expression a long-practiced mask of I-knew-this-was-coming.
Had your dinner?
No.
Neither have I. Did you get any shopping?
No, didnt have time.
So didnt eat and didnt bring food, she said. Brilliant. Lived seventy-eight years and never thought Id see the day there wasnt a loaf in the house.
Mum, you could pop to the shops yourself.
A long pause.
I am seventy-eight. My knees are shot. My blood pressures up. I use a stick. And youre telling me pop to the shops?
Mum, I was working!
And Jane? Shes been up and down after you from dawn to dusk, and youve driven her away.
Mark looked up.
Driven her away? She left!
Because you pushed her! Ive told you for years: be kinder. No you always know best.
Youre the one who nagged her day in, day out: Cooker dirty, soups bland, floors not scrubbed!
I was just pointing things out! My right my house!
My house, Mum! My flat!
They stared at each other properly for the first time in years. Jane wasnt there to soak up the crossfire, to cushion their collisions.
Mark snatched his coat and left, slamming the door.
Edith was left alone in the kitchen. It was properly dark outside. She got up, turned on the light, opened the fridge, stared at that tub of yoghurt, closed it.
Sat herself down again.
It was quieter than it had ever been while Jane was there.
***
November came, icy winds and the first rime of winter. After three weeks of living with Sarah, Jane was starting to feel more like herself, like someone being let outdoors for the first time. At first, the light daunted her then she adjusted.
She painted every day. Eventually bought better paints, too not childrens ones. Sarah found an advert online: a small art studio to rent on River Street, near the park. Tiny, twenty-foot square, big north window, battered parquet, cheap because it needed a lot of love.
Jane took one look and knew shed take it.
Are you taking it? the landlady, a sprightly lady in a knitted beanie, asked.
I am.
Money was tight. Jane sold the gold earrings her parents had given her on her wedding day. It stung the memories but then she thought: really, whats the memory? And of what, exactly?
The studio became her refuge. Shed arrive early, open the window, let in air sharp with frost and river water. It smelt of turpentine and timber and snow. Shed arrange her jars, roll out paper or canvas, and simply work. Hours would pass. Sometimes, shed forget to eat.
She painted all sorts: landscapes, back gardens, still lifes with whatever she had to hand mugs, apples, an ancient welly. Gradually, her skill returned; her hands remembered the craft theyd all but forgotten for almost three decades.
One December afternoon, Sarah rang her at the studio.
Jane, my lot at the hotel want to put up a little local art show in the lobby. I mentioned you. Can you bring a few of your pieces?
Sarah, Im not a proper artist. Ive only just started again.
You are an artist. Ive seen your work.
Its amateur stuff, Sarah.
Jane, youve spent thirty years saying youre only this or just that. Enough. Will you bring the pieces or not?
Jane hesitated.
All right, she said. I will.
***
Thats how she met Robert Williams.
He found himself in the hotel for work, not art. Tall, checked shirt, hair dusted with grey, steady, gentle eyes. He paused in front of Janes painting: a winter park, a bench, two sets of tracks in the snow coming and going from it.
Jane went over to adjust the frame, just as he quietly said, half to himself:
Well, isnt that something? Came, sat a while, off they went.
You mean the footprints? she asked.
He turned. Didnt look rattled to be caught addressing the picture.
Yes. I figure two people arrived, sat, then went their own way. Happy time? Row? You cant tell.
I always imagined it was one person, Jane said. Came, sat, then headed home.
People dont zigzag home on their own like that, he replied, dead serious. See the tracks wander. Its two.
She reconsidered her own work for the first time.
Maybe it is two, she conceded, smiling.
They ended up chatting for nearly twenty minutes. He was in from a nearby town, helping his brother sort out a leaking roof. He was an all-round handyman: joinery, wiring, plumbing. Widowed, two grown-up sons. He didnt talk much, but when he did, Jane noticed, he truly listened. Didnt butt in. Didnt keep glancing at his phone. When she spoke, he looked at her.
She found that oddly unsettling, oddly new.
Before leaving, he asked, Do you have a card?
No, Jane admitted, embarrassed. Never needed one.
Well, could I have your number, then?
She gave it, uncertain why maybe he wanted to buy a picture.
Three days later he texted: Evening. Its Robert, the footprints chap. Is the snow painting still unsold? Id like to buy it.
She hadnt sold it. He came, picked it up, wrapped it gently in his own carrier, and asked if he could see more work.
They went to her studio. Robert looked carefully at everything, saying little. Bought two small landscapes.
These are good, he said.
I havent painted in decades, she replied.
How come?
She shrugged, not ready to explain not yet.
Life got in the way.
He nodded. Accepted that. Didnt press.
***
Mark rang in January. Jane had been living at Sarahs, and spending her days at the studio, for months now. They were still technically married; she hadnt filed yet.
He rang in the evening. Jane was working on a large winter still life: fir branches in a glass vase, a cone, a candle.
Jane, he said.
Yes?
How are you getting on?
Im all right.
Silence.
Mums unwell, he said.
Im sorry to hear that.
Could you come over every so often? Help with the housework once a week?
Jane set her brush down.
Mark, she said, evenly. Ive left. I have my own life now. I wont be coming over to help out.
Youre still my wife.
For the time being. It wont last.
Jane, dont be like this. Just come home, lets talk.
We never talked, Mark. Not for twenty-eight years. You and your mum talked. I listened. I did as I was told.
Youre exaggerating.
Maybe, she said calmly. But Im not coming back.
She hung up. Her hands didnt shake. That surprised her.
Then she thought: it would look from outside like a simple story wife leaves husband. Happens all the time. On the inside, its never simple. Its like learning to walk all over again. Day by day.
***
Money remained tight. Paintings sold intermittently, never for much. Sometimes people commissioned cards, sometimes asked for little landscapes as gifts. With Sarahs help, Jane set up a page online, put her art up, and hints of a following appeared people who began to notice her, even get in touch.
It was just enough to muddle through. The studio, groceries, basic clothes. Nothing extra, but it was enough.
Oddly, Jane felt rich. She hadnt known it would feel that way.
Robert began visiting every couple of weeks making the trip for business but always dropping in to see Jane, drink coffee in the park café, chat for an hour. He told her about his work, his sons one was newly married, expecting a child. She talked about painting, how she wanted to try oils as well as watercolours.
He never hurried her, never put pressure on. One day, she realised she was counting down days to his next visit. When he was away, the studio felt almost too silent.
Sarah, she confided, Robert I dont know what to make of it.
What exactly?
Hes good. Kind. That scares me.
Why should kindness frighten you?
I suppose because my gut says theres always a catch. The hurt comes later.
Sarah watched her for a long moment.
Not everyones hiding something behind the good bits, Jane.
That gave Jane pause for days.
Eventually, she sent Robert a message herself: Would you like to drop in Saturday? Ive started a big new piece Id love to show you.
He came on Saturday. Saw her painting. Said it was wonderful. Then coffee in the café again; this time, he asked, Would you fancy a weekend drive? Theres an old abbey an hour away magical in the winter, they say.
She said shed love to.
***
As for what went on back at Brunswick Crescent, Jane heard snippets sometimes from Mrs Woodhouse, her old neighbour on the fourth floor.
How are you, Jane? Mrs Woodhouse would ask. Honestly, its bedlam upstairs. You can hear the shouting through the walls. Mrs Walsh tells Mark off daily about not holding onto you. He shouts back. Last night, I nearly called the council.
Jane listened and felt: not anger, not gloating a distant, detached sadness. So thats how it goes, she thought.
They werent unhappy because they missed Jane. They were miserable because there was no one left to take the blows. For years, their arguments were always absorbed by her; with her gone, they hit each other instead.
In February, Mrs Woodhouse called to say Edith had been taken off in an ambulance blood pressure, heart trouble. Mark sat with her in hospital, looking like misery itself.
Jane put the kettle on, thinking: I ought to ring him. Twenty-eight years, after all. Its only decent.
Then again, shed spent a lifetime doing things just because they were decent. This time, she decided, she wouldnt.
***
March melted the last of winter, bringing the scent of wet earth. Jane walked across the market on a Saturday, her tote bag on her arm, choosing bits for breakfast. She lingered over the greenhouse tomatoes, thinking she might like to paint this burst of spring these colours and noise and bustle.
She saw Mark.
He was weaving through the fruit stalls with a bag, staring at his phone, completely oblivious. He seemed somehow older, she thought or had she just never really looked at him properly before? His shoulders slumped, his coat crumpled, face grey.
Jane stood still, waiting to see how shed feel. Dread? Anger? The urge to run away unseen?
None of those.
Mark eventually caught sight of her. Stopped.
They stared across the stands.
Jane, he said.
His voice was just as it always was, soft, but with something lost in it now.
Mark, she replied.
He moved closer. The lady at the neighbouring stall started fussing with apples, looking busy.
How are you? he asked.
Im well.
You look thinner.
Maybe, she said.
Mums still in hospital heart trouble.
I heard. Im sorry.
He juggled his bag from hand to hand.
Youre really not coming back?
Jane stared evenly at him. No hatred, no pity. Just the simple truth.
No, Mark. Im not.
But how are we meant to live?
Thats your problem, she said gently. I already am.
He had nothing to say. She paid for her tomatoes and walked on.
Her heart gave a steady, even thump. That was the victory not just in walking out or not going back, but in standing before him, unafraid, not shrinking, not whispering dont make a fuss, not swallowing her own voice. Just talking to a stranger almost a stranger.
She picked some parsley at the next stall, bought a fresh loaf, and headed home home meaning her studio, as she now called it.
***
She filed for divorce in April. Managed it herself, no solicitor. Mark didnt contest. They saw each other once at the office, signed some forms. That was that.
Shed no flat of her own. Mark kept his. She didnt bother battling for division of assets too long, too draining. Sarah said she ought to; Jane just shook her head.
I dont need that flat, Sarah. I just need to move on.
You could do with the money, though.
Therell be more money, Jane insisted. Mine, not his.
By summer, Jane and Robert were seeing each other weekly. Sometimes she visited his house in the next town, sometimes he came hers. He had a little bungalow with a garden, blackcurrants and an old apple tree. The first time she saw it, in May, she stood for ages gazing at the blossom.
Its beautiful, she said.
My wife planted it, he told her quietly, and with peace. Eight years shes been gone now. The tree flourishes still.
They stood there, watching the blossom.
Robert, arent you afraid? Jane asked. Letting someone in again, so close?
He paused.
I am, he said honestly. But I like you. And fears no good reason to stop living.
Jane surprised herself by laughing.
Thats wisdom.
Im just a man who finds it easier to drive in the nails straight, no fuss, he replied.
***
A year to the day since she packed her things in a Sainsburys bag and stepped out of that kitchen, Jane was sitting late in Roberts kitchen. He was fixing a drawer that stuck; she perched with a mug of tea, sketching in her pad.
It was warm. Peaceful. Smelt of wood and coffee.
Jane, Robert said, never looking up from his screwdriver, would you move in?
She looked up.
Where?
Here. With me.
She was quiet. So was he, fiddling with the screwdriver.
My studios over there, she said.
I know. Theres a room here, too. East-facing window brilliant for painting, first thing. Did I ever tell you?
You did.
So?
Jane peered at her notepad. A sketch: kitchen, man with a screwdriver, woman with a mug. The apple tree outside.
Let me think, she said.
All right.
Youre not going to badger me?
No.
Why not?
He tested the drawer. It slid in smoothly.
Because Ive plenty of time, he replied. And theres no sense hurrying a grown woman.
Jane looked back at her sketch.
All right, she said.
All right to think or all right youll move in?
All right Ill move.
He nodded. Sat beside her, sipped his tea. They sat together in the calm, and it was a good sort of quiet.
***
Six months later, Jane lived with Robert, though she kept her River Street studio. She went three days a week, worked in light from the big east window at Roberts too, especially in the mornings before he left for jobs.
Her paintings started to sell more. Not headline news but word of mouth, people who came for her work only. It was all modest, but undeniably hers.
She sometimes heard from Mrs Woodhouse Edith could barely get about, so Mark had hired a carer. He worked, came back, lived as he always had.
Once, Jane reflected how Mark used to take up her whole sky. His moods set her weather, his words her rules. From outside, people said it was a good family; inside, it was a cell without a lock, the worst kind, because she herself had always held that door shut.
Now, she had her own sky.
One Tuesday in December she reached her studio at dawn. Switched on the kettle, watched gentle snow swirling beyond the frosted glass.
The phone rang. Sarah.
Jane, hi how goes?
Alls well. Working.
Listen, Ive got news. A proper gallery in town wants to put on a spring show of emerging artists. Small, but real. Theyve seen your work online want a chat. Heres the number.
Jane jotted it down.
Sarah this is something big. They must want professionals Im still a nobody with no credentials.
Jane, you hadnt painted for five years. Now youve got a hundred and fifty works. Isnt that real enough?
Well
Just call them. Have a chat.
All right.
She hung up, stared at the number, then peered out: snow kept falling, soft and slow, making the yard fresh and clean as a blank page.
She poured her tea, picked up her brush, and began to paint. Shed call the gallery later. For now, she wanted to catch this snowfall, before it changed.
***
That evening, Robert picked her up at the studio. Knocked, came in, took her working at the easel.
Ready? he asked.
Give me five minutes.
He perched on the stool, waited without a word, watched her work his gaze always steady, gentle, the way you look at someone precious.
After five minutes, she rinsed her brushes, packed up the paints.
All done, she said.
Thats come out well, he nodded at the canvas.
Im not sure. Snows hardest of all you think its just white, but its every colour: blue, grey, pink, you name it. Anything but plain old white.
Funny, he said, seriously. Never would have guessed.
She smiled. Thats the thing. People look, but never really see.
Outside, the cold nipped. It was crisp and silent, fresh as laundry on a line.
Robert, she said as they walked down the dark lane, I was contacted about the show in the gallery in town.
And?
I keep dithering do I go for it or not?
Do you want to?
She hesitated.
I do but Im scared.
Scared of what?
That theyll say not good enough or who does she think she is. That Im not a real artist, that its just silly.
Robert walked in step, hands deep in his pockets, gazing ahead.
Jane, he replied. You know, theres nothing to be scared of now.
What do you mean?
Youve done the scariest bit already. Living where they told you you were nothing every day for twenty-eight years. And you walked away with just a bag of clothes. Walking out thats frightening. If the gallery says no? So what? Big deal.
She stopped.
Thats your trick, isnt it? she said. Nailing it straight.
I try, he smiled, just a little in the streetlights glow.
Come on, its bitter, he said.
They walked on. The snow squeaked underfoot, the pavement lamps pooling on glassy puddles. Up ahead, the lights of home burned warmly.
Robert Jane said.
Yes?
Thank you.
For what?
For never telling me what I should do, what I must do.
He was quiet for a moment.
A grown-up knows what they need to do, he said. Sometimes just needs a reminder, thats all.
At the house, he stood aside for her. The hallway smelt of timber and apples he kept last autumns in the cellar.
Jane went in. Took off her boots. Headed for the kitchen, flicked on the light.
Everything was familiar. The wooden table, two chairs, the window to the garden. On the sill lay her sketchpad, left from this morning.
She opened it to yesterdays drawing: a kitchen, a man with a screwdriver, a woman with a mug, the apple tree beyond.
She picked up a pencil. Time to finish the snow.
***
A year ago, I never would have believed Id end up here painting, earning just enough, and calling a real place home. I spent so long listening to people who told me I was nothing but someone to keep a cooker clean. Turns out, I just needed permission from myself to say enough. Life beyond that feels like colour after years of grey.
My lesson? Never wait for others to call you by your own name. Do it yourself. The world will seem much cleaner that way.
