A Clean Cooker
Jane. Come here.
No please. No when youve finished. Just come here, as if calling a dog.
She leaned the mop against the wall and walked into the kitchen. Edward was sitting at the table, staring at his phone. Nearby, in her usual spot by the window, sat Margaret, his mother, sipping tea. The room smelled of boiled cabbage and whatever tablets Margaret swallowed by the handful from morning till night.
Mum says you havent cleaned the cooker properly again, Edward said, eyes still on his phone.
I cleaned it yesterday.
Not properly.
Margaret set her cup down on the saucer with a gentle clink.
I was never one for mess in my house, she announced in that matter-of-fact tone. Always kept things just so. Ran this house on my own for over twenty years, and it was never this bad.
Jane was fifty-three. She stood in the kitchen, rubber gloves on, hands still wet, listening. Again.
Show me where, she said. Ill clean it.
Yeah, go on, show her, Edward piped up. What, you cant see it yourself? Need it pointing out on hands and knees?
He spoke quietly. Nearly calm. He always spoke like that: quietly, never shouting, but with a tone that hit right where it hurt.
Jane glanced at the cooker. It was gleaming. Shed scrubbed it the night before after dinner, spent half an hour scraping off grease. It was spotless.
Then something happened.
Not an explosion. Not tears. She just looked at that clean cooker, then at Edward with his phone, then at Margaret with her cup of tea, and inside she went utterly still. The sort of stillness before something snaps for good.
She peeled off her gloves and put them on the table.
Ive heard this for twenty-eight years, she said. Thats enough.
Edward finally looked up from his phone. Margaret froze with her cup halfway to her mouth.
What did you say? Edward asked.
I said: thats enough.
She left the kitchen. Walked into the bedroom, took a big supermarket bag from the wardrobe and started packing. Not much. Documents, a couple of jumpers, spare underwear, phone charger. Her hands didnt shake, which surprised her. She was completely calm, like someone making, at last, the decision that had been silently forming for years.
Voices drifted in from the kitchen, low at first, then louder.
Edward, are you just going to sit there? Go and stop her!
You go, if youre so bothered.
Jane zipped up her coat, took her bag, and walked out to the hallway. Put her shoes on. Opened the door.
Jane! Margaret yelled from the kitchen. Do you even know what youre doing? Where do you think youll go? Youre nothing without him! Youre nothing!
Jane closed the door quietly behind her.
The stairwell smelt of cat litter from the third floor and fresh paint from the ground floor. She walked down and out into the street. It was October: damp and cold, leaves stuck in soggy layers all over the pavement. Jane paused outside, took out her phone.
Sophie answered on the second ring.
Soph, Jane said. Ive left.
A pause.
Left where?
Edwards. For good. Ive nowhere to go.
The silence hung for three seconds. Then Sophie said,
You remember my address? Ill be back in twenty minutes. Wait outside, Ill message you the code for the front door.
***
Sophie lived in a little one-bedroom flat on Rose Lane. Modest, but hersshed bought it herself seven years ago, when she worked as a hotel receptionist and saved every penny. The flat was filled with bookshelves, houseplants everywhere, fridge covered in magnets from far-flung cities. It smelled of coffee and something sweetmaybe cinnamon.
Jane sat on the sofa, clutching a mug of tea. Sophie, shoes off and legs tucked under her, listened patiently.
Tell me, Sophie said.
Theres nothing to tell, Jane replied. Same as always. Cookers dirty. Soups bland. Floor hasnt been done properly. And they look at me like like Im a faulty appliance.
Jane, its always been like that. So what happened today?
Jane thought for a moment.
I looked at the cooker. I realised if I didnt leave now, I never would. Id die there. Just one day, lie down and never get up, and theyll say I never took care of myself.
Sophie nodded, silent. Then poured more tea.
That night Jane lay on Sophies sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket, listening to silence. Real silence. No TV murmur from the next room. No Margarets hacking cough through the wall. No feeling she had to jump up and do something.
She didnt sleep until three. Not from anxietyshe simply didnt know what it was like to lie still and not be needed.
She drifted off at last.
***
Her phone stayed silent for two days. On the third Edward texted: When are you coming back? Not sorry. Not we need to talk. Just when are you coming back, as if shed gone off to the shops.
Jane read it, slipped the phone back in her pocket.
Good, Sophie said, seeing everything. Dont reply. Let him stew.
He wont stew, Jane replied. He thinks Ill change my mind and come back. Hes always thought that. That I wouldnt dare go anywhere.
Will you?
Jane looked out the window at the dull October courtyard: wet cars, bare trees.
I will, she said. I just dont know where yet.
The first weeks were strange. Jane had nothing to do. Her whole life, shed been up at seven, cooking breakfast, cleaning, laundry, running to the chemist for Margarets endless pills, popping into the shops, cooking again, cleaning some more. Morning till night. And still: not enough, not good enough.
Now, shed wake upand the day was empty. There was nothing she was meant to do. It felt almost unbearable.
Sophie, she said one morning, as Sophie was about to leave for work I need to do something. Or Ill lose my mind.
Get a job.
Doing what? Ive been at home for twenty-eight years.
Youre an artist.
Jane laughed, short and humourless.
Was an artist. Once. Worked at a publishing house for two years after university, then got married, and Edward said there was no need; he earned enough. His mother always said decent women look after their homes, not run around offices.
And you agreed.
I did. I was twenty-five. I thought that was lovethat someone wants to take care of you.
Sophie was fastening her coat.
There are watercolours in my cupboarda leftover set from my niece. Bit of paper too, I think. Use them. Just try.
Why?
Because your hands still remember. Give them a go.
***
Jane found the paint set in the bottom drawer, wrapped in old newspaper. The sort you buy for childrencheap, plastic, squirrel on the lid. Thick pad of watercolour paper too. She sat at the kitchen table, stared at the blank sheet.
She picked up a brush.
At first nothing worked. Paint went on wrong, hands shook, proportions were all off. She tore up three sheets. Then she calmed down and just messed with colour, no agenda, no plan. Just colour. Just shape.
An hour later, before her was a little watercolour: an autumn courtyard, the view from Sophies window. Sodden trees, grey sky with a smudge of pink on the horizon.
She stared at it, thinking: There. I did that.
Not soup. Not a gleaming cooker. This.
That evening, Sophie came back, spotted the painting on the table and stopped dead.
Jane, did you paint this?
I did.
Its really good, you know.
It isntlook, its all wobbly.
Maybe. But it feels alive, Sophie said. Ive seen plenty of courtyards, but this ones real. You can feel it.
Jane said nothing. But she didnt throw it away.
***
Meanwhile, in Edwards flat on Queens Avenue, things were not going as hed expected.
He was sure Jane would be back in a few days. Where else could she go? She couldnt do anything. No money, no job, nowhere to live. Shed have to come back, he told himself.
She didnt.
On the fourth day, he noticed the fridge was empty. Absolutely. He opened it, looked at a solitary pint of milk, and shut it again. Went to work hungry.
That evening, his mother was sat in the kitchen, wearing that I could have told you look, but saying nothing.
Had anything to eat?
No.
Neither have I. Did you bring anything in from the shop?
No, I didnt have time.
So you didnt eat and you didnt bring anything, Margaret said. Brilliant. Seventy-eight years old and I never thought Id see the day theres no bread in the house.
Mum, you go to the shop, then.
The silence lasted.
Im seventy-eight, Edward. My knees are gone. Blood pressures all over. I walk with a stick. And you tell me to go to the shop.
Mum, Ive been working, I dont have time.
Did Jane not work then? Did she not run round after you all day long? You drove her out!
Edward scowled.
Drove her out? It was her decision!
Because you pushed her too far! Her voice rose. I told you: take it easy with people. But you always think youre right.
You had a go at her every day! Cookers dirty, soups wrong, floors arent done
I was pointing things out! My house, my rules!
My house, Mum! Its my flat!
They glared at each other. For the first time in years. With Jane gone, the buffer taking all their blows was no longer there, and now they collided head-on.
Edward put his coat on and left, slamming the door.
Margaret was left alone in the kitchen. It was dark outside. She stood, switched on the light, opened the fridge. Stared at the neglected pint of milk. Shut the fridge.
Sat down again.
It was as quiet as it had ever been, now Jane was gone.
***
November brought frost and the first snow. By now Jane had lived with Sophie for three weeks and was slowly coming back to herself, like someone finally released after years in a locked room. At first the freedom blinds you. Then, you start to get used to it.
She painted every day now. Bought herself real paints, not childrens ones. Sophie found an ad online: small studio to rent on River Street, near the park. Tiny room, about twenty square metres, big north-facing window, wooden floors. Cheap, because it hadnt been done uppaint flaking, walls battered.
Jane went to look. Instantly knew: this was it.
You taking it? asked the landlady, an elderly woman in a knitted hat.
I am.
Janes money was almost gone. She sold a pair of gold earrings her parents gave her as a wedding present. It stung. But then, what did they really represent? What memories?
The studio became her space. Shed arrive in the morning, open the windowthe room would fill with cold air, a whiff of snow and river wind. It smelled of turpentine, wood and oils. Shed lay out her brushes, paper and paints, and simply work. For hourssometimes forgetting to eat.
She painted landscapes, city streets, still lifes of whatever was abouta mug, an apple, an old boot. The paintings got better and better. Her hands did remember; they just needed time to loosen up after twenty-eight years of silence.
One December afternoon Sophie rang her at the studio.
Jane, the hotels doing an exhibition of local artists in the lobby. I mentioned you. Can you show a few of your pieces?
Sophie, Im not really an artist. Ive only just started again.
You are an artist. Ive seen your paintings.
Theyre just amateur stuff.
Jane, said Sophie, patient as ever youve spent thirty years telling yourself youre just this and only that. Enough. Will you bring them?
Jane was quiet.
Alright, she said. I will.
***
Thats where she met Alexander.
Hed turned up at the exhibition by chancehe was staying at the hotel on business. Tall, greying, checked shirt, calm, clear eyes. He stood in front of one of Janes paintings: a winter park, bench, footprints in snow leading to and from it.
Jane went over to straighten the frame. Heard him murmur, almost to himself,
Thats how it goes. You come, sit, and move on.
Talking about the footprints? she asked.
He turned to her, unembarrassed.
Yes. I look at it and think: two people met here. They sat down. Then they left in different directions. Spent a good time or arguedwho knows?
I always pictured one person, Jane said. Coming, sitting, going back home.
One person wouldnt wander about like that, he replied, serious. Look, the footprints wander. Must be two.
She saw her painting in a new light.
Maybe its two, she agreed.
They chatted another twenty minutes. Turned out hed come from out of town to help his brother with some house repairs. A craftsman, he did everythingcarpentry, wiring, plumbing. Widower, grown-up kids. He didnt talk much, but listened attentivelyJane noticed that. Never interrupted. Didnt check his phone. Just listened.
So unfamiliar, she wasnt sure how to react.
Before leaving, he asked,
Got a card?
No, Jane admitted. Ive never needed one.
Mind if I have your number?
She gave it. Later, she wondered: why? Maybe he wanted to buy one of her paintings.
Three days later, he texted: Evening. Its Alexanderwe spoke about the snowy footprints. Id like to buy that painting, if its still for sale?
It was. He came by, wrapped it carefully in the bag hed brought, and asked if she had any more to show.
They went to the studio. He browsed in silence a long time, then bought two small landscapes.
Youve got talent, he said.
I didnt paint for a long time, she replied.
Why?
She shrugged. Didnt feel like explaining. Not now.
Life got in the way.
He nodded, accepting that, and asked nothing more.
***
Edward rang in January, by which time Jane had split her time between Sophies and the studio for several months. Officially, they were still marriedshe hadnt filed any papers yet.
He called in the evening, while she was finishing a big winter still life at the studio: pine branches in a glass vase, pine cones, a candle.
Jane, he said.
Yes.
Erm howre you getting on?
Fine.
He didnt speak.
Mums not well, he muttered.
Im sorry.
Could you come round? Even once a weekhelp out a bit at home?
Jane set her brush down.
Edward. I left. I live somewhere else. Im not coming round to do your housework.
Youre still my wife.
For now. But not for long.
Jane, dont be like that. Just come home. We need to talk.
We never talked, Edward. Twenty-eight years. You and your mother talked. I listened and obeyed.
You exaggerate.
Maybe, she replied, even-voiced. But I wont be coming back.
She hung up. Her hands didnt shake. She was surprised at herself.
Then she thought: on the outside, it was probably the simplest story in the world. Wife leaves husband. Happens every day. But inside, it was anything but simple. It was like learning to walk again, every day.
***
Jane had to teach herself about money slowly. Paintings sold, but not often and never for much. Sometimes people ordered greeting cards or small landscapes as gifts. Sophie helped her make an online page, and gradually people started following, sometimes messaging.
She scraped by. Studio rent, food, a bit for clothes. No extras, but it was enough.
She never imagined it would feel like plenty. But it truly did.
Alexander would visit once every two or three weeks, when he was in town helping his brother, and always stopped by. Theyd drink coffee at a small café near the park or simply stroll snowy streets and talk. Hed chat about his work and his sonsone was married now, expecting a baby. Shed talk about art, about wanting to try oils as well as watercolours.
He never rushed. Never pressured. One day, Jane realised she looked forward to his visits. That when he was gone, the studio felt a little quieter.
Sophie, she said one day, Alexander I dont quite know.
What?
Hes such a good man. It scares me.
Why should good things scare you?
Because I always expect theres trouble lurking behind the good.
Sophie looked at her seriously.
Jane, maybe not everyone has a catch.
Jane thought about that for days.
Then, eventually, messaged Alexander first: Do you fancy coming by on Saturday? Ive just started a new piece Id love to show you.
He came, looked at the painting, said it was promising. They went to the café again where he asked,
Jane, would you like to go exploring somewhere this weekend? Theres an old abbey an hour outside town. Looks beautiful in winter, so they say.
She said shed love that.
***
Jane only heard fragments about life back on Queens Avenue with Edward and Margaret. Sometimes, their neighbour Mrs. Benson from the floor above would ring her for a chat.
You alright, Jane? Mrs. Benson would ask. Its chaos down there. They argue all the timeyou can hear them through the wall. Margaret gives Edward an earful every day for losing you, and he shouts back. Yesterday it sounded like all hell let looseI nearly called the police.
Jane listened, and felt only a remote sort of sadness. Not revenge. Not triumph. Just: so this is how it ends up.
Without her, it wasnt that they missed Janethey just missed someone to absorb the blows. All their life theyd fired insults in one direction; now there was no target, they hit each other.
In February, Mrs. Benson said Margaret had been taken into hospitalblood pressure, heart. Edward sat there by himself, a cloud over him.
Jane put the kettle on and thought: maybe I should call. Nearly thirty years in each others lives. After all, Margaret is a person.
Then she paused. And decided not to. Shed spent her life doing what she ought. Time for him to manage on his own.
***
March brought thaw and the scent of melting snow. One Saturday, Jane was wandering through the market with her canvas bag, choosing things for breakfast. Shed paused at a stall selling early tomatoes, thinking she might paint thisspringtime market, with its colours and noise.
Then she saw Edward.
He was drifting through the market with his shopping, glued to his phone, oblivious. She realised he looked older. Maybe she had never seen him from the outside like this, shoulders slumped, shabby coat, ashen face.
She waited to feel something. Fear? Anger? The urge to escape before he saw her?
None of that.
Edward glanced up, noticed her. Stopped.
They stared at each other across three stalls.
Jane, he said.
His voice was as alwaysquiet. But there was something new: uncertainty, maybe.
Edward, she replied.
He stepped closer. The stallholder next door busied herself with her apples.
How are you? he asked.
Fine.
Youve lost weight.
Maybe.
Mums in the hospital. Heart attack.
I heard. Im sorry.
He stalled. Switched his bag from one hand to the other.
Youre really not coming back?
Jane met his gaze calmly. No hatred, no pity. Just looked.
No, Edward. Im not.
Well, what are we supposed to do
Thats for you to work out. Im already working it out for myself.
He couldnt respond. She picked up her tomatoes, paid, and moved on.
Her heart was steady. That was her real victorynot the leaving, or not returning, but that she could stand in front of him, unafraid. Not shrinking, not telling herself be more polite, dont be rude, maybe hes right, maybe Im too much. She was simply talking to a stranger. Almost a stranger.
She bought fresh herbs at the next stall, new bread, and walked home. Home, meaning her studioshed got used to using that word.
***
In April she filed for divorce. She managed it herself, no solicitorjust turned up, filled in the papers. Edward didnt object. They met once at the solicitors, signed what needed signing, moved on.
She had no flat of her own. Edward stayed in his. She didnt bother with a fight for their wealthtoo tiring, too endless. Sophie said she should have; Jane shook her head.
I dont want that flat, Soph. I want to get on with living.
Bit of money wouldnt hurt.
Ill earn some, Jane said. My own, this time.
By summer, she and Alexander were seeing each other weekly. Sometimes she visited his town, sometimes he came to hers. He had a small house, quiet road, a garden with blackcurrants and an ancient apple tree. When Jane came to visit for the first time in May, she stood in the garden a long time, looking at the apple tree in blossom.
Its lovely, she said.
My wife planted it, he said plainly and without pain. Shes been gone eight years now. But the apple tree still flowers every spring.
They stood together, looking at the tree.
Alexander, asked Jane, arent you scared? Of you know trying again?
He paused.
I am, he said honestly. But I really like you. And I dont think fear is a good enough reason not to live.
Jane laughedcaught herself by surprise.
Wise words.
Just like fixing a fence, he smiled. No point faffing about.
***
Autumn came. A whole year since Jane packed her bag and left Queens Avenue. She and Alexander were sat late at night in his kitchen. He was fixing a drawer that stuck; Jane sat nearby with a mug of tea, sketching quietly in her notebook.
It was warm. Cosy. The room smelt of wood and coffee.
Jane, Alexander said, still fiddling with the drawer will you move in?
She looked up.
Where?
Here. With me.
She hesitated. So did he, still turning the screwdriver.
My studios back there, she said.
I know. But theres a room here, tooa big window facing east. Morning sun. Told you that?
You did.
Well?
Jane looked at her sketcha kitchen, a man with a screwdriver, a woman with a mug. Window. Garden outside.
Ill need to think, she told him.
Take your time.
You wont rush me?
No.
Why not?
He tested the drawer. It shut perfectly.
Because Ive got all the time in the world, he said. And pushing a grown woman into somethings pointless.
Jane looked again at her sketchbook.
Alright, she said.
Alright youll think, or move in?
Alright, Ill move in.
He nodded. Sat beside her, picked up his own tea. They sat in the quiet, and it was a very good quiet.
***
Six months more. Jane lived with Alexander but kept her River Street studio, coming in three times a week to work. The bright room at Alexanders became her second workplace; she sketched there in the mornings while he was off earning a living.
Her paintings started to sell a little more often. Not celebrity, no. But she now had a few people who always came to her, ordered her pictures. It was small and calm but truly hers.
She still heard bits about Edward: sometimes Mrs. Benson rung her. Margaret was out of hospital, but barely walked now, very rarely left her room. Edward had hired a cleaner. Worked his job, came home at night. Life went on.
Jane listened to these half-stranger stories and thought: once this man had been her whole world. His moods were her weather, his words her law. A womans good wife life that looked, on the outside, like a happy family, but inside was a tiny prison cell with no lockbecause the worst cells are those you hold yourself inside.
Now, she said, the sky was different.
One Tuesday in December, Jane got to her studio early. Turned the lights on, put the kettle on. Outside, snow drifted softly, gently.
Her phone rang. It was Sophie.
Jane, hello! How are you?
Im good. Working.
I have some news, not sure how youll feel. A friend of mine says theres a gallery in town centre looking for artists for their spring exhibition. Small, but proper. Shes seen your work online and wants a chat. Heres her number.
Jane wrote it down.
Soph, she said, Im not sure theyre after people like me. Ive no real reputation, no grand background.
Jane, you didnt paint for five years. Now youve got over a hundred and fifty pictures to your name. Hows that not for real?
Well
Just call. Just have a chat.
Alright.
She hung up. Looked at the number. Then out at the snowbig, slow flakes blanketing the world clean and white, like a fresh page.
She poured her tea, picked up her brush, and started painting. Shed call later. For now, she had snow to capture, while it was just right.
***
That evening, Alexander came to collect her from the studio, knocking before walking in.
Ready?
Five more minutes.
He sat on a stool, content to wait, eyes on her as she worked. She was aware of his gaze sometimes: calm, quiet, the way you look at something precious.
After five minutes, she put away her brushes, packed her paints.
Done, she said.
Thats come out really well, he nodded at the canvas.
Im not sure. Painting snows tricky. It looks white, but its really blue, grey, pinkevery colour but white.
I never thought of that, he said seriously. Interesting.
Isnt it? Everyone thinks its just plain white. But look, you dont see it fully at first glance.
They walked out together. Outside, it was cold and still. The snow had stopped, leaving the air clear and sharp enough to breathe deep.
Alexander, Jane said as they walked the dark street that gallery phoned about the show, in town centre.
And?
Im not sure if I should do it.
But do you want to?
She walked beside him in silence for a moment.
I do. Just Im scared.
What of?
That theyll say its not right. That Im not a real artist. That none of it means much.
Alexander, hands in his coat pockets, looked ahead.
Jane, he said, you realise the worst is already over?
How do you mean?
I mean youve done the truly scary bit. You lived for almost thirty years being told you were nothing. Every day. Then you left with just a bag. That was the hard bit. The galleryso what? If they say no, so what?
She stopped.
You always get straight to the point, she said. Like hammering in a nail.
I try.
She laughed. He smiled, quietly, the streetlamp throwing soft light across his face.
Come on, its cold, he said.
They headed home, snow crunching underfoot. The streetlights glow mirrored in the thin ice puddles ahead. Their homes windows shone before them.
Alexander, Jane said.
Yes?
Thank you.
What for?
For never telling me what I should do or must do.
He was silent a moment.
Grown-ups know for themselves what they should do, he said. Im just here to remind you sometimes. Nothing more.
He opened the door, let her in first. The hallway smelt faintly of wood and appleshe kept them in the cellar from autumn.
Jane stepped inside, took off her shoes, wandered through to the kitchen and flicked on the light.
Everything as always: wooden table, two chairs, window onto the garden. On the windowsill, her sketchbook where shed left it that morning.
She flicked it open to yesterdays drawing: kitchen, man fixing a drawer, woman with a mug. Window. Garden outside.
Time to add the snow.
She picked up her pencil.
